Free Laura Possessed by Anthea Fraser Page A

drinking from his own mug, which had no handle. Everything in the room was suddenly exceptionally clear, as though bathed in a hard white light, and her other senses quickened to the same pitch. She could smell the faint, aromatic odour of the tea, the tobacco which clung to his clothes, and hear the drip-drip of the tap he had not turned off properly. It was as though the whole room held its breath, waiting to see what would happen.
    Her hand was trembling as she slowly turned the pages of the scrapbook—yellowing newsprint, war pictures. She didn’t know what she expected to see. Then suddenly she had found it, and her breath came out in a long sigh. Alone in the centre of an otherwise empty page was a snapshot of a girl, a girl with fair hair drawn smoothly back, a broad forehead and wide eyes set slightly slanted in her face. Her mouth was curved in a smile of singular sweetness, as though it were someone very special at whom she smiled. The eyes in the photograph stared straight up into Laura’s own and she gazed back unmoving. It was as though she were looking into a mirror at her own face, though the girl bore no physical resemblance to her at all. Beside her Lewis Castleton sat as still as she, his eyes like hers locked on the page in front of them.
    Suddenly Laura moved, closing the book and pressing her hand down on top of it. ‘Lewis—this book I want to write—’ Her breath was coming so rapidly that she had difficulty in speaking. ‘Will you help me with it? Please?’
    His eyes hadn’t changed focus, were still staring down where the photograph had been and her hand now lay. With an effort he said, ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
    â€˜I must—oh, please!’ The words were falling unintelligibly over themselves and, sensing his rising impatience, she struggled to regain control. ‘Will you let me write about you? Your life story? A sort of official biography?’ She laughed breathlessly. ‘I’ve been wanting to write about violence, and you’ve seen so much of it. Edward said that wherever anything’s been happening for the last twenty years, you’ve been there.’
    â€˜I must have a word with Edward.’
    â€˜Lewis, please say I can! Please let me talk to you and use your war diaries and scrapbooks—it all looks so alive in here!’ Her hand moved caressingly over the dun-coloured cover.
    He said slowly, ‘It was enough to live through it once.’
    She caught frantically at his arm. ‘Don’t you see I’ve just got to do it? I think this must have been what everything was building up towards. Paul said there was something—’
    He frowned and shook her hand away. ‘Paul? I can’t imagine what—’
    â€˜No, I know. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you let me write your life. Oh, Lewis, you will, won’t you?’
    He stared down at her wild, pleading face, disconcerted by her anxiety. ‘Look, I haven’t seen any more than dozens of other men—’
    â€˜Please, Lewis!’ Tears were coursing down her face now but she seemed unaware of them. Embarrassed, he turned away.
    â€˜Oh, for pity’s sake, write the damned thing if it means so much to you!’
    â€˜I can?’ Her voice rose tremblingly. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful! How can I thank you?’
    â€˜You don’t need to thank me. I suppose I should be flattered that one of the famous Hardys wants to write about me. And now it’s high time I took you home. I hate to think what interpretation Edward would place on the state you’re in! Get your coat, there’s a good girl, and we’ll go.’
    He almost bundled her out of the cottage and into the car which stood in the lane outside. Her face was like wax and she was trembling violently. From time to time as they bumped along the rough surface of the lane he glanced at her anxiously. At the