Spider Light

by Sarah Rayne

  There was someone in the bungalow! Standing by the gate she had a clear sightline through the side pane of the bay, and she could see a man seated at a small grand piano. Baby grand, did they call it? Boudoir grand? Whatever it was called, it looked as if he was playing a few bars and then breaking off to make some kind of note. Donna was not near enough to see clearly but she had an impression of someone dark-haired and quite young. Late twenties or early thirties, maybe? She walked on, her mind seething.

  So the bitch already had a husband or a live-in lover–a musician from the look of things. Perhaps he was a music teacher or attached to one of the big orchestras. They would have a good life together, living in this extremely nice part of North London, in this comfortable-looking bungalow with its big garden. They would have friends and money and interesting jobs, in fact, you could say that Antonia Weston had it all. The knowledge sent hatred searing through Donna. The bitch had so much, but she had still taken the one thing in the world that Donna wanted and needed above all else. She had taken Don.

  Somehow she got back to her car and drove home. By the time she reached her flat, she knew exactly and precisely the form Antonia Weston’s punishment would take.

  These days, on most mornings Don said offhandedly not to bother about supper for him. If Donna asked where he was going, he always said, brusquely, ‘Out.’

  He treated the flat as if it was a dosshouse these days. His bedroom was a disgusting mess. Several times Donna had been late for work at the restaurant because Don had taken her car without telling her. But all this was Weston’s fault, and so Donna put up with it. She cleaned Don’s room, and bought a steering-wheel lock for her car and hid the key so Don could not use it without her knowing.

  Antonia usually left the hospital at around half past six and each night Donna followed her.

  Each evening Weston got home between seven and half past, put her car into the garage at the side of the bungalow, locked it, and then went in through the glass-panelled front door. She often had a briefcase with her, or a laptop. Donna imagined her having dinner with the dark-haired man, and then perhaps retiring to a study or a spare bedroom to work. Very cosy indeed. But not for much longer, Doctor Weston. There would surely come a night when Weston did not go straight home to the warm welcoming bungalow, and that was the night Donna was waiting for.

  By the fifth night she no longer bothered with the hospital, she drove directly to the bungalow, parking in different places in the road each time, or using one of the side roads and walking back. At one end of the road was a small group of shops, with a pub. On one of the nights a man came out of the pub as she was passing it, and said, ‘Hello darling, going my way?’ Donna ignored him and walked quickly on, but the small encounter worried her and she was careful to park at the other end of the road afterwards. You never knew how much people might remember about even the most casual of meetings.

  Every night Antonia came faithfully home and did not go out again. As the second week wore on, Donna began to panic because she could not extend her holiday much longer.

  But two nights before she was due back at Jean-Pierre’s, she sat in her car and watched the dashboard clock click its way from seven fifteen to seven thirty, and then to ten minutes to eight. Antonia had never been this late before. Might she have gone out straight from the hospital? Could Donna risk making her move? Supposing Weston had only called at a late-opening supermarket or was stuck in traffic?

  Ten past eight. Surely the bitch was safely out of the way? Donna went over the plan one more time. There were one or two weak points, and the weakest of all was the necessity for the man being in the bungalow on his own. If he was not there, Donna would wait for another night when Weston was out. Fortune favours the bold, remember that, Donna, and the stars in their courses fight for the steadfast of heart. And it’s a quarter past eight, so you’d better get on with things.

  She put on thin cotton gloves and pulled on thick socks over the lightweight slip-on shoes she was wearing. She had picked up the idea about the socks from a crime book. If you put large-sized socks over your shoes, it gave you two advantages: it prevented telltale shoe prints being left anywhere, and if you trod in blood or glass all you had to do was step back out of it, slip the socks off, and walk away with them in your pocket and your shoes unmarked. Last of all, she pocketed the heavy glass paperweight, keeping it tied inside a clean handkerchief. Then she got out of the car, closed and locked the door, and walked along to the bungalow.

  He was in! There was a light on in the room on the right. It was a fairly low light–it might be a table lamp–but the curtains were open and she could see Antonia’s dark-haired musician clearly. He was seated at the piano as he had been before, and this time he was playing without breaking off.

  She watched him for a few moments, her heart racing, and then, taking several deep breaths and glancing up and down the road to make sure no one was watching, she pushed open the gate. It swung inwards and she went in, careful to keep to the grass edges so her footsteps would not crunch on the gravel drive.

  The man was playing the piano quite loudly; Donna could hear it now. Although she did not recognize what he was playing–she was not very knowledgeable about music–it sounded complicated and rather showy. Trickles and trills of notes cascading up and down.

  The paperweight broke the glass panel in the front door as easily as if it had been Cellophane, and the glass fell inwards onto a carpet. Practically soundless. Donna replaced the paperweight in her coat pocket, and waited to see if there was any reaction from inside. If there was, she would be back down the drive and vanishing into the shadows within seconds. But nothing stirred, and the piano-playing continued. So far so good. Could she reach inside the door and release the catch? Yes, she could. The door opened, and she stepped inside.

