Wounds of Passion by Charlotte Lamb (sci fi books to read TXT) 📗

‘That was not her name, Signore. She was a guest at this party—an American girl, with blonde hair. You spoke to her, I think. Do you remember talking to her?’

Patrick sat very still. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, sickened. ‘That girl?’

‘You were seen watching her,’ said the brigadier. ‘Staring fixedly at her, some witnesses said.’

‘She looked like...like someone I know...knew.’

Patrick pushed aside memories of Laura, thought of the other girl: her shy, half-veiled eyes, her young, golden skin, the beauty of her slim body, her instinctive, innocent sensuality.

‘She was so young,’ he said, to himself. ‘Barely out of her teens.’ Then he was struck by a new idea and looked sharply at the other man. ‘I hardly even spoke to her! Why do you need to talk to me?’

The brigadier’s hard black eyes watched him closely. ‘Her description of the man fits you exactly.’

CHAPTER TWO

TWO years later, Patrick was still having nightmares about what had happened to him over the hours that followed. Not every night, just whenever he was tense over something, worried, upset. On a night like that he would find himself back there, in that time, dreaming it over and over again, in slow, terrifying sequence.

The brigadier had left one of his younger officers in the room to watch him dress, and Patrick had instinctively hurried, putting on the first clothes that came to hand—clean underwear, clean jeans, a crisp blue T-shirt, socks, and another pair of trainers since the police had removed the sandals he had been wearing last night. He had needed to go to the lavatory urgently, been allowed to do so after the brigadier was consulted, had washed his hands and face and combed his hair, but he had had to leave the bathroom door open, and the officer had stood outside and watched him out of the corner of an eye.

‘Do you have to stand there?’ Patrick had burst out, and the man had nodded.

‘Orders, my orders,’ he said in thick English.

All that had been mere pinpricks; yet already Patrick felt uneasy, off balance; he was sweating, and yet he didn’t know why.

He knew he was innocent, after all. He hadn’t done anything to that girl. Yet his stomach was queasy, he felt his nerves jumping, and his mouth was dry. And his head buzzed with questions.

Why had she given them his description? What was going to happen now? Where were they taking him? What ought he to do?

‘OK, let’s go!’ the young officer said, grabbing his arm as he came out of the bathroom, pushing him towards the stairs. As Patrick stumbled he thought he heard the other man mutter, ‘Mi dispiace molto per lei!’ and only later understood what the officer had said—I’m sorry for you!

Patrick wasn’t sure what he had meant and couldn’t ask, but it had not been a friendly remark. It wasn’t pity or compassion he meant; there was hostility, distaste, in the young man’s eyes. It had been a veiled threat, meaning Patrick was going to be sorry for himself.

Self-pity wasn’t what Patrick was feeling, though. He was worried, he was frightened, but most of all he was angry; blazingly angry.

He hadn’t done anything—so why was this happening to him?

As he was hustled through the villa they passsed one of the main rooms of the house, a huge marble-floored lounge hung with cartoons, modern paintings and mirrors, where Patrick had sat earlier, talking to Rae before the party began, drinking chilled white wine.

It was full of people now—the guests from the party, he imagined—all seated, none of them talking. Faces turned towards the door; he recognised some of them, couldn’t put names to them. They stared at him, and he felt himself go dark red, in spite of knowing he was not guilty. Their eyes made him feel guilty.

That was when he realised they believed he was guilty—and the cold sweat sprang out on his forehead.

Alex Holtner was there, a jacket round his shoulders as if he was cold, sitting on a stool, looking pale and haggard. He stared across the room, and his eyes were full of loathing. He glared, clenched his fists on his knees as if longing to hit Patrick, then half rose as if to cross the room to get him. Susan-Jane Holtner was curled up on the floor next to her husband, leaning on him; she put her hands over Alex’s, whispering something, and Alex looked down at her, subsiding again.

A second later Patrick was past, being rushed towards the open front door. It was night, yet the front of the villa was ablaze with light. The police had set up floodlights; there were police cars parked everywhere; policemen moved to and fro, absorbed in whatever they were doing. But they all looked round as Patrick came out of the front door, froze, staring. He was pushed into the back of a police car just as another drove away, past him; and with a pang of shock he saw Rae in it. Her face was chalk-white, her eyes like bruises in her skin. She saw him at the last moment, turned her head to stare back, her pale lips parting, her eyes urgent, as if trying to say something to him.

Did she, too, believe he was guilty?

She knew him, for God’s sake! Patrick thought. She couldn’t possibly believe he would do something like this, surely? Surely.

He wished he could have talked to her, told her... But would she believe him? She looked so shocked. He felt sick. If even Rae believed he had done it! He was almost coming to believe he had, himself! It was the way people looked at you, the waves of hatred coming from them.

* * *

Years later, dreaming about it, he had the same disorientating impression of being trapped in a living nightmare; he kept hoping he was asleep and dreaming, that this couldn’t really be happening to him.

The difference was,