Shah-Mak by Alan Williams

Author:Alan Williams [Williams, Alan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781913518561
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2020-03-11T04:00:00+00:00

Sarah was somewhere in the middle of the dance floor, looking as though she were performing a gymnastic exercise. It was impossible to see who her partner was.

Packer was in no hurry to signal his presence to her. He returned to the bar, where he was finally relieved of the equivalent of £8 in exchange for a bottle of Scotch of dubious pedigree. As he came away, the music stopped and he found himself walking against the crush of dancers. He almost tripped over Sarah in the dark, striking her with the end of the whisky bottle which he was holding, unwrapped, like an Indian club. She gave a yelp, then saw him and sucked in her mouth in a theatrical pout. At the same moment a bald, youngish man with a soft-hard face and a pearl pin in his white neckerchief, stepped between them and said, ‘Can’t you damn well look where you’re going?’

‘It’s all right, DJ, he’s a friend of mine.’ She smiled obliquely at each of them. ‘Owen Packer — D’Arcy-James,’ and she added a multi-barrelled name which Packer missed as the music started again. He glared at the man, then blinked. People were pushing into them from all sides; two men in dark suits were watching them from a table in an alcove. One of them was wearing dark glasses. Packer was vaguely aware that D’Arcy-James was waiting to have his hand shaken. His fingers were big and clammy. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize —’ he gave a hearty smile — ‘such a damn awful crowd in here.’

‘Terrible,’ Packer murmured. Sarah was guiding them towards a table. He followed her as though he were walking in deep snow.

There were two other men at the table, and a girl in a headscarf with the scraped features of a model. One of the men wore a dinner jacket and they were all smiling. Packer felt very cold and stood with his back to the room, with that familiar prickly sensation along the nape of his neck.

D’Arcy-James began making the introductions, but Packer had difficulty concentrating. He found himself standing, still holding the whisky bottle, and muttering something about having to go. Sarah hissed below him: ‘What’s the matter with you? You’re not drunk, are you?’

‘I wish to God I were,’ he said, and made a formal apology to D’Arcy-James, who interrupted, shouting above the music, ‘We’ve asked Sarah over to a party tomorrow night in St Moritz. Hope you’ll be able to come too!’

‘Maybe,’ said Packer coldly; and as he turned, saw Sarah sitting tightly on her chair, her face rigid with embarrassment. He leaned over her. ‘I must see you, up in the room. It’s urgent. In a quarter of an hour — no longer.’

‘I’ll see,’ she said, in a small blank voice.

He nodded and repeated, ‘A quarter of an hour!’ in a harsh whisper, and left.

As he pushed his way across the floor he kept his eyes on the entrance, away from the tables along the

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