Ancient Images Read online

  She might meet someone she would like to spend it with, but there was no urgency, especially since she didn't want children. It was Graham and her parents who were anxious to see her matched, though Graham was less insistent since she'd met a young architect at one of his private showings. Among the guests wo had assembled to watch Graham's latest treasures, Dietrich's screen test for The Blue Angel, Walt Disney's menstruation film and a copy of Double Indemnity that began in the death cell-actors from the Old Vic, chairmen of art galleries, columnists and socialites and even minor royalty-the architect had seemed to feel out of place until Sandy had befriended him. He'd invited her out for a drink, and next time for dinner in Hampstead, where he lived. Afterward they'd walked across the heath toward his flat as the wind blundered up from Regent's Park, bearing a mutter of traffic like the sound of a sleeping zoo, and the architect had questioned her about her childhood, whether she had misbehaved at school, how she had been punished and what she had been wearing… She might have played his game if the gleam in his eyes hadn't been so dangerously eager. She'd left him with their only kiss and had walked home to Muswell Hill, reflecting that the encounter had been both funny and sad. Such was life.

  Though she enjoyed Graham's crowded private parties, not least because she knew they meant so much to him, she was flattered to be invited to tonight's small gathering. She must tell him to watch the film Lezli had edited, she thought as the Underground train rocked her homeward. He always watched films she recommended, and that made her feel both special and responsible for him.

  She left the train at Highgate and climbed to the main road. Traffic slow and apparently endless as a parade of baggage in an airport rumbled up from Archway toward the Great North Road. She turned along Muswell Hill Road, where buses were laboring toward Alexandra Park. In five minutes she was at Queen's Wood.

  After the stuffiness of the train and the uproar of the traffic, the small wood felt like the first day of a holiday. Beneath the oaks and beeches the velvety gloom was cool. Holly spiked the shadows among the trunks. Tangles of brambles sprawled across the grass beside the tarmac paths that were cracked by the clenched roots of trees. Sandy strolled along the discursive paths, letting her senses expand until the wood glowed around her.

  Her flat was at the top of a mock-Tudor three-story house that overlooked the wood. She owned half of the top floor. The skylight above the wide stairwell was trying to fit a lozenge of sunlight into her doorframe as she unlocked the door. Bogart came to greet her, arching his back and digging his claws into the hall carpet until she shooed him into the main room, where Bacall was sitting on the windowsill among the cacti, watching a magpie. Both cats raced into the bright compact kitchen as soon as she opened a cupboard to reach for a can of their food. They ate daintily while she finished off last night's lasagna and the remaining glassful of claret, they rubbed themselves against her ankles while she washed up and told them about her day. They followed her into her bedroom and watched her change into a dress she thought elegant enough for visiting Graham, and then they chased her as she ran to where the phone was ringing.

  She'd left it plugged beside the window seat between the gables that gave wings to the main room. She answered it and sat on the sky-blue couch, Bacall curling up in her lap. "Roger sends his apologies," Graham said. "You don't mind sitting on your own in the cheap seats, do you?"

  "I'm almost on my way."

  "She's almost on her way," he called, and she heard Toby protest, "If she comes too soon there'll be nothing worth eating."

  Sandy cradled the receiver and smiled wryly at herself. It seemed she had been looking forward more than she realized to continuing the argument she'd had with Roger at Graham's last soiree. He'd accused television of ruining films by shrinking them a by editing them afresh, she'd retorted that some critics did them worse harm. No doubt they would meet again at the grand opening of tonight's film.

  She was easing Bacall onto the floor when the phone rang again. A coin put an end to the pips, and a girlish East End voice said, "Hello?"

  "Hello."

  "Is Bobby there?"

  "What number are you calling?"

  The voice gave Sandy's number. "Bobby who?" Sandy said.

  "I don't know his last name."

  Of course you don't, Sandy thought, knowing that the girl had been trying to make sure nobody was home. "We've a couple of Bobbies here. Which do you want?"

  "I only met him once."

  "Well, is he the fat one or the thin one? Youngish, is he? Mustache? I know which he must be, the other's been abroad. Hang on and I'll get him for you," Sandy said, wondering how much longer the girl would dare to pretend. "He'll just be a minute. He's coming now. Here he is," she said, and the connection broke.

  "How rude," she told the cats, and took them for a brief run in the wood, where they chased crumbling shadows on the paths. They gazed down from her window as she headed for the station. At Euston, where a distant giantess was apologizing for delays in the upper world, she changed trains for Pimlico. All the women on the train were sharing the compartment nearest the driver, and when Sandy alighted she grinned at them for luck.

  A vessel loaded with containers colored like building blocks was passing underneath Vauxhall Bridge, between the dark women that supported the road over the Thames. A bus with more lights than passengers crossed the bridge toward the Oval, and then the night was still except for the lapping of long slow ripples full of the windows of riverside apartments. Graham's apartment was ten stories up, at the top of one of two tower blocks built companionably close together. One of his neighbors was stepping out to walk her dog. "You're Graham Nolan's colleague," the woman remembered, and held the security door open for her.

