Night Angels. Danuta Reah

Massachusetts Institute of Technology. She wondered what someone with a doctorate from that institution was doing in Sheffield.

      He seemed to pick up her unspoken question. ‘It’s where it’s all happening,’ he said, ‘but it’s a bit one-sided. Great if you’re a total geek – they’re all like, “Work, work.” I’m more, “Get a life.” There’s a lot of places I haven’t been yet. They don’t understand that over there.’ He shrugged.

      Roz nodded, amused. She had spent most of her early working life focused on getting her toe-hold and pulling herself up the ladder. So had most of her contemporaries. It had seemed, then, possible to put other things on hold. She found Sean’s attitude refreshing.

      They talked for a bit longer, then she did her duty and circulated, talking about the politics of the health trust with Jim Broadbent, and the importance of PR with someone she knew she knew, but whose name she couldn’t remember. Then the groups reformed and she relaxed for a moment as she listened to the swirl of chat around her; something about hospital funding on her left, something about the current state of theatre in Sheffield to her right, something about the plight of the universities and the role of research in modern technological societies from a group in front of her. Roz listened to them talking about the new Home Office regulations, about the hidebound administration of the university, before Joanna took them through to where food was laid out.

      The dining room was a minimalist contrast to the soft comfort of the lounge, with a polished beech floor, and a table that gleamed with crystal and candlelight. Roz looked at the impressive buffet and wondered again where Joanna found the time to do all the things she did.

      Joanna came towards her with the young man, Sean Lewis, in tow, and Roz wondered what she was up to. Whatever. It was just for an evening, and Sean was attractive and entertaining company. Their talk was impersonal, work-based, but there was a subtext that Roz was aware of inherent in the way he stood slightly closer than necessary, the way that when their eyes met he maintained the contact, the way he stood forming a barrier between Roz and the rest of the room. You’ve pulled, Bishop. Luke’s voice, in her mind. It made her want to smile, but she kept her face serious.

      Sean seemed genuinely interested in her thoughts about the Law and Language Group, and talked quite knowledgeably about it. He understood her interest in the research side of the group’s work. ‘It’s the technology and the software every time,’ he said. ‘Take the grants, develop the prototypes and then get out there, market them yourself.’ He thought they were wasting their time with the criminal work. ‘Pissing about with tapes,’ he said dismissively.

      Roz was suddenly alert. This young man was clearly a high-flier. His field was computing and software. He seemed well travelled, talking about America, Europe, the Far East. Attending one of Joanna’s parties was hardly the way he would choose to spend an evening. He looked as if he would be more at home in one of the notorious Sheffield clubs. She wondered what the attraction was.

      She could see Joanna glancing across at them, a speculative gleam in her eye. She understood, now, why Joanna was so interested in Sean Lewis and why she wanted him and Roz to get on. If Joanna could pull it off, he would make a perfect replacement for Luke. It wasn’t as far-fetched as it seemed. Joanna had talked about enhancing the post, giving the software researcher control of the European grant work. He wanted to travel. He could still pursue his own interests – in fact, a link with a successful research group would be an asset. He smiled at her and helped himself to a piece of asparagus off her plate. Making a pact with the devil? She wondered if she should be using a long spoon.

       5

       Sheffield, Sunday

      The phone woke Roz at seven. She swore and pulled her head under the blankets. Let the answering machine take it. She was due a lie-in. She hadn’t got back from Joanna’s until after two, and she’d been woken up again in the small hours by a gang of youths, fighting and shouting in the road outside. Now she just wanted to sleep. Who’d phone her at this time, anyway? Her mother? Not even Paula would phone at this time on a Sunday. Then the voice on the machine penetrated, and she sat up, grabbing for the phone. ‘…your lazy arse out of bed, Bishop…’

      It was the old Luke, the friend who had never had any compunction about rousting her out of bed in pursuit of some enterprise that had caught his fancy. ‘It’s the middle of the night, Luke! For Christ’s sake!’ Then she remembered Friday. ‘What’s wrong?’

      ‘I’m round at Gemma’s,’ he said. ‘There’s…’ Suddenly his voice sounded uncertain, the new Luke, slightly wary, slightly withdrawn. ‘I’m not quite sure. Maybe I shouldn’t have called you.’

      ‘Oh, come on, Luke. I’m really going to go back to sleep now, aren’t I? What’s wrong? Is Gemma ill? Is that why she didn’t come in yesterday?’

      ‘Gemma’s not back,’ he said, after a pause.

      ‘Luke…’ She felt an uneasy sensation in her stomach. ‘Has she been in touch? Anything?’

      ‘Nothing. But…’ Again the un-Luke-like uncertainty.

      ‘Don’t you think we should call someone – the hospital? Maybe she had an accident.’ Or was she being melodramatic?

      ‘I did that bit yesterday. I told you that car shit didn’t make sense. There wasn’t anything. But then there wouldn’t be.’

      ‘Why? What did they say?’ There must be something, or he wouldn’t have phoned. ‘I’ll come round, shall I? To Gemma’s?’

      ‘I don’t know…’ That uncertainty again. She tried to remember any time, in the year she had known him, when Luke had asked her for help.

      ‘I’m coming round,’ she said.

      There was a moment’s silence. ‘OK. See what you think.’ He hung up.

      Roz looked out of the window, trying to assess the weather. She didn’t bother with curtains. Her bedroom looked out on to the derelict house, the oriel window visible from where she was lying. She rolled out of bed on to the floor. It was the getting-up technique she’d adopted in her teens, when the act of getting out of bed had seemed impossible to achieve. Her fatigue had retreated, but she knew she would feel it later. Getting old…The shower pulled her further awake. She put on jeans and a warm jumper, stuck a croissant under the grill and switched the kettle on. Fifteen minutes later, the half-eaten croissant in her hand, she was reversing the car out of her gate.

      Gemma rented a flat in Hillsborough. Roz had picked her up there once or twice, but had never been inside, she realized, as she pulled up outside the small terrace, behind Luke’s bike, a Vincent Black Shadow that he devoted more time and care to than he devoted to himself. ‘Brings out the geek in me,’ he’d admitted once to Roz. He must have been looking out for her, because he opened the door as she came through the gate.

      She followed him into the house. The entrance hall and stairway were common territory, and had the dark, uncared-for look that areas of transit often have. Gemma’s flat was on the ground floor, her door to the left of the entry. Roz looked round as she went in. It was – presumably – pretty much like any of the furnished flats on offer in an area that had a large transient population. Gemma had draped the chairs with pale throws, and painted the walls a light, neutral colour, as though she had tried to make the room non-intrusive, a background to her presence. Here and there were patches of colour – the green of a plant, a peacock blue table lamp, a brilliant tapestry on one wall, cushions embroidered in scarlet. Roz was drawn to the tapestry. It seemed to glow with life in the stark room. She looked more closely, admiring the brilliant colours and the intricate weaving of the threads.

      Luke came up behind her. ‘Gemma got that when she was in Dudinka,’ he said. Gemma had spent three years in Russia, mostly at the Siberian university of Novosibirsk