Duckworth Overlook

  Praise for Bernard Taylor

  The Godsend

  ‘A splendidly readable and creepy story’

  Sunday Express

  ‘Bernard Taylor writes with grace … a shocker … I enjoyed every horrid word of it’

  Daily Telegraph

  “An excellently chilling first novel”

  Boston Sunday Globe

  Sweetheart Sweetheart

  ‘The best ghost story I have ever read … a potential classic’

  Charles L. Grant

  ‘This is a novel of great power, engrossing and immensely moving’

  British Fantasy Society

  ‘Reaches its horrifying climax with seductive grace’

  Library Journal

  Mother’s Boys

  ‘Never again will you take the sweet smile of a child at face value!’

  Sunday Times

  ‘Chilling plot, masterfully handled’

  Yorkshire Post

  ‘Some of the nastiest domestic chills ever produced … a brilliantly constructed conte cruel’

  City Limits

  ‘One of the best chillers you are likely to read this year’

  USA Daily News

  The Reaping

  ‘Taylor works wizardry again’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘Taylor weaves a web that grows tighter with each turn of the page’

  Booklist

  ‘A deftly-woven horror story’

  ALA Booklist

  THE

  COMEBACK

  BERNARD TAYLOR

  This is for F.E.F

  …not for all the rice in China

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  About the Author

  Also by Bernard Taylor

  Also published by Duckworth

  Copyright

  ……ONE

  With the sound of the drapes being drawn, followed by the clink of china, Rosemary came out of her sleep. Opening her eyes, blinking at the light, she saw Carrie standing at the bedside.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing’s up,’ Carrie said. ‘I just came to wake you.’

  ‘Great.’ Rosemary gave a sigh. ‘I open my eyes to see the light of day and find you standing there like some dumb waxworks reject. What time is it? I told you I wanted to sleep.’

  ‘I did let you sleep, Rosie,’ Carrie said. ‘It’s almost eleven. I brought your coffee – and the mail.’ Carefully, she poured a cup of coffee. ‘And it’s a beautiful morning.’

  ‘What day is it?’

  ‘Friday. You know it’s Friday. Come on, sit up.’ As Rosemary pulled herself up in the bed Carrie adjusted the pillows at her back. ‘You ready for your coffee?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  Rosemary’s grudging tone came as no surprise. After all, the dinner party at the Davisons’ hadn’t broken up till almost twelve. ‘You want some aspirin?’ Carrie asked. ‘Seltzer?’

  ‘What? No, just the coffee – and a new head.’ Rosemary reached for the small hand mirror on her bedside table, and looked at her reflection. She gave a groan. In no fit state for trivialities after last night’s party, she had done a less than thorough job of removing her make-up before falling into bed. Now, hours later, her wide mouth was smeared with traces of lipstick, while the remains of the foundation that she had so carefully applied before setting out was now grimed into her skin, settled into the lines that ravaged her once attractive face.

  Setting the mirror back down, she said, ‘You know something? Queen Elizabeth – the first one, that is – she had the right idea. From the age of fifty she banned every looking glass from the palace. Yep. And from then on she just relied on what her ministers and all the other hangers-on told her as to how she looked. That was one smart lady. She probably went to the end of her days thinking she looked like Miss World.’

  Carrie laughed. ‘Rosie, you look fine, really you do. Here – take your coffee.’ She held out the cup of coffee and Rosemary took it and sipped from it. Carrie watched her for a moment, then moved to the window. ‘I’ll let in a little more light.’

  ‘Not too much.’

  As Carrie adjusted the drapes, Rosemary winced, screwing up her eyes. ‘Don’t go mad now. You Texas girls are never satisfied unless the whole damn world looks like wide screen Cinerama.’

  Carrie, standing at the window, looked out over the shining waters of the Hudson. On the far shore the buildings of Tarrytown were unusually clear. ‘The river looks so calm today,’ she said.

  ‘It’s always calm.’

  ‘And the humidity’s low.’

  Rosemary snorted. ‘Thank God for that. I don’t care how long I live here, I’ll never get used to this bloody climate.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Carrie said, turning, moving back to the bed, ‘it’s going to be one of those days, is it? Nothing’s going to be right, right?’

  Rosemary nodded. ‘You got it.’

  ‘Just so long as we know.’

  ‘Hand me a cigarette, will you?’

  Carrie took a cigarette from the packet on the bedside table and passed it to Rosemary. She watched while she lit it, then said, ‘So – how was the dinner party? Was it fun?’

  ‘Fun?’ said Rosemary. ‘It was the Davisons, for Christ’s sake. The same old faces. Same old gags, same old memories. Jesus. It had its moments, but fun I wouldn’t call it.’

  ‘You stayed late enough.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we live in hope.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Carrie pulled the small chair closer to the bed and picked up the few items of mail she had brought in on the tray. ‘You want to look at the mail?’ She took up a letter-opener, slit open the envelopes and placed them on the coverlet at Rosemary’s side.

