Chapter Twenty-five
‘Ilona . . .’
I spoke her name softly, my voice full of wonder.
As we stared at one another I felt, struggling within me, the realization of the full story, the truth, the purpose of it all. Her face before me made some horrific sense of it all. Now everything was becoming clear.
I couldn’t stop staring at her.
Ilona. It was she. But she looked so much younger than when I had last seen her. She looked now to be no more than twenty years old. And so beautiful. So breath-takingly beautiful.
‘So it was you, Ilona,’ I said at last. ‘It was you all the time.’
‘Yes,’ she murmured. Her voice too was younger than I remembered it.
‘You planned this—right from the beginning. Your coming into the shop that first day—it was all leading to this.’
‘. . . Yes.’
‘Yes.’
Now my awareness of the truth went flashing through my mind in a series of jumbled, fragmented pictures and half-remembered words and incidents. In my memory I saw her again as I had last seen her in London—haggard and drawn, moving like an ageing woman in the dim light of her Earls Court flat. Now it was clear. Already, then, I now knew, she had been fast approaching that state in which I had next seen her—as the incredibly old Miss Stewart, defying death in that darkened room of Woolvercombe House. And so it was for this that she had sought me out—for the purpose of achieving what she had now achieved—the recapture of her youth.
‘So everything was a lie,’ I said. ‘Everything. All your past history you hinted at. All your work abroad. All those letters from those different countries. You were never there. You were here all the time—in the house.’
She raised her young hands, fingers entwined. ‘Forgive me, please . . . I beg you to forgive me.’
‘Forgive you?’
‘Please . . .’
I gave a staccato, humourless laugh. ‘Forgive you. What of my son? Do you ask his forgiveness too?’
‘I had to do what I did,’ she said. ‘It was necessary. Believe me, it was necessary.’ She paused. ‘You’ve lost him, yes, but can you not weigh his loss against this?—this re-creation that you yourself have witnessed?—that you helped to bring about?’ Her voice took on a more pleading note. ‘You shall have whatever you want, Tom. Just—Just let me pass. I have power. I can use it for you. Whatever you want—money—success in your painting—’
‘My painting!—I shall never paint again.’
‘—Well, then, something else—no matter what you want—I can help you. I have the power—you’ve seen that for yourself. And—I have the time.’
‘Time—?’
‘Yes.’ She paused then added: ‘I shall live forever now.’
‘Forever . . .’
‘Yes. Only let me pass.’
I just stared at her.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘You can be happy. I can make you happy. You can have other sons if you want them. Our sons if you wish. Just let me go from here and you shall have whatever you want. Anything.’
‘I want him,’ I said. ‘I want my son. Just give my son back to me.’
Turning, I looked at the shrunken, naked form of Simeon as he lay half in and half out of the blanket. I moved back to his side and knelt above him. Bending low I saw the faint beating of a pulse beneath the parchment-like skin at his temple. He was alive.
He was alive. But he was dying.
Wrapping my left arm around his wasted body I tried to lift him. I couldn’t do it, though, and he sank back onto the floor.
‘God damn you!’ I sobbed out over my shoulder. Then with a groan of despair I snatched at the blanket’s corners and brought them together across the limp form. With the corners bunched in the grip of my good left hand I dragged the bundle across the floor towards her. ‘Look!’ I shouted at her. ‘Look at what you’ve made of him!’
I saw that she had managed to half-rise from the wheelchair and was again trying desperately to release herself from the snare of the caught scarves.
‘Do something!’ I screamed. ‘Do something! You made him like this! Change it around! Make him the way he was!’
As I moved before her, the blanket still gripped in my hand she ceased her struggling momentarily and cried out, terror in her voice:
‘No! No, don’t—!’
It was the naked fear in her voice and in her face that stopped me in my tracks.
Was it possible—?
Hesitating for only a moment I tightened my grip on the blanket, swung the bundle into the lift and laid it on the floor at the side of the chair. Then, with the briefest glance at her stricken, terrified face I stepped back and reached out for one of the gates.
As my fingers closed around the handle she gave a great tug at one of the scarves. With a sound of rending silk it fell loose onto her shoulder. I watched as her hands moved like lightning to unwind its constricting loops from about her neck. A moment later she was free.
She was free. But she wasn’t fast enough.
Flinging the right-hand gate forward I held it closed with my foot and reached out sideways, stretching over to the left. Then, in the very moment that Ilona threw herself towards the opening I snatched at the other gate and slammed it shut in her face.
I held the gates closed with the weight of my body and lifted my weakened right arm to the control panel at the side. As I did so she screamed at me and flung herself at the gates. Her efforts were wasted. My groping fingers found the button, and I pressed it.
Nothing happened. I pressed it again. The lift’s machinery gave a loud rattle and then, with a whine that quickly died, fell still again. A third time I jabbed at the button.