  The warmth and scents of Antonia’s home folded around Donna, and her excitement spiralled upwards. This was it, the plan was gathering speed, and soon–perhaps in half an hour’s time–this bitch would get what she deserved.

  The piano music was still going on so the man really had not heard her. She vaguely recognized the music now–it was used for the opening of one of those late-night arty-type programmes. The South Bank Show, was it? Standing in the darkened hall, Donna began to dislike the music very much; she began to feel that something inside it was watching her, and it was conjuring up jeering demons, red-eyed and sly.

  We know what you’re going to do, said these slant-eyed demons. We know about the plan, and we approve, Donna…But if you get into trouble, don’t expect us to help you…We like murder but we’re the last people to ask for help if something goes wrong, in fact we’re more likely to grass on you to save our own skin.

  This was utterly ridiculous. There were no voices inside the music, and this was stupid nerves, nothing more. Donna stood very still. The bungalow was in darkness, except for the soft low light spilling through the half-open door of the music room. She would have to do something about that light.

  Listening intently to the piano-playing, every nerve tensed in case it suddenly stopped, Donna went cautiously along the hall. Would the kitchen be at the back of the bungalow? Yes, here it was, a big room, dim and cool. There was a tiled floor and modern fittings, and someone had partly prepared a meal: on a work surface were diced peppers, and chicken and tiger prawns defrosting in a shallow dish. A crusty French loaf was on a chopping board. It looked as if Weston was coming home to eat, which meant she could be home at any minute, which meant that Donna had better buck up her ideas.

  Next to the chopping board was a long sharp-bladed knife and the next piece of the puzzle slid neatly into place. She had intended to use the paperweight for the next stage of the plan but the knife would be far, far better. In three paces she was across the tiled floor and had picked it up. Even through the cotton gloves the thin blade felt strong and as if it was sizzling with its own energy.

  She went stealthily back to the hall. Had the musician heard anything? No
, he was still playing. Very good; now for the light. It was necessary to switch that light off. She dare not risk being seen in case things went wrong and the man was able to identify her later on.

  Nothing would go wrong, but Donna preferred complete darkness, which meant either switching the light off in the room itself–which was clearly impossible–or finding the mains switch.

  There was often a cupboard under the stairs for electric meters and switches, or even a cellar, but there were no stairs here, and the bungalow looked a bit modern for a cellar. How about a pantry in the kitchen? Or a cloakroom out here in the hall? As the thought formed, she saw the door midway along the hall, on the other side to the music room, and saw that it was the kind that had slats in it–louvres, weren’t they called? A cloakroom? A meter cupboard?

  She moved silently forward, and inched the door open, every nerve stretched in case it made a noise. But it did not, and she breathed more freely. Inside, were several coats hanging up–the kind of semi-battered jackets most people kept handy for dashing out to post a letter in the rain or collecting the Sunday papers–together with a couple of umbrellas and wellingtons. It was all a bit higgledly-piggedly. Bit of a slut when it comes to housework, are you, Doctor Weston? I suppose you’d say you hadn’t time for housework, what with your patients, what with your musician, what with your toy boys…

  But there, behind the door, was a row of switches with modern trip-switches, and if the cupboard itself was a bit untidy, the switches were all marked. Heating. Lighting. Cooker. Power. Mains. Mains. A smile curved Donna’s lips and, keeping a firm hold of the knife with her right hand, with her left she reached up to the mains switch and depressed it.

  There was a soft click, and the bungalow fell into thick cloying darkness.

  But it did not fall into silence. The piano-playing–the jeering prancing music that had whispered its jibes into Donna’s mind–continued.

  For a moment this almost completely unnerved her. For several panic-filled moments she had absolutely no idea what to do. She had no idea why the man was continuing to play. Surely anyone, suddenly plunged into what would appear to be a power cut, would display some form of exasperation, break off whatever he or she had been doing, and go in search of candles and matches? But the pianist did none of these things; he simply went on playing, and the more she listened, the more Donna could hear a frightening madness within the music. Things jeering, things mocking…We know what you’re going to do, Donna…

  There was a moment when it suddenly occurred to her that the man might be blind–you often heard about blind people being musicians. Then she remembered the first time she had seen him he had broken off his playing to scribble notes. Not blind then. But there’s a madness in here–I can feel there is, and I can feel that it’s very close to me indeed.

  Had the man heard her break in after all? Was he ignoring her in the hope that she would go away? Was he so arrogant he had assumed she was just a common house-breaker who would go away if ignored, or was he simply a coward?

  It did not much matter what he was, because he was about to die. He was about to die so that Antonia Weston should suffer. Her hatred of Antonia enveloped Donna’s whole being, sending her courage and resolve sky high. She was ten feet high, she was a giant–a giantess!–she was unstoppable and invincible and she could do this and walk away scot-free, exactly as she had done at Twygrist that day.