  Rosemary set down her coffee and put on a pair of spectacles. ‘Bills, bloody bills,’ she said. ‘Why are people so damned unoriginal?’ She looked at a piece of paper, groaned and tossed it aside. ‘I can’t deal with this crap.’

  ‘Rosie, it’s a final demand,’ Carrie said. ‘Come on now. We can’t be without the telephone.’

  A deep sigh along with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Okay, so pay it.’

  Carrie nodded, then extracted a letter from an airmail envelope. ‘And here,’ she said, ‘is something from England.’

  ‘From England? What are they chasing me for?’

  Rosemary took the letter from Carrie’s outstretched hand, unfolded it and began to read. ‘Well,’ she said, coming to the end of the letter, ‘they did it. Well, what do you know!’

  ‘What is it?’ Carrie detected a new note in Rosemary’s voice. ‘You got some good news?’

  Rosemary gave a laugh, flicking the letter with a scarlet-tipped finger. ‘They did it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘My records!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My records, my old records – can you believe that?’

  ‘Your records?’ Carrie didn’t understand. It had been years since Rosemary had recorded anything. It had been years since she had even attempted to sing. All that was long in the past. ‘What are you saying?’ she said.

  ‘It’s from Amberlight, my old record company in the UK,’ Rosemary said. ‘They’ve taken some of my old records and put them out on a CD.’ She added on a sharper note, ‘And not before time, either.’

  ‘Hey,’ Carrie said, ‘that’s good news! That’s wonderful.’ Then, with an ironic little smile: ‘We could certainly use the money.’

  Rosemary nodded. ‘We certainly could. Unfortunately, though, there won’t be much. They’re only doing a small pressing. It might just buy us a hamburger.’ She handed the letter to Carrie. ‘Here, read it for yourself.’

  Carrie took the letter, studied it. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘And they say all the tracks are going online, too. Hey, that means they’ll be everywhere. And they say they’re sending you some samples of the CD. That’ll be nice.’

  ‘Yes – yes, it will.’

  Carrie studied the letter a few moments longer, then said, ‘Did you know about this, Rosie – the CD and everything?’ She tapped the letter. ‘They go on like you knew all about it.’

  Rosemary hesitated before answering. ‘Well, yes, sweetheart, I did,’ she said. ‘But it’s no big deal. There was nothing definite. And nothing’s going to come of it anyway.’

  ‘Oh, no – don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Rosemary held out her hand and Carrie handed her back the letter. ‘You wait and see – they’ll bring out the CD and it’ll sell a dozen copies and that’ll be it.’

  ‘Oh, you,’ Carrie said. ‘Don’t be so pessimistic. I think it’s terrific. Just think – those old records of yours getting a new lease of life – it’s brilliant. To think they’ll be out there again – all your songs – all sounding fresh and new. I
think it’s wonderful.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe.’

  Carrie frowned. ‘I don’t get it. I’d have thought you’d be thrilled.’

  Rosemary looked down again at the letter and shook her head. ‘I don’t know. When they first brought it up, the idea – I hoped so much that it would happen – but now – I don’t know. In a way I wish it had never come.’

  ‘But – but why?’

  ‘Well, it – it just stirs everything up. And it only makes me dissatisfied.’

  ‘Dissatisfied? What do you mean? You should be glad. I mean, other stars have had it done, and I doubt they’re complaining.’

  Rosemary jabbed a finger at the letter. ‘Yes, I know that, but that part of my life is over. They bring this up and you start looking back at all the mistakes – all the things you should have done differently and – oh, what’s the point in dragging it all up again?’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Carrie said. ‘It doesn’t have to be like that.’

  Rosemary was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘No – no, maybe not. I don’t know. It’s strange – you think you’re totally forgotten, and then you find out that you’re not. Yes, and maybe you’re right – people are going to be buying my records again.’ She gave a harsh little laugh. ‘My God, can you believe it? Suddenly you learn there might be some people out there who care.’ She sat for a moment, then, crumpling the letter, she tossed it onto the carpet. ‘Ah, but so what? It’s over. It’s over.’

  Carrie bent and picked up the letter and smoothed it out. ‘I don’t know why you say it’s over,’ she said, ‘because quite clearly, it’s not.’

  ‘Carrie, honey, I made those records over forty years ago.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, times have moved on, for Christ’s sake. You need to get real.’

  Carrie gave a little nod. ‘Okay, if you say so.’

