By the time Kelly reached the Thames Television studios in Euston Road the rain was falling in torrents. Large droplets of it bounced off the car and she squinted to see through the drenched windscreen. Her wipers seemed quite inadequate for the task of sweeping away the water which poured down the glass.
She found a parking space then jumped out of the car, picking up her handbag.
She sprinted towards the main entrance, slowing her pace as she saw a uniformed doorman barring the way. A thought crossed her mind.
What if he wanted to search her bag?
She held it close to .her and looked at him warily but his only gesture was to smile happily at her. Kelly smiled back, as much in relief as anything else.
The man opened the door for her and she walked inside the vast entry-way.
‘Could you tell me which studio David Blake is in?’ she asked.
‘Who?1 he said.
‘David Blake,” she repeated. ‘He’s a writer. He’s taking part in a discussion programme tonight at eight. I hope I’m not too late.’
‘Oh yes, that’s Studio One, they started about ten minutes ago. It’s that way.’ He hooked a thumb in the general direction.
Kelly walked past him.
‘Just a minute. Miss,’ he called.
She froze.
‘Have you got a ticket?’ he wanted to know.
She opened her mouth to speak but he continued.
‘There’s a few seats left. If you see that young lady behind the desk, I’m sure she’ll be able to help you.’ He smiled and indicated a woman who was sitting beneath a large framed photo of a well-known comedian.
Kelly asked for a ticket.
‘I’m afraid that the programme in Studio One is being transmitted live,’ said the other woman, apologetically. ‘It’s not normal policy to allow members of the audience in while the show is on.’
‘Damn, my editor will kill me,’ said Kelly, with mock exasperation. ‘I’m supposed to cover this show for the paper, talk to the guests afterwards.
We’re doing a feature on one of them this week.’
‘Do you have your press card with you?’ asked the receptionist.
‘No, I don’t, I was in such a rush to get here I …’ She shrugged, wondering if the ruse would work.
The woman ran an appraising eye over her.
‘Which paper?’ she asked.
‘The Standard,’ Kelly lied, it is very important.’ She played her trump card.
‘You can call my editor if you like.’
The woman thought for a moment then shook her head.
‘No, that won’t be necessary. I think we can get you in.’ She called the doorman over. ‘George, can you show this lady into Studio One. But they are on the air at the moment.’
The doorman nodded, smiled politely at Kelly and asked her to follow him. She swallowed hard, trying to control her breathing as they made their way up a long corridor. The walls on either side bore framed photographs of celebrities past and present. Kelly felt as if she were being watched, scrutinised by each pair of monochrome eyes, all of whom knew her secret. The .357 suddenly felt gigantic inside her handbag and she hugged it closer to her, watching as the doorman paused beneath a red light and a sign which proclaimed: STUDIO ONE. He opened the door a fraction and peered inside.
‘Keep as quiet as you can,’ he whispered and led Kelly into the studio.
Apart from the area which made up the studio floor, the entire cavervous room was in darkness. Kelly saw rows and rows of people before her, their attention directed towards the four men who sat in front of them.
She caught sight of Blake.
The doorman ushered her towards an empty seat near the back of the studio where she settled herself, mouthing a silent Thankyou’ to him as he slipped away. A man seated in front of her turned and looked at her briefly before returning his attention to the discussion being conducted by the four men.
Kelly glanced around the studio.
Cameras moved silently back and forth. She saw a man with headphones hunched close to the interviewer, a clipboard clutched in his hand. He was counting off seconds with his fingers, motioning a camera forward as one of the four
men seated amidst the modest set spoke.
Blake was seated between the interviewer and an elderly priest who was having trouble with a long strand of grey hair which kept falling over his forehead.
He brushed it back each time he spoke but, within seconds, the gossamer tentacle had crept back to its original position.
Arc lights burned brightly, pinpointing the men in their powerful beams while sausage-shaped booms were lowered carefully by the sound engineers, all of whom were intent on staying out of camera shot. The sound was coming through loud and clear but Kelly seemed not to hear it. Her gaze was riveted to Blake who was in the process of pouring himself some water from the jug on top of the smoked-glass table before him. He smiled cordially at a remark made by the old priest and sipped his drink.
Kelly watched him, unable to take her eyes from the writer’s slim frame. She heard his name spoken then his voice filled the studio.
‘In the course of my work I’ve come across all manner of religions, each one as valid as the next,’ he said.
‘But you mentioned voodoo earlier,’ the old priest reminded him. ‘Surely you can’t class that as a religion?’
‘It’s the worship of a God or a set of Gods. As far as I’m concerned that makes it a religion.’
‘Then you could say the same about witchcraft?’ the priest countered.
‘Why not?’ Blake said. ‘The deities worshipped by witches were thought to be powerful in their own right. A God doesn’t have to be benevolent to be worshipped.’
‘Do you have any religious beliefs yourself, Mr Blake?’ asked the interviewer.
‘Not in God and the Devil as we know them, no,’ the writer told him.
Kelly sat motionless, watching him, her eyes filling with tears once more. She touched the Magnum inside her handbag but, somewhere deep inside her, she knew that she could not use the weapon. What she should be feeling for Blake was hatred but, in fact, she felt feelings of love as strong for him now as she had ever known. Could this man really be evil? This man she felt so much for?
‘What do you believe in then?’ the interviewer asked Blake.
i believe that there is a force which controls everyone’s lives but I don’t believe that it comes from a God of any description,’ the writer said. ‘It comes from here.’ He prodded his own chest.
‘Don’t you, in fact, use this theory in your forthcoming book?’ the interviewer said. ‘This idea of each of us having two distinct sides to our nature. One good, one evil.’
‘That’s hardly an original concept,’ said the psychiatrist, haughtily. ‘Surely every religion in the world, in history, has revolved around the struggle between good and evil.’
‘I agree,’ said Blake. ‘But never before has it been possible to isolate the evil side of man and make it a tangible force independent from the rest of the mind.’
Kelly shuddered, her mind suddenly clearing as if a veil had been drawn from it.
She slid one hand inside her handbag, her fist closing around the butt of the .357. She slowly eased back the hammer, glancing around furtively to see if anyone else had noticed the metallic click.
There was a man standing directly behind her.
He wore a short sleeved white shirt and dark trousers and, Kelly caught a quick glimpse of the badge pinned to his chest: SECURITY.
She took her hand off the Magnum and hurriedly turned to face the studio floor once again, her heart beating madly against her ribs.
She glanced at Blake.
A camera was moving closer towards him.
She realized the time had come.
‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ the interviewer asked, smiling.