  As it thumped shut, Sandy heard a shrill sound. Perhaps the dog had whined, though the door cut off so much noise from outside that it made the silent building feel deserted. The waiting lift rushed her to the top floor, and snatched away her hearing. She swallowed as she walked along the corridor, as if she could gulp down the silence. She passed two doors and turned the corner, and saw that Graham's door was open.

  Toby must have gone out for more ingredients. She went to the door, which shared this stretch of corridor with an exit to the roof, and halted on the threshold, disconcerted to find herself shivering. "Graham?" she called.

  The small bedroom to the left of the main room had been converted into a projection booth. The beam of light from the projector splayed out of the square window, across the Persian carpet, the tables Toby had constructed out of steel and chunks of glass, the enormous semicircular couch that faced the view of the river. The screen was on the right-hand wall, between two elaborate brass standard lamps, but the beam was streaming into the master bedroom. She knocked loudly and called "Graham, it's Sandy," and went into the apartment, shivering.

  The kitchen was next to the master bedroom. The oven was on low, and she could smell pastry, but the kitchen was unmanned. She made for the projection booth, wrinkling her nose at an odd stale smell. The door to the booth was wide open. Perhaps Graham was preoccupied. She was about to call to him again when her hand flew to her mouth.

  The booth was full of shelves of books about the cinema, but now most of the books were on the floor. Some of the largest were torn almost in half, as if they had been flung across the room, as several cans clearly had: she could see where a can had split the plaster of one wall. There was no film on the projector, which had been knocked askew.

  Graham and Toby might have quarreled, but never, she thought, like this. She backed out of the room, the smell of pastry swelling in her throat until she had to fight for breath, and swung toward the master bedroom. The bed was made but rumpled, the duvet sagging where one of the men had sat on the edge. The beam of the projector shone over the bed, past a dressing table strewn with jars and combs and brushes, and blanked out the window-except that the double glazing wasn't quite blank. Bewildered, she thought there must be film on the projector after all, or at
least a strip caught in the gate, for a blurred figure was visible in the midst of the light. Then her awareness lurched nervously, and she realized that the figure of a man wasn't projected on the glass but standing beyond it, ten floors up, on the next roof. More dismayingly, she was almost sure that she recognized him.

  She ran to the doorway of the bedroom. Of course, she had been shivering because the exit from the corridor to the roof was ajar. Now she could see the face of the man at the edge of the neighboring roof, though she didn't want to believe what she was seeing. He was Graham, and he was waving his hands feebly as if he were terrified of the drop below him.

  A wind fluttered the sleeves of his shirt and brought his gray mane wavering over his shoulder. He looked back, stumbled backward a few steps, and panic grabbed Sandy's heart as she saw what he meant to do. "Don't," she cried, and knew he couldn't hear her through the double glazing. She dashed into the room and leaped over the bed, she wrenched at the catch of the window with one hand, waved her other hand desperately at him to delay him. Surely he could see her, surely he would wait for her to speak to him, to tell him she would go into the other building and open the door to the roof- But just as the catch slid out of its socket, he sprinted to the edge and jumped.

  He'd already done it once, she told herself as he reached the edge. However wide the gap looked, he had managed to cross it safely, never mind why he was up there at all. The thoughts didn't slow her heart down or allow her to breathe, nor did they help him. As she sidled the inner pane clear of its grooves, he missed the roof above her, and fell.

  She saw him fall into the beam of light. His hair blazed like a silver halo. His mouth was gaping, silenced perhaps by the wind of his fall, and yet she thought he saw her and, despite his terror, managed to look unbearably apologetic, as if he wanted her to know that it wasn't her fault she hadn't been in time to reach him. That moment seemed so unreal and so prolonged that she was almost able to believe the light had arrested him somehow, like a frame of film. Then he was gone, and as her breath screamed out she heard a thud below her like the sound of meat slung onto a butcher's slab.

  She dropped the pane on the carpet and fumbled the outer window open, sobbing. Graham lay between the buildings, at the rim of a pool of light from a riverside streetlamp. He looked small and pathetic as a discarded doll. His legs were bent as though he were running, his arms were outstretched on either side of his head, which seemed too large, its outline spreading. Sandy felt as if she were toppling out of the window toward him. As she staggered backward, the building opposite seemed to nod at her, and a shape reared up on its roof.

  It must have been a ventilator. When she managed to focus she saw the boxy funnel on which two weeds were flowering. She walked rapidly to the door and took a shuddering breath, and ran across the main room to the phone before the smell of pastry could make her sick. She swallowed several times while the emergency number rang. "Ambulance," she gasped, and gave the details in a voice that felt almost too calm.

  She had to close her eyes in the lift, for all the way down she was sickeningly aware of its faint swaying. Stepping into the lobby felt like stepping onto dry land. She turned toward the entrance to the building, and groaned. Toby was coming in.

