think about. Truth can be stranger than fiction, can’t it?’
‘It certainly can,’ LaValle agreed. ‘And have you got enough material for your novel?’
‘A start, I believe.’
Outside, the sound of the rain was like a tattoo on the Highgate Village roofs, but Dominik knew he now needed some fresh air to contemplate everything and decide what his next step should be, and whether he should warn Summer about the violin. He also knew that appearing out of the blue with silly stories about curses, thefts and dead lovers was not likely to endear him to her or make him welcome again.
In dreams came confusion.
Not helped by the sharp onset of a strong migraine which suddenly flared up with little warning, the tale LaValle had unfolded and the automatic reflux of memories of Summer, Dominik’s night turned into a complicated jumble of emotions and irrational images.
He saw Summer as Angelique. In old-fashioned clothes he had never seen her wear before, images conjured up by old movies in the style of Gone with the Wind and Merchant Ivory. She wore a white crinoline dress, tight at the waist, and what looked like a bustier beneath compressing her breasts, squeezing them upwards to give the impression she was more ample than she actually was. She was sashaying across the newly mown grass of the Heath in her finery, and through the walls of sleep, Dominik could even smell the distinctive odour of cut grass. His vision cut to the clearing and the empty bandstand under a sky of pure blue, with the white stain of Summer in Angelique’s dress ascending the stone steps. He stood a hundred yards away, an invisible spectator, rooted to the spot and unable to move.
A black violin case lay across a velvet-covered piano stool at the centre of the stand. In his dream, Summer as Angelique ran towards the violin, but out of a curtain of darkness, two men appeared to halt her progress, shielding her, blocking her way. They were dressed all in black. One had a moustache, the other a scar. Melodramatic operetta villains ticking all the clichés in the book.
Summer screamed, but Dominik, locked in a shell of silence, trying desperately to run towards the bandstand, to Summer, could not protect her.
One of the men slapped her, the other violently tore the top of her dress away from her body, releasing Summer’s breasts, proud and fragile, her dark nipples emerging from the corset in which they were sheathed. It must have been a cold morning as even from where he stood, Dominik could see the goosebumps spreading across her bared skin.
The other man picked up the violin case and handed the Bailly to Summer. Her body shook with tears as she slowly brought the instrument to her chin, straightened, and adjusted its position. As she began to play, the first man, the one with the Mexican moustache, conjured a sharp knife seemingly out of nowhere and quickly slashed the dress at the waist, leaving Summer naked but for period white stockings attached to a similarly white garter belt that encircled her thin waist.
Under the gaze of her captors, she began to play.
Even though the dream was silent, Dominik imagined the music rising from her fingers and the dark orange wood of the instrument, flowing downwards like rivulets of rain, dancing, coming alive, floating upwards in minuscule cloud formations until it formed a halo above the bandstand, a rainbow of sounds that spread like a blanket over Hampstead, and then all of London.
In his sleep, the vision of Summer, now naked apart from the white garter belt and stockings, the forest fire of her pubic hair raging in the pale landscape of her body, and playing her Bailly with her eyes closed, lost to the silence of the music, made Dominik hard. He moved his hand down to his cock to verify his arousal. As if in response, the men on either side of Summer on the bandstand unzipped their own trousers and moved towards her, malicious intent dancing in their eyes.
Dominik wanted to rush towards her, to help,
‘It certainly can,’ LaValle agreed. ‘And have you got enough material for your novel?’
‘A start, I believe.’
Outside, the sound of the rain was like a tattoo on the Highgate Village roofs, but Dominik knew he now needed some fresh air to contemplate everything and decide what his next step should be, and whether he should warn Summer about the violin. He also knew that appearing out of the blue with silly stories about curses, thefts and dead lovers was not likely to endear him to her or make him welcome again.
In dreams came confusion.
Not helped by the sharp onset of a strong migraine which suddenly flared up with little warning, the tale LaValle had unfolded and the automatic reflux of memories of Summer, Dominik’s night turned into a complicated jumble of emotions and irrational images.
He saw Summer as Angelique. In old-fashioned clothes he had never seen her wear before, images conjured up by old movies in the style of Gone with the Wind and Merchant Ivory. She wore a white crinoline dress, tight at the waist, and what looked like a bustier beneath compressing her breasts, squeezing them upwards to give the impression she was more ample than she actually was. She was sashaying across the newly mown grass of the Heath in her finery, and through the walls of sleep, Dominik could even smell the distinctive odour of cut grass. His vision cut to the clearing and the empty bandstand under a sky of pure blue, with the white stain of Summer in Angelique’s dress ascending the stone steps. He stood a hundred yards away, an invisible spectator, rooted to the spot and unable to move.
A black violin case lay across a velvet-covered piano stool at the centre of the stand. In his dream, Summer as Angelique ran towards the violin, but out of a curtain of darkness, two men appeared to halt her progress, shielding her, blocking her way. They were dressed all in black. One had a moustache, the other a scar. Melodramatic operetta villains ticking all the clichés in the book.
Summer screamed, but Dominik, locked in a shell of silence, trying desperately to run towards the bandstand, to Summer, could not protect her.
One of the men slapped her, the other violently tore the top of her dress away from her body, releasing Summer’s breasts, proud and fragile, her dark nipples emerging from the corset in which they were sheathed. It must have been a cold morning as even from where he stood, Dominik could see the goosebumps spreading across her bared skin.
The other man picked up the violin case and handed the Bailly to Summer. Her body shook with tears as she slowly brought the instrument to her chin, straightened, and adjusted its position. As she began to play, the first man, the one with the Mexican moustache, conjured a sharp knife seemingly out of nowhere and quickly slashed the dress at the waist, leaving Summer naked but for period white stockings attached to a similarly white garter belt that encircled her thin waist.
Under the gaze of her captors, she began to play.
Even though the dream was silent, Dominik imagined the music rising from her fingers and the dark orange wood of the instrument, flowing downwards like rivulets of rain, dancing, coming alive, floating upwards in minuscule cloud formations until it formed a halo above the bandstand, a rainbow of sounds that spread like a blanket over Hampstead, and then all of London.
In his sleep, the vision of Summer, now naked apart from the white garter belt and stockings, the forest fire of her pubic hair raging in the pale landscape of her body, and playing her Bailly with her eyes closed, lost to the silence of the music, made Dominik hard. He moved his hand down to his cock to verify his arousal. As if in response, the men on either side of Summer on the bandstand unzipped their own trousers and moved towards her, malicious intent dancing in their eyes.
Dominik wanted to rush towards her, to help,
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