Published by Turner Maxwell Books
First published 2009.
Copyright © Brigid Conroy 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without permission in writing by Brigid Conroy or Turner Maxwell Books.
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Warning: May contain explicit material, which is not intentionally offensive.
Not suitable for children.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental and may be more the work of your own imagination. Why not write a book yourself? Turner Maxwell Books are an alternative co-operative of new writers, working towards publishing inspirational literature.
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£6.99
Beneath the Mist.
by
Brigid Conroy.
An extract
‘Did you hear about it?’
‘What Madge?’ Gwen asked her friend who was reading a newspaper.
‘You know I can’t read French.’ Gwen continued. ‘What about it anyway?’
‘It’s another girl murdered: A prostitute again. That’s the third this month.’
‘Well, they ask for it! Don’t they? Where shall we eat today Madge?’
‘I don’t know Gwen. I don’t really like French food: All that garlic- Yuk!’
The voices, which spoke so nonchalantly about the death of some unfortunate girl, faded as other voices merged with theirs, thus Sylvia was never to learn just what or where, the two women would finally decide upon, to satisfy their physical appetites.
Previously, before Luke, Sylvia would have confronted the women. She would have been outraged by the remark: ‘They ask for it’. Who, in their right mind asks to be murdered? As it was, Sylvia was in no mood for confrontation with anyone, least of all, with smug virtuous-minded women who probably never had to resort to selling anything for cash, much less their own bodies.
A certain apathy, lay heavy upon her spirit, as if a heavy cloud was pressing her down, forbidding her to rise above it and she had no will to even try. Even this mini-cruse down the river Seine, failed to bring her out of her mind’s mist. Furthermore, Joe’s ‘dog-like’ gaze from his seat opposite her, only served to remind her of what could have been with Luke.
To an onlooker, Joe’s expression might have been seen like an adoring lover: But to Sylvia, it was an intrusion! What right did he have, to assume that they could be any thing more than friends? Of course, she thought. I am partly to blame. I ought not have agreed to this holiday: To Paris of all places! The city of romance! How stupid I’ve been! She told herself. But then, hadn’t she been stupid for five bitter, sweet years, deluding herself that Luke really loved her? What a romantic idiot I’ve been!
Sylvia thought as she turned her eyes away from Joe’s adoring, invasive ones. She found herself moving closer to an elderly man who was leaning over the boat’s railing and who seemed more intent upon staring into the depts of the river than listening to the voice of the guide. Somehow, for some unknown reason, Sylvia felt a certain comfort, just by sitting near the stranger. With his back to her, he was unaware of her closeness to him. Sylvia closed her eyes and allowed the voices to lull her into a kind of trance.
Voices of many languages merged, reminding her of quarrelling geese and soon she drifted into a light sleep. In the state of half sleep, Sylvia wasn’t quite sure if the images before her were real or not. She could hear the voices all around her and even hear the drone of the boat’s engine. Yet, she was in another place. She was resting her head against Luke’s back as they sat on the beach that glorious Summer’s day. Nothing else mattered! She felt complete peace until….
‘Sylvia. This is where we get off. Come on, wake up!’
‘Sylvie’
Confused by Joe’s voice and the voice of the man who called her Sylvie and whose back, she had leaned against while dozing, Sylvia stared from one to the other.
‘Yes, yes. Sorry, so sorry,’ she said.
She apologised to both Joe who was hovering over her and to the stranger who was muttering his own apology.
‘Forgive me Mademoiselle. I thought you were someone else.’
Then, propelled by Joe’s arm holding hers, Sylvia was out on the Quay before she could gather her thoughts. All she knew was that, she wanted to speak to the stranger again. Something about him attracted her: Not romantically! No! It was something else. Something she couldn’t quite define. It was as though she was meant to meet him. It was when she had unknowingly leaned against his back that she had been transported into a blissful state. A state where Luke and she were sailing down the Seine oblivious of all, but their own happiness. It ought to have been like that! She thought as Joe led her onto the quay. All the ingredients were here: Sunshine, Happy people, all laughing and talking in many languages. Gay, colourful Paris: The place where love is celebrated in so many ways. Now, in cold reality Sylvia turned to Joe.
‘Joe I need to take a return trip. No! Alone. Please don’t follow me. I’ll meet you later back at the hotel- for dinner. OK. Bye.’
Then before Joe could protest and even before Sylvia had time to question her own motive, she was back on the boat as it moved away from the Quay. She bought a ticket and found her place, this time opposite the man. He glanced briefly in her direction but made no comment. His former position of looking into the river hadn’t changed. Sylvia spotted Joe on the Quay; hands on hips and fury in his face. Now, without his presence, guilt swept over her. Of course she wasn’t being fair to him! Of course he was right when he accused her of ‘losing it’ as she heard him say when she turned to go back to the boat. Perhaps she was ‘losing it’ losing her mind. ‘So what?’ She argued to herself. Didn’t people in-love do crazy things?
Isn’t love a form of madness? Reason doesn’t come into it. But, why can’t she get over Luke? ‘Paris will do it Syl’ Joe had said. ‘Give it a chance! You’ll soon forget him.’
But with a week of their holiday already over Sylvia had not been persuaded to forget Luke. Rather the opposite, for he was with her in almost every moment. Even her dreams were full of him. Furthermore, Joe only served to remind her of those happy days when all three of them were friends. Joe and Luke were best friends since childhood. It was she, who was the outsider, so she hadn’t objected to Joe’s presence, which was often far too much. She had liked Joe and found that the debates were more interesting among three, rather than with two. She also knew that Joe had more than friendship, with regard to her, on his mind. But, it was a standing joke among them. She had laughed at the absurdity of it and Luke had been amused in an assured off-handed kind of way, as if such a likelihood of she leaving him for Joe was too ridiculous to even contemplate. So the friendship continued with Joe’s constant, if marginal presence, until Luke broke the bond.
‘I could have told you Syl that he was not for you.’ Joe words did not console her. Yet, she had clung onto Joe as though he was a lifebuoy. Somehow, he had been a comfort to have him near. He had listened for hours when she’d talked about Luke.
And had even consoled her when he related snatches of ‘nice’ things Luke had said about her. Joe was her only link with Luke and as such, she had allowed him to become the balm for her wounded heart. Like a beggar starved for bread, she had clung onto every word to do with Luke. But now, as she sat opposite the stranger, she knew that she no longer needed to be reminded of Luke.