Free Dread Journey by Dorothy B. Hughes Page B

he’s never lonely. He always has Vivien Spender with him. What else could anyone want?” She trilled laughter again, hoping it reached his ears.
    Les said, “Quite.”
    Gratia remained untouched by Kitten’s laughter. She sat there watching Hank with her great eyes the way she’d been watching him all through the dinner. As if he were something important to her, as if she were a lovesick school girl worshiping at an unattainable shrine. Kitten’s nails clawed the napkin across her lap. Hank wasn’t for Gratia. Gratia couldn’t hold him for ten minutes; he was a man who’d want meat, not a cold turnip.
    Gratia wasn’t going to get Hank. She’d thieved Vivien Spender, beyond that she should not trespass. Hank was the first man in years that Kitten had wanted out of emotion, not mind. She had no intention of allowing Gratia to spoil things. Let her have Viv. If she encroached on Hank, she’d regret.
    He wasn’t paying any attention to the girl. He ate and he drank. Kitten looked at him now with warm eyes. She spoke gaily, “You’re eating as if you didn’t ever expect to see food again.”
    At his expression, she drew back. His face had gone suddenly blank and hostile. He ordered, “Shut up.”
    Les sighed, “Don’t start again, Hank.”
    Hank pushed away his plate. “Let’s get out of here. I’m getting sober.”
    She didn’t understand what had happened but she didn’t want to leave. Not until after Viv left. She didn’t want to pass his table, to meet his eyes, his scheming brain. She refused. “Gratia wants some ice cream. Don’t you, Gratia?” She wasn’t scoffing at Gratia now; she was Kitten Agnew, the warmhearted American girl.
    Gratia shook her head almost in horror. “Oh no.” Her eyes whimpered against Hank’s face.
    Kitten said almost angrily, “Well, I do. And demitasse.” She covered her annoyance with a quick moue at Hank. “You don’t mind, do you?”
    His hostility had gone. He said, “Why not?” She didn’t know what had engendered that moment of terrible, unspoken rage. It had passed. But he didn’t touch his plate again; he lit a cigarette and gloomed with it.
    She and Les ate ice cream. Gratia’s melted into a sweet, milky puddle while her eyes watched Hank. Kitten spooned slowly; she couldn’t ask if Viv were still there; she didn’t dare look over her shoulder. She feared a backwards glance as if she were being pursued.
    Yet in spite of the time she consumed, when she rose from the table her eyes met Viv’s. He was still in his place a table away. She didn’t recognize him, she was able to delay recognition by laughing over her shoulder at whatever Les might have said. Not until she came to his table did she seem to notice him.
    Her voice was loud and careless. “Hello, darling! Fancy seeing you in public places.” She deliberately blocked the aisle, holding Hank, Les and Gratia penned behind her. They couldn’t move until she did; they couldn’t leave her with Viv.
    Viv hated her. Until this moment she might not have known how permeated he was with hatred of her. It seeped from every pore as he spoke, normally, thinking his disease was hidden. He said, “You’ll pardon my not rising, Kitten. I’m wedged.”
    Hank’s hand pushed her shoulder. “Go on, Kitten.”
    She flung him a smile. “But, darling, I want you to meet Viv. Viv, this is Hank Cavanaugh. Hank, this is Viv Spender.” As she spoke her eyes fell carelessly on the man across from Viv. It was the cheap little man from compartment F. His eyes were dog eyes baying up into her face. As she met them, his spoon wavered and consommé dribbled on the starched white tablecloth. She didn’t give him recognition, deliberately she turned her back to him.
    Viv accepted the introduction as if he were delighted to meet Hank Cavanaugh. Hank didn’t. He said brusquely, “Hello. Get on, Kitten.”
    She didn’t move. She was enjoying this. Relishing the warning in Mike’s eyes, relishing Viv being