  He was struggling to unlock the door while he balanced a carrier bag. He nudged the door open with his bottom and snatched the keys deftly out of the lock. "Hi, Sandy," he called. "We're nearly ready for you. Graham will keep you amused while I finish in the kitchen."

  He saw her expression and hurried forward, tucking his package more firmly under his arm so as to reach for her hands. "Sandy, what's the matter, you poor girl? Just tell me what we can do to help."

  "It's not me, Toby," she said, hardly able to speak. "It's Graham."

  His plump face was always pale, but suddenly his skin looked like paper. "What? What about him?"

  "He had an accident. He's badly hurt, or-was

  She couldn't say it. She tried to steer Toby toward the door, then thought of telling him to stay here while she went to see, but he misunderstood: he pushed past her with a gentleness that felt like controlled panic. "I know you mean well, Sandy, but please don't try to keep us apart. I have to go up and see for myself."

  She found her voice as he reached the lift. "He isn't upstairs, Toby, he's outside. He fell."

  "But he was upstairs just now. I only went around the corner." He stared at her, and his blue eyes dulled. "Fell?" he said, his voice shrinking. "How far?" Before she could answer he dodged past her, knocking his elbow against the wall, as if she might hinder him. He seized the security bolt with both hands and dropped the carrier bag; she heard glass smash. As he heaved the door open she ran after him, wanting to be with him when he found Graham. But she was halfway to the corner of the building when he vanished around it and let out a cry of anguish beyond words.

  The woman with the dog had found Graham. Toby flailed his hands at the animal as he ran, almost falling as he leaped over a rope that was the shadow of a railing. "Get away," he screamed.

  The woman tied the dog's leash to the railing and hurried back to Graham. "You mustn't touch him either. You know me. I'm a doctor."

  Toby stooped and flinched from the sight of Graham's broken head. His hands were opening and closing, yearning to lift Graham to him. When Sandy put her arm around him he stiffened to hold himself together. She wished he would turn away from Graham, because then she wouldn't need to see Graham's face, mouth flung wide, eyes moist and sparkling faintly as if he might still be conscious inside the ruin of his skull.

  The doctor peered into his eyes, unbuttoned his shirt and felt for his heartbeat, lifted one limp arm by the wrist, and then she stood up, her small tanned wrinkled face carefully neutral. "I'm afraid-was

  Toby moaned and wriggled free of Sandy's arm and fell to his knees beside Graham. He stroked Gaham's bloodsoaked hair back from his forehead and began to murmur, saying goodbye or praying. A shiver Sandy couldn't quite locate was gathering within her as she waited, feeling redundant but unwilling to leave him. She wondered why she couldn't feel the rain she saw falling on Graham's face, and then she realized Toby was weeping. The sound of an approaching siren made him crouch lower. When he gripped Graham's shoulders as if he would let nobody take him away, she went to him and held on to his arm.

  The police car halted beyond the gap between the tower blocks, and two policemen with peaked caps pulled low climbed out. One had a disconcertingly small nose, the other a mustache wider than his face. The doctor met them and gave them details about Graham while they pushed their caps back and gazed up at the building. "You called us, did you?" snub nose said.

  "No, I was on the bridge."

  Sandy squeezed Toby's arm and stood up, wobbling. "I called the ambulance."

  "You are…"

  "Sandy Allan. I worked with him. I was supposed to be visiting." Lowering her voice for Toby's sake, she said "I saw him fall."

  The mustached policeman lowered his gaze to her. "All this is double-glazed, isn't it?"

  "I believe so. Can we talk somewhere else?"

  "Is it open where he came from? We'll need to take a look." At the sound of an oncoming ambulance he muttered to his colleague "If that's for this, they'll have to wait for the photographer."

  After the evening chill, the heat of the building made Sandy uncomfortable. So did the swaying of the lift, and the smells of the policeman-sweat, talcum powder, pipe tobacco. A charred smell met her at Graham's door. She ran into the kitchen and switched off the oven. "You seem to know your way around," the policeman said.

  "I've been here a few times."

  She sat down on the wide couch, feeling as if her legs had been about to give way, while he leaned against the window that overlooked the river. "You said you worked together," he said.

  "At Metropolitan, the television station. I'm a film editor. I should let them know what happened. I don't mean for the news."

  She was talking too much, too haphazardly, and she won
dered what that might imply to him. He had her dictate her name and address and phone number, then he moved to the bedroom door. In the projector beam he looked disconcertingly like an actor dressed as a policeman. "Were you in here?"

  "I was, yes. That's how I saw." Now she seemed unable to say enough. "He was on the other roof," she managed.

  He followed his deflating shadow to the window and gazed up. "What were you doing in here?"

  "Watching. What do you think?" At once she regretted snapping at him; if anyone was accusing her, it was herself-accusing her of being too slow to stop Graham. "I mean," she said wearily, "I was trying to call out to him not to do what he did."