Free (1989) Dreamer by Peter James

stayed much longer. She glanced around at Richard’s roll-top desk in the corner, his computer terminal beside it, at the grand piano with an antique opium-smoking kit on the lid, the two sofas down the far end by the television and the gas-log fire, the armorial shields on the bare brick walls, the swords, the medieval artefacts, the huge copper ladle for pouring gold that Richard had bought when the Royal Mint was being demolished. Richard’s things, relics of his family’s bloody past, portraits of dead ancestors, scrolls with thick red seals. Bare bricks and oak. A man’s flat. It always had been and always would be. A helicopter roared past outside, a dark shadow passing the window.
    ‘Bye, Tiger.’ She stood by the front door, struggling into her coat.
    Nicky came out of the kitchen. ‘Bye,’ he said flatly, walking towards his room.
    ‘Hey! Tiger!’
    He stopped and turned.
    ‘Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?’
    He hesitated for a moment, then trotted over to her. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll forgive you. This time.’
    ‘And if you’re very good, I’ll forgive you.’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘For being rude to your mummy.’
    He pouted, then kissed her, and put his arms around her neck. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’ He kissed her again then turned and scampered off.
    ‘Have a good day at school.’
    ‘Friday! Yippee!’
    Sam opened the front door and picked the Daily Mail off the mat. She turned to her horoscope. Pisces.
    ‘Travel may bring surprises. Avoid arguments today,however much a close colleague may irritate you. Both today and the weekend will be unsettling and may tax even your very strong inner resources.’
    Thank you very much. Hope you have a nice day too. She put the paper inside her briefcase, closed the door behind her and walked down the dark hall, four floors up in the cold stone building that was still at the moment in the middle of nowhere. Another few years and there would be a thriving metropolis all around: colour, light, people, shops. Right now it was a mess; it was hard to tell what they were putting up from what they were pulling down.
    She went out into the street, into the light that was a brighter shade of grey, into the smells of diesel oil and burning tar and the salty tang of the river. She felt the faintly gritty taste of dust in her mouth and heard the distant clatter of a train, the hissing of pneumatics, the rumble of a cement mixer.
    Horoscopes. Who cared about horoscopes? Who cared about dreams? About light bulbs?
    The grey E-Type was covered in a light coating of dust that had settled on it since yesterday, and their elderly Range Rover next to it had virtually changed colour under the stuff. She climbed into the Jaguar, pushed the key into the ignition and switched it on. The red warning light appeared and the fuel pump ticked furiously. She pushed up the choke lever and pressed the starter button.
    The engine turned over several times, whining, snuffling, then fired with a sharp bang, and rumbled into life. The rev counter flickered wildly then settled down. She flipped down the screenwasher toggle, switched on the wipers, pushed the stubby gear lever into first, struggled with the handbrake, then gripped the thin wood-rimmed steering wheel and eased the car forward,listening to its engine sucking and grumbling like an old man woken from a comfortable sleep. The three small wipers smeared the salt and dust into a translucent film, and she gave the screen another squirt.
    She heaved on the wheel, pulling out around a parked lorry into Wapping High Street, then released it, feeling it spin through her hands so fast she had to be careful not to let it burn them. Old things. Retro. Ken’s idea. Heavily into retro. Run old cars as company cars. Smart image, good investment. She stopped at the main road, waiting for a gap in the traffic. A bus stopped in front of her, blocking her, and she glared at the driver who was looking fixedly ahead; like a carthorse in