  ‘I mean it,’ Rosemary said. ‘You want to try looking at some of the new TV shows instead of all those crappy old movies you insist on watching. They’re doing things differently now, you know. Have you watched any of those talent shows they have on TV? They’re full of kids who can’t sing. They can’t sustain a note for longer than two seconds and they can’t hold a melody. Yet they all get told they’re star material. Sure. And every kid up there gets to tell everybody he’s on some journey. Yeah, he’s on a journey, okay – and the only direction for their fucking journey is down. At eighty miles an hour.’ She sighed. ‘Carrie, it’s a different world out there – and it has a different sound nowadays. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but those kids today don’t sound like Ella Fitzgerald or Barbra Streisand or Sinatra or any of those real singers.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s for sure.’ Carrie reached out for Rosemary’s cup. ‘You want more coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  As Carrie gathered together the coffee things and arranged them on the tray, Rosemary watched her, taking in the lines of her slim, trimly dressed figure, the soft waves of her honey-blonde hair. The picture was such a familiar one, an image engraved there, immovable, and Rosemary couldn’t imagine it any other way. It was as if Carrie had always been there. And so she had, almost…

  The two of them had first met in Save a Place for Me, a new musical comedy in which Rosemary had the starring role. That had been over twenty years ago. Rosemary was from England originally, having come to the USA following her marriage to Alan Sanderson, the New York playwright. Then, after less than five years, Alan had gone to play squash and succumbed to a coronary thrombosis on the court, leaving Rosemary with their small son David, the house on the Hudson, and Alan’s literary assets – in particular three or four plays that still enjoyed a certain amount (though lately dwindling) of popularity on the summer and winter stock circuits.

  Alan’s sudden and unexpected death had shaken Rosemary to her core, and for a while she had been too stunned to do much but go through the motions of living from day to day, while trying to give David the care that he required. For a while she had considered selling up and returning to England, but eventually she had decided against it – after all, what would she be going back to? When she had married Alan and come to New York she had left behind a waning popularity in a changing musical scene, added to which she’d hardly set foot back in the place during the many years since she’d left. So, she had decided, America was her home, and here she would stay.

  As the months had passed she had come to the realisation that for much of her married life she had merely been marking time, passing the years as if the social life that she and Alan had enjoyed, plus the demands of parenthood, had been enough. But they had not, and without Alan, and cast only in the role of widow and mother, she had found that her life was greatly lacking. So it was that, after weighing everything up, she had decided to try to build a new career for herself. It wouldn’t be easy, but she could do it. She would do it. And soon afterwards the wonderful opportunity of Save a Place for Me had come along, and with David safely away in school she had jumped at the chance to prove herself anew.

  Unfortunately, though, it hadn’t worked. That chance of a new start, a new, bright beginning, had failed. The swift and sudden closing of the show had come as a jolt to her newly burgeoning self-confidence, and she had scooted off to Cape Cod to lick her wounds – at the same time consoling herself with that nice-looking young guy. It was after that, a couple of months later and back in New York, that she and Carrie had run into one another again. Carrie, out of work and unhappy, had readily agreed to move in with Rosemary as personal assistant and sometime help and nursemaid to David.

  ‘Just for as long as it suits,’ Rosemary had said. ‘Till you get on your feet again, or just for a few weeks. Whatever you want.’

  Carrie had settled into her new job with ease. She had taken to David, and he to her, and she had cared for him as if he was her own. Not only that, but when he was away at school – as he was for most of the year – she did everything she could to help Rosemary in her professional work. Save a Place for Me might have been a disaster, but Rosemary had determined to put it behind her and start over, and she had gone back to working in cabaret, doing restaurants and nightclubs along the Eastern seaboard. Carrie, for her part, her own career on hold, had remained with her, typing her letters, answering the telephone and making appointments and cancelling them. She learned to handle the fights, too, and the occasional disagreements that arose with the managers, the producers and agents. She was always there, going with Rosemary from one town to another, always handy with a glass of Scotch or a safety pin, and if things went wrong, or too far, ready to deal with the hangovers, the depressions and the tantrums. And eventually their time together had stretched into years, and even though David had long since gone from their lives there was no question of Carrie leaving. Staying with Rosemary had become a career in itself.

  Breaking into Rosemary’s thoughts and reminiscences, came Carrie’s voice.

  ‘What’s that?’ Rosemary said.

  ‘I said I’ll go run your bath.’ With her words, Carrie picked up the tray and started across the room.

  ‘Tell me,’ Rosemary said, as Carrie reached the door, ‘- what do you think about it – the letter – the CD?’

  Carrie turned in the doorway. ‘I told you, I think it’s wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I mean – okay, we might not make any money from it, but on the other hand it could lead to – to other things.’

  Rosemary nodded. ‘Yes – I guess it could.’

  ‘Better things.’

  ‘Yes – maybe you’re right.’

  ‘But whatever it is,’ Carrie said, ‘– we’ll cope.’

  As the sound of Carrie’s footsteps faded on the landing, Rosemary lit another cigarette and leaned back against the pillows. Oh, yes, she had no doubt that Carrie would cope. Carrie would cope with just about anything. She always had. So often she had shown that beneath her quiet exterior was a surprising strength. And she had given of that strength for a long time. Through so many years now she had been there for everything, the good times and the bad. She had been there when Rosemary was at her happiest, and when she was at her lowest. And at that very lowest time of all, when David had gone.

  David…

  David… She didn’t want to think about him. But nevertheless the thoughts would come. In some ways, over time, she had learned to face the regret and the grief – though they would never be gone. But the memories, and the guilt – that was different altogether. Suddenly he would be right there, nine years old, perfect, beautiful, complete in every detail, frowning over his toys, or smiling up at her, chattering away.