Ghostheart by R.J. Ellory Page B

store before Forrester arrived, the fact that he had made it at all, said all that needed to be said about how much he cared for her welfare.
    ‘So the mystery man arrives at seven,’ Sullivan had commented as he passed the counter and made for the kitchen. ‘I’ll be back here, out of sight, and then if there’s any trouble I can leap out and wrestle him to the ground.’
    Annie had smiled. ‘The guy must be seventy Jack … I really don’t think there’s gonna be any trouble.’
    ‘Charlie Chaplin fathered his last child when he was eighty-two … even when we’re on our deathbeds we’re still up for that.’
    Annie had waved him away, and though she honestly believed that Forrester presented no threat at all, she nevertheless felt asense of security in the fact that Sullivan would be on hand to help her.
    And then Robert Forrester arrived, the same topcoat, a similar bundle beneath his arm, and though he merely smiled and nodded towards her as he came in, Annie felt a slight feeling of disquiet invade her thoughts.
    Did she dream something? Something about herself and Sullivan and a child? She couldn’t remember, but seeing the old man standing there, his character-scarred face, his white hair, she felt the images of the things she’d read come flooding back. The horror of Dachau, the brutal murder of hundreds of thousands of human beings in some desolate and godforsaken place …
    ‘Miss O’Neill,’ Forrester said. ‘It is good to see you again.’
    ‘And you Mr Forrester,’ she replied, and smiled, and felt that the smile she wore was perhaps the most unnatural expression she’d ever managed.
    He walked towards her, set his bundle on the counter, and then asked if there was somewhere they could sit.
    ‘Of course,’ she said, and showed Forrester to the small, plain deal table set to the back right-hand corner of the store, the table where she sat late into the night once a month to update inventories and dream her dreams.
    The exit to the kitchen was no more than fifteen feet to her left, and though she could not see Sullivan she knew he was there, knew he would at least hear every word she and Forrester shared at this most awkward and strange rendezvous.
    Forrester set his package down on the table, removed his coat and threw it across the back of the chair, and sat himself down with an exhausted sigh.
    ‘You want something to drink?’ she asked.
    ‘A glass of water perhaps,’ he said, and took a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He wiped his face, his forehead, his mouth, and then twisting the handkerchief between his fingers he closed his eyes for a moment and lowered his head.
    ‘Are you okay Mr Forrester?’
    He smiled without opening his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice quiet. ‘Sometimes I get a little breathless when I walk. I took a later train, had to hurry a little to meet our appointment.’
    ‘You shouldn’t have hurried,’ Annie said. ‘I wasn’t going anywhere.’
    He opened his eyes. ‘We were never late,’ he said. ‘That was one of the primary rules of membership … never late. If you were going to be late you didn’t come at all. Better never than late, if you like. Your father was a stickler for punctuality and professionalism.’
    Annie sat down. ‘I wanted to ask you something –’ she started.
    Forrester nodded. ‘Could I have some water first my dear?’
    ‘Yes, of course … I’m sorry,’ she said. She stepped back into the kitchen, filled a glass from a bottle of Evian in the refrigerator, winked and smiled at Sullivan, and returned to the front.
    Forrester took the glass and nigh on emptied it with one swallow. He breathed deeply several times, and then set the glass down.
    ‘A question?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes,’ Annie said, sitting down once more. ‘My father … what did he do?’
    Forrester frowned and smiled simultaneously. ‘What did he do? You don’t know?’
    Annie felt awkward for a moment. ‘I feel like I should know,’ she said.