Maria’s Story
London, England. July, 1938.
Leonard stood and tried to read Pasha’s face, but as if he was ashamed, his old friend moved his body back so his features became hidden by the darkness.
‘What have you done?’
‘How often have you thanked your lucky stars that my gun jammed as you ran from the clearing?’
‘Pasha, what have you done?’
‘Now you will wish the bullet and a half-dozen more had found your skull. For what it’s worth . . .’ His voice cracked, and even in the shadows, Leonard could see tears gleaming on the other man’s face. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No . . .’
Leonard turned, ran to the door and began hurtling down the staircase. ‘Maria!’
*
On the small stage, in the larger of the cinema’s two auditoria a local councillor stood in front of the rich red velvet curtains and neared the end of his speech.
‘Places like this,’ he opined, ‘aren’t just for the community. They are the community! A place of warmth! A place to escape the news and the naysayers. Incidentally, ladies and gentlemen, I’m often asked if another war in Europe looms. I can assure you most, err, assuredly, it does not!’
Despite the fluffed line, the sentiment apparently merited a brief round of applause and, warming to the theme, the councillor added, ‘Because the boys who fought on the battlefields of Flanders, the Somme and Gallipoli are now the men who work in the corridors of Whitehall, the Reichstag and Washington. They know war isn’t an adventure. They will not look to remake that terrible past!’
More applause.
‘And I say . . .’
The councillor spotted Will Hay frowning on the front row and remembered he wasn’t on stage to win votes, but nevertheless he made a mental note of the phrases that had generated such approval and looked forward to employing them next time he was up for re-election.
‘And I say, we are all honoured to have Mr Will Hay with us tonight, who has kindly agreed to join me on stage to officially open this wonderful new picture house! Ladies and gentlemen – my friend and yours, Mr Will Hay!’
The councillor stood back, and as the guest of honour made his way to the front of the auditorium, he did the old trick of milking the applause, as if it was intended for him, and not the third biggest box office pull in Britain.
Hay moved swiftly up the stairs, thanked the audience and the councillor and said, ‘I’m sure we can all agree that this is proving to be a very memorable evening.’ He spotted George in the front row, a few seats along from where he’d been sitting, and gave the young man a smile and a nod of acknowledgement.
*
Leonard tore down the stairs and along the corridor leading to the foyer. A cigarette girl, resplendent in a black and gold uniform with her pillbox hat worn at a jaunty angle, stood holding the auditorium’s middle door slightly ajar, peering through it to the stage.
‘Maureen!’
The woman whirled around.
‘Sorry, Mr Alexander! Will Hay’s on stage and I just wanted to—’
‘My wife!’ he shouted. ‘Have you seen Mrs Alexander?’
‘Not seen her since lunchtime. When she was here with you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’d kiss the book on it.’
‘What about George?’
She used her thumb to point over her shoulder. ‘Front-row seat.’
Leonard muttered, ‘He might know where she is.’ He hurried to the door, opened it and rushed into the auditorium.
A few members of the audience craned their necks to squint in his direction, annoyed by the distraction and wanting to see who’d caused it.
Leonard bumped into an usherette, who said in a loud whisper, ‘Nark it! Can’t you see . . . Sorry, Mr Alexander! I didn’t—’
But he’d moved on, inching down the central aisle, looking to see if his wife was sat somewhere in the audience.
‘And, in short,’ Hay was saying, ‘it gives me great pleasure to declare this picture house officially open!’
The red curtains started to part and the applause began. Leonard, who had been scanning the central rows for his wife, barely noticed it.
He thought he’d spotted Maria, halfway along row F. Same hairstyle. Same size. But he couldn’t make out the woman’s face because she was leaning forward slightly, and the person in the seat next to her was holding a box of popcorn that obscured her. But now she recoiled, forcing her body back as far as it would go into the seat. First of all, Leonard saw it wasn’t Maria. And then he registered that whoever the woman was, her mouth had dropped fully open and she was screaming. Pointing. Crying.
A moment later, more shrieks. More screaming. People shouted out in shock. The room became a cacophony of horror.
Leonard followed the direction the woman had been pointing, looked towards the stage and saw his wife. The parting of the curtains had revealed her.
Maria Alexander was hanging several feet above the stage, directly below the centre of the proscenium arch.
The thick rope that suspended her ended in a noose that held her neck at a grotesquely skewed angle. Her corpse swayed and rotated very fractionally, creating the image that she was a gruesome weight at the end of a compound pendulum.
Audience members were on their feet and rushing towards the exits. Leonard, staring at his wife’s dead, discoloured face, allowed himself to be caught up in the fast-flowing tide of fleeing people. It swept him back up the central aisle. He spotted George tearing onto the stage, but he had seen death too many times not to recognise it here.
It was far too late.
For a moment, the world was a smudge of noise and colour. Leonard blinked and found himself in the foyer. Without realising it, he began striding along the corridor that led to the staircase up to his office. His gait quickened as a molten rage coursed through him. As he bounded up the steps, he yelled, ‘Pasha! Pasha, you’ll pay for—’
A single gunshot. So loud it sounded like an explosion.
As quickly as he had been galvanised into action, Leonard froze. He stood motionless in the silence for a moment. A picture of monolithic despair. A heartbeat. He physically crumpled. Tumbled down the stairs. Leonard lay at the foot of the steps, unable to shift from his mind the vision of Maria hanging above the stage.
For a moment, he’d been driven by a desire for vengeance, but even that had been denied him.
He knew the man that had killed his wife was dead. He knew that, this time, Pasha’s gun had not jammed.