Page 1 of Dark Fever

CHAPTER ONE

Bianca Fraser woke up on a cold, raw February morning and remembered with a sinking heart that it was her fortieth birthday. Outside, it was raining; inside, it was cold, because the central heating hadn’t yet automatically switched itself on; it was set to come on at seven; and it was dark because it was only half-past six and the sun hadn’t yet risen.

She didn’t have to get up yet; her alarm was set for seven-thirty because this was just another working day. She had to shower and dress, get breakfast, drive Tom to school and Vicky to work and then get to work herself by nine. The day stretched out bleakly in front of her, heavy with responsibilities and chores, and she did not feel like getting up.

Turning over in the warmth of the bed, she found herself reaching out towards the accustomed hollow in the centre, but it was empty, as it had been now for over three years.

Closing her eyes on a wave of misery, she pressed her hand down into the mattress where Rob’s body had lain beside her for twenty years. They had gone so fast, those years; it only seemed like yesterday that they had met, fallen in love, married. Time flashed past her closed eyes, under her lids, images vanishing into oblivion.

‘Oh, Rob,’ she groaned, remembering the feel of his body close beside her all night.

She missed him most of all when she was in this bed, alone. Her body ached for his; she quivered and groaned at the memory of his touch, his passionate mouth, his body coming down on her. It was so real; she put her arms out to hold him and felt his warm, naked skin under her hands.

‘Oh, Rob!’ she whispered in pleasure as he moved against her. Running her fingers through his hair, she looked up at him with passion, needing what he was doing so badly that it was almost unbearable.

But it wasn’t Rob. A strange face looked down at her; it was a stranger’s body on top of her.

A scream choked in her throat and she began to fight him off, writhing and kicking until she rolled right off the bed.

As her body hit the floor her eyes flew open. The room was no longer dark; grey morning light filled it. Trembling in shock, Bianca struggled up and looked dazedly at the bed.

It was empty.

Breathing thickly, her heart beating so fast it deafened her, she looked hurriedly around the bedroom. That was empty, too. There was nobody here but her. A second later, her alarm clock began to ring, the noise shockingly loud in the silence.

That was when it dawned on her. She had gone back to sleep; she had been dreaming.

Scarlet, then white, she jumped up, staggering a little, turned off her alarm and rushed to the bathroom. In the room next to hers she heard Vicky’s alarm endlessly jangling until there was a loud moan, the sound of someone heavily turning in bed and the alarm stopped dead.

Bianca used the lavatory, turned on the shower, stripped off her nightdress, all without thinking what she was doing. Her mind was on automatic pilot. She was in shock. The dream was still playing in her head; she was remembering her passionate response as some total stranger did that to her...

Shame made her skin burn. How could she have felt like that? Responded to a stranger? It if had been Rob...but it hadn’t been! I thought it was! she defended herself hurriedly. At first I thought it was, until I saw his face.

But dreams don’t come out of nowhere; you dreamt what you wanted to dream.

No, that’s not true! she thought angrily. She could not accept that. She hadn’t wanted to dream about some strange man making love to her; she had never even thought of such a thing, not in her waking moments.

My unconscious...she thought, biting her lip. But she knew it wasn’t that simple; she couldn’t dismiss it as something conjured up without her knowing anything about it. It had been her who was dreaming about a stranger making love to her.

And who was he, anyway, that stranger who had shown up so mysteriously in her dream? Who had she substituted for Rob?

She tried to remember something about him—anything—but his face was blank, she couldn’t recall a thing about him, except that it had not been Rob. There had been no sense of recognition, or familiarity—she must have conjured him up out of her imagination, an admission that made her blush.

Oh, for heaven’s sake! Dreams didn’t mean a thing, anyway! When you were asleep your mind ran haywire, conjuring up a cinema show made up of memories, imagination, fantasy.