The lift shuddered so violently that Ilona was sent lurching against the side of the cage, her hands clutching wildly. Then, to the accompaniment of her cries there came once more the now-familiar whirring and the sound of metal straining against metal. I heard the high-pitched whine begin again, almost an imperceptible whistle at first but swiftly growing into a deafening shriek. The lift cage shuddered once more, was thrown upwards with a loud, grinding crash, hovered for a moment and then began to fall.
The look of abject terror on Ilona’s face as she was carried downwards was all I needed to tell me that I had done the only thing that was possible.
As the lift sank below the floor out of sight I turned and ran for the stairs.
* * *
I had left the torch behind in the chamber and in the pitch darkness of the winding staircase I had to keep my outstretched left hand always against the curving wall. Round and round I ran, step below step in a descending spiral that seemed as if it would never end, never allow me into the light. And all the time the noise of the falling lift was there, echoing in the shaft, the centre of my winding course. I realized that on its downward ride the lift was moving much faster than when it had climbed. I was desperate to get to the ground floor chamber ahead of it.
At last, turning a final curve, I saw light below me and with the sight I plunged—now secure-footed—down the remaining steps.
As I entered the chamber I braced myself, tensed for any possible aggression, unlikely though I felt it would be. But there was no one there; no Mrs. Weldon, no Miss Harrison, no Abbie, and no old men. Gone too were Hathaway and McIntosh.
As I turned before the closed gates of the lift I saw that the descending floor of the cage was in view and only a few feet above the level on which I stood. Terrified lest it should go on past, down into the subterranean depths of the shaft, I lunged for the stop button and pressed it.
Even as it shuddered to a halt I was throwing wide the gates. Stepping into the lift I stooped to the blanket-wrapped body of my son.
‘Simeon . . .’
Grasping the ends of the blanket I pulled the bundle clear onto the ch
amber floor.
Moving into the lift again I stood for a moment looking down at the dead, wasted figure that lay draped, rag-doll-like and face down, across the chair. The smell rose up to meet me. It was stronger than ever now. Pungent and nauseous, it hung in the air as heavy as tobacco smoke. The face was hidden from my sight by thin wisps of hair that hung down like a frail white curtain. I reached out and touched it—and some of it came away in my hand leaving a large, dry, papery-looking bald patch. I shuddered, recoiling in horror.
Taking a breath, I put my hands beneath her body and lowered it onto the lift floor. It was then that I saw her face.
It was old beyond anything I had ever seen.
With the taste of bile in my mouth I looked away from the sight and frantically brushed at the white hair that had come out over my jacket. Then I reached out and grasped the arms of the wheelchair.
All the while the lift had not ceased its creaking and shuddering. Now, as I pulled the chair towards me, I felt the floor of the cage suddenly pitch beneath my feet. Quickly I dragged the chair clear and stepped back onto the chamber floor. The next moment there came an ear-shattering metallic shriek. The lift bucked violently once more, gave a final squeaking groan of protest and then fell, crashing down the shaft into the depths.
For a moment I stood there staring at the space where the cage had hung. Then I turned and moved towards my son.
* * *
With Simeon in the chair I headed along the path towards the house. As we drew nearer to it I saw up ahead a little procession of red-robed figures. Between them they carried the stretcher on which lay—I assumed—the body of McIntosh. Whether he was dead or alive, though, I didn’t know. And neither did I care. Inside the house they would find the body of Carl. I didn’t fear from that, though; I was certain that neither the police nor anyone else outside those walls would ever know of it . . .
Going around the house I came to where the Rover stood on the forecourt, the keys still in the ignition. I put Simeon in and got into the driver’s seat. The engine started at once and after a few seconds we were moving off along the drive.
At the end I stopped the car and got out. The gates were locked. I got back in, started the car moving again and drove straight at them.
With the gates open I abandoned the Rover and laid Simeon on the grass verge while I went for the Cortina. When I returned with it I laid him on the back seat. Taking off my jacket I bound my tie around my injured arm. It would do until I could get some proper attention.
Simeon was still wrapped in the blanket. Kneeling in the driver’s seat I leaned across and laid my jacket over him. I pulled the edge of the blanket free of his mouth and his smooth cheek. Bending lower I kissed his brow and gently brushed my fingers against his fair hair. His breathing was the sweetest sound. I tucked the wraps more securely around him and as I did so he stirred and sleepily opened his eyes.
‘Daddy . . . ?’
The single word almost made me choke. ‘It’s all right,’ I managed to say. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘Are we going home now?’
‘Yes . . .’ I spoke on an indrawn breath; the tears were streaming down my face. I kissed him again. ‘Yes . . . we’ll soon be there.’
The Reaping Page 20