Page 58 of A Sky Painted Gold

“Take pity on us, Al,” Bernie cries then, staggering forward. “We poor bored creatures are looking for some entertainment.”

“Is that so?” Al says, and her amazing eyes take each of us in. They come to rest, finally, on me. “Well, maybe I can help with that.” She opens the door further, and stands to one side.

Bernie glides in, followed by Patricia. Caitlin and I stand on the doorstep.

“Al,” Caitlin says brightly, “this is my friend Lou.”

“Al and Lou.” Al grins at me, and the grin scrunches up her nose a little. I like her at once. “We sound like a couple of real gentlemen, don’t we? Come on in, won’t you?”

I look at Caitlin, and she nods briskly, taking a deep breath as though steeling herself for something terrible. We step through the door. There isn’t a lot in the room – it is dark and dank with a couple of bits of rickety furniture. There is a small table pulled up beside a couple of chairs with a tea set on top of it. A shabby red curtain hangs against the wall in one corner. There is no sign of Bernie or Patricia, and I wonder briefly if they have simply disappeared, if this night is truly as unreal as it seems.

“Let’s go, shall we?” Al says, looking at Caitlin. “You remember the way?”

Caitlin pulls back the red curtain, revealing another door, and when she opens it the sound of music drifts up from the bottom of another flight of stairs. “Come on, Lou! Down the rabbit hole!” she calls over her shoulder.

The first thing I notice is the wall of heat and sound as we descend into the room below. It is like entering an engine room, and the air is thick and damp. The heat is sweltering, but the music is the thing that stops me in my tracks. It is amazing, and something about it is familiar.

The room we are in isn’t huge, but there must be over fifty people down here. This crowd is certainly more eclectic than the one we have just left. There are still a few of the monied types about – though they are definitely from the younger end of that crowd – but there are also a lot of people who aren’t wearing Madame Carradice’s finest creations or expensive jewellery. People from all walks of life are here, coming together to hear the incredible music filling the air, a diverse collage of city life, about as far away from Penlyn as it’s possible to imagine. There is a blue haze of smoke and the room is dim, lit mostly by candles stuffed into the tops of old whisky bottles.

Hardly anyone is sitting in the seats that line the sides of the room, clustered around small tables. Instead they are dancing, leaning towards the music like plants towards sunlight.

I look at the stage and feel a jolt of surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me…” I begin, turning to look at Caitlin, but she is frozen, pale and trembling, her eyes locked on the band. Or, more accurately, on one particular member of the band. I turn back to the stage.

The man who is singing and playing the piano looks up, and catches my eye. It is Lucky. A smile of recognition touches his lips, and then his eyes move past me. Something in his face changes. Twirling around, I realize that he and Caitlin have locked eyes, and although he is still playing the piano without missing a note, his movements seem almost mechanical. It feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room as the two of them stare and stare at each other. Suddenly, I know whose voice I overheard in the orchard that night. Then he looks away and goes back to playing as if nothing has happened.

Caitlin, on the other hand, looks as if she is about to fall down. “Let’s sit,” I say quickly, guiding her to one of the seats and pushing her down into it with as much gentleness as I can manage.

She slumps back, looking dazed and trembling for a moment, and I don’t know what to do. Finally, she turns to me, her face pale but composed. “Well,” she says matter-of-factly, “I’ve seen him now. That’s the worst of it over.”

“Lucky,” I say, not bothering to pretend to be ignorant over who she is talking about. I am shocked by the revelation. I have seen enough of Caitlin’s world to know that Lucky’s position would be enough to keep them apart, but the colour of his skin is of course the even bigger barrier. In a world so ruled by appearances, one where Caitlin obsesses over every detail of her life being approved by an audience of strangers, it would be impossible.

“His name is actually Freddy,” she says softly now, “but everyone calls him Lucky. It’s a silly name.” She laughs without humour. “It doesn’t even make any sense. He’s not lucky. He can’t gamble at all because his luck is so terrible, everyone knows that.” She is rambling, her hands playing with the fringe on her dress.

“When did you last see each other?” I ask, puzzled. “Was it that night at the Cornwall house?”

“Yes,” Caitlin says weakly. “Five weeks and four days ago.” She adds after a pause, “I can probably tell you the hours too.” That laugh again, dry, hollow, with nothing like the runaway glee her laughter usually contains. It makes sense now that I think about it, watching Caitlin wind herself tighter and tighter over that time.

“What happened?” I ask, but a shadow appears over the table.

“Thought you might be needing this.” Al has arrived, holding a tumbler full of whisky.

“Thank you,” Caitlin says gratefully, taking a long drink.

“I didn’t know if you’d like anything?” Al asks, turning to me.

“I’m fine, thank you.” I shake my head. She gives Caitlin another long, assessing look.

“Better bring the bottle, Al,” Caitlin says ruefully. Al hovers for a moment as if uncertain, and Caitlin scuffles in her purse, pulling out a wad of banknotes and pushing them into Al’s hand. “Please,” she adds.

Al presses her lips together and then nods, moving on to speak to someone else who is calling her name.

Caitlin closes her eyes, but some of her colour is coming back, and she is clutching that glass of whisky to her chest like it is a lifebelt. It is then that the music stops. I feel Caitlin stiffen beside me.

Lucky stands up to speak and the room falls silent. “We’re going to take a ten-minute break,” he says, and the crowd shout out in dismay. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “After that we’ll be right back.” He is smiling, charismatic; he gives nothing away. The band begin clearing off the stage and people are slapping them on the back, pressing drinks into their hands.

Caitlin is clutching at my arm. “Oh!” she hisses. “Is he coming over? I can’t look.” And she has swung round to face me, her eyes turned firmly away from the stage.

“He’s fiddling about with the piano,” I say out of the corner of my mouth, trying to be inconspicuous as I dart glances over there.