She looked at herself in the mirror, a woman of forty, with long, loose black hair hanging down her back, widely set apart blue eyes with pale lids, fine black brows, her face really still quite smooth considering she was now officially middle-aged. No wrinkles anyway—unless you counted a few laughter-lines around the eyes and mouth, a faint sadness in the eyes, too, because grief carved its impact on the face as much as laughter did.

She pulled a face at herself angrily. At your age you should have stopped fantasising. That’s for kids. You’re not a kid any more. Forty today! I can’t believe it. Where did the time go? Is that a grey hair? She peered at it closer, decided it was just the way the light fell, but it would come soon, of course. Age was a juggernaut rolling down on you; you couldn’t get out of its way. Before she knew it she would find herself with grey hair, lined skin... how long before she had false teeth? Oh, shut up! she told herself and turned to step under the shower, pushing away the depression creeping up on her.

Mornings were closely timed in this house; there was a lot to do before they could all start their day and she needed to concentrate.

When she was dressed, had put on light make-up and combed her hair up into a smooth chignon at the back of her head, she knocked on Tom’s door and got a sleepy groan from him.

‘Get up, Tom! It’s a quarter to eight!’ He had an alarm clock, which would have gone off by now, but it never seemed to wake him up. Fifteen and healthily active from morning till night, when he did go to bed and stop running and jumping around, Tom could sleep on a washing-line and would probably sleep through an earthquake. She had to bang on his door every morning before he woke up.

Vicky came out of her room without prompting, yawning, brushing her short, curly fair hair. Although her mother found it very hard to believe, Vicky was now nineteen, and for two years had been working in a large depar

tment store which insisted on its staff wearing what amounted to a uniform—a black skirt, white shirt and black cardigan. Staff could buy them in the store at a generous discount, and could wear any style they chose, so long as they kept the overall colour scheme. Black and white suited most women; on Vicky they looked exceptionally good because of her blonde colouring. She wore her clothes with panache, moving gracefully on high black heels. Her skin had a warm pink glow, her eyes were large and bright and her pink mouth a cupid’s bow. Vicky was pretty and was enjoying her life so far, although she had recently begun to put on a bored expression and talk with what she believed to be sophisticated cynicism.

‘God, what horrible weather. Raining again,’ she said, and her mother smiled to herself at the drawling tone.

‘Yes, it’s going to be another wet day.’

Downstairs, Vicky put on the kettle for tea or instant coffee while Bianca made porridge for breakfast; Vicky looked at it with horror. ‘No, thanks—all those calories!’ She poured herself orange juice, had her usual tiny slice of thin toast. She was barely five feet two and was terrified of putting on weight, which, admittedly, she did easily.

Tom rushed in, having apparently dragged on his school uniform anyhow before splashing cold water on his pink face but not bothering to put a comb through his straight dark hair.

Bianca was pouring his tea. She looked at him and made a face. ‘Oh, Tom! You look as if you’ve slept in your clothes!’

He grinned, a large envelope in one hand, a brightly gift-wrapped parcel in the other. ‘Happy Birthday, Mum!’ He bent over the table to kiss her on the top of her head.

‘Oh, thank you, darling,’ she said, smiling up at him. She had begun to wonder if they had forgotten—usually their father had reminded them.

Vicky looked guilty. ‘Yes, Happy Birthday, Mum. I’m getting your present later today; I’ll give it to you tonight.’

Over her head Tom mouthed something at his sister; Bianca suspected it was rude from the glare Vicky gave him. They argued all the time; sometimes she wondered if they always had, or if it was only since their father died; she didn’t remember them being so ratty with each other when Rob was there—or was it simply that they had changed since they began growing up?

Grief gnawed inside her again. Rob would have loved to be there to watch Tom play for his school, score the goal that won a match...

She looked at the birthday card blankly for a second, then made herself look properly. It was funny—a cartoon with a joke message; she laughed and handed it to Vicky to read.

‘Oh, ha ha,’ Vicky said disagreeably, dropping it on the table.

‘Don’t you get porridge on my card!’ Tom said, snatching it up again.

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