Fade to Black by Steven Bannister Page B

plastered to her forehead by the rain, and took the time to assess her legs and arms. She could see no blood through the holes that rent her leathers. She windmilled her arms and kicked her legs in a comical rendition of her usual karate training moves. No problem. In fact, she concluded, she had not a scratch and could feel no particular pain at all. The thought that she might be dreaming crossed her mind. A vicious wind tore down through the buildings, hurling horizontal bullets of rain at her. It was a frigid, stinging reminder that she was firmly rooted in reality, as frightening as that had now become.
    Twenty blurred and uncomfortable minutes later, Allie crossed Putney Bridge, less than a kilometer from her home. She was cold, very wet, unbearably tired and amazed her battered motorbike had not only started, but had also run like a dream. The rain and gale-force winds had been unrelenting and the sheer effort of staying upright on her bike had been exhausting. Despite this, she felt her pulse quicken. She wondered whether this Michael would show up and whether she was being a complete idiot in meeting this guy alone in the middle of the night. Of course, she knew she was. But if he turned out to be the guy from the photo and the Feathers Inn, there was a mystery to be uncovered. Plus, she felt no danger from this man and that was something she could not explain even to herself.
    She slowed and scanned the narrow street ahead as best she could in the heavy rain—the narrow beam from her headlight barely carrying fifty feet. As much as she could determine, the curving row of identical terrace houses stretching before her contained nothing out of the ordinary, just the normal parade of expensive cars parked on either side, most of which she recognized as those belonging to fellow residents. Bringing her motorbike to a halt directly outside her own front door, she paused with the engine still running, just in case. Not one light glowed from any of the houses on the street. Rainwater thudded on her helmet in a great lump, dislodged from the tree that guarded her apartment. There was no movement on the darkened street.
    Dismounting and turning the engine off, she kicked down the stand and walked quickly, swinging open her iron gate, still listening and watching. Unlocking the door, she heard a great whooshing of the wind behind her. She worried the worsening storm would cause the tree to fall against her apartment.
    “Do I have to stay out in this rain much longer?”
    The deep voice was close to her ear. She yelped and jumped. She instinctively spun low into her defensive stance, anticipating an attack. For the second time that night, she had prepared for non-existent violence. She stayed low in the crouch for a few seconds, then slowly straightened as she saw her would-be attacker standing across the street, arms folded, his broad smile visible even through the rain.
    “Well?” he asked quietly. Yet she heard him as if he was right next to her.
    She stared at him. He was very tall, hatless and with wet, dark hair swept back over his ears to his collar. He wore a long, unbuttoned black coat, which partially covered a light shirt and denims. He was the man from the Feathers Inn, alright.
    “What’s my name, then?” she yelled, already questioning why she asked that. It was a lame attempt to convey her caution to him, she supposed. She was tired, after all.
    “Alison St. Clair, daughter of David.” This was said matter-of-factly, no humor, no sarcasm.
    “Alright,” Allie said. “Where were you in May 1991?”
    “Which day?” He was mocking her now.
    “The twenty-second.”
    He put his finger to his lips, striking an exaggerated thinking pose.
    “Let’s see,” he replied thoughtfully. “I went to a funny little village… Glastonbury, as I recall, and went to the local fair and bought a child’s book in the morning and in the afternoon, I went to a pub and then, let me think… I was invited to a birthday