  As she pushed the door wide, no longer worried about being heard, the voices of the music demons were all around her, laughing and jabbing into her mind, urging her on, saying, Go on, Donna, go on…Let’s do it, Donna, let’s do it…

  The man reacted at last. As the door crashed back against the wall, he stopped playing and turned his head. Donna could see him outlined against the uncurtained bay window. Incredibly he was still seated at the piano, not even bothering to stand up: simply sitting there, waiting and watching her.

  He said, quite coolly, ‘I suppose you’re after money. The desk’s by the window, and there’s plenty of cash in the drawer. Take it and get out.’

  The sound of that cool, unafraid voice in the dark room sent bitter fury boiling up. Out of the scalding waves of pain and anger, came a voice that screamed at this smooth-voiced pianist, that it was not money she was here for, it was justice and punishment.

  The sound of this shrill voice filled the room. The man stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment and then said, ‘Oh God, you’re high on drugs or something, aren’t you?’ and the pity in his voice slammed into Donna’s mind like a blow. The voice screamed again, shouting that she was not high, she was not some squalid drug addict. But somewhere under the screaming was another voice, saying don’t lose your cool, Donna, stay with the plan.

  The plan. Donna snatched at the word and held onto it like a talisman, and the out-of-control voice shut off. In two bounds she was across the room, the knife lifted high above her head. It came down in a sizzling arc, printing a razor-line of brilliance on the dark room, and it came down on the man’s neck exactly as she had planned. He half fell back against the piano with a cry of pain and shock. Aha! you weren’t expecting that! Blood spurted from his neck, coming at Donna like a fountain warm and thick. Disgusting! You hadn’t allowed for the blood, had you, Donna? You forgot it would shoot out like that. You’ll have to burn every stitch of clothing you’re wearing, and bath and wash your hair a dozen times tonight to get rid of the smell and the feel—Stop that! Never mind about the blood, you need to find out if he’s dead, that’s what you need to find out now.

  He was not dead. Dear God, he’d had a six-inch blade driven into his neck, and he was still alive! He had fallen to the floor, clutching at the piano as he went, bringing some of the furniture down with him, but he was still moving, flailing at the air, grabbing at a small side table and overturning it, clutching at the edges of the piano. Nothing for it, then, better stab him again. She bent over him, and brought the knife down a second time and this time it went in deeper. Donna felt the scrape of bone. Collarbone? Breastbone? Oh, who cared what it was, and who cared that the knife, Antonia Weston’s own knife, had embedded itself so deeply in bone and flesh.

  ‘This is Antonia’s punishment,’ said Donna, staring down at the blood-soaked figure on the floor. ‘She’s taken Don away from me, so I’m taking you away from her. She’ll find you dead, and she’ll go through agony, and it’ll serve her right.’

  He struggled again, but it was a poor weak struggle now. Why wouldn’t he die! The knife was still sticking out of his neck but he had managed to grasp the handle, his fingers were curling around it. Donna backed away at once, because supposing by some faint chance he managed to get sufficient purchase on the knife to pull it free and managed to struggle upright and attack her? She remembered the paperweight, still in her pocket, and began to reach for it. If he really did start fighting her she would bring it smashing down on his skull and that would finish him off. It would make it even more shattering for Antonia Weston when she found him.

  The knife came free with a wet sucking sound, and dropped harmlessly to the floor. The man’s head fell back, there was a rush of exhaled air from the torn windpipe, then he was dead.

  It was an extraordinary moment. Seconds earlier he had been alive, the blood pumping out everywhere–oh God, yes, she was covered in it–and then quite suddenly he was nothing. Empty.

  Donna could not stop looking at him. It was remarkable to realize you had taken the life of someone without knowing anything about him. He was dark and thin-faced and quite slightly built. His skin had the translucent pallor of someone who spends a good deal of time indoors.

  Had he and Antonia been married? How long had they been together? Donna straightened up, for the first time looking around the room which was not entirely dark due to a street lamp outside. She had a sudden deep need to know more about this man, about the kind of life he and Antonia had had. She stared about her: at the furnishings and the things on the high narrow mantelshelf over the fire.
>
  Then she saw one of the pieces of furniture that had been overturned was the chair the man had been sitting in. She saw it was not a conventional piano stool, or even an ordinary dining chair. It was a wheelchair. The man she had just killed had not been a coward or disdainfully contemptuous of a house-breaker. He had been a cripple. Probably he had heard her from the moment she had broken the glass of the door, and had gone on playing in the hope that she would take whatever valuables she wanted, and go away leaving him unharmed. You heard of people doing that: you even heard of them pretending to be asleep when burglars got into their bedrooms, because they were afraid of confronting the burglar.

  Well, I’m sorry, Mister Whoever-you-were, said Donna to the dead remote features, but it’s too late for regrets. I’d probably have done all this even if I had known–although I might have done it a bit differently.

  She stepped carefully back from the mess of blood, removing the thick socks when she got clear–she was pleased she had remembered about those–and went into the hall. It was then that she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel drive outside, and she stopped, her heart skipping several beats. Was it Weston coming back? Donna had not heard a car or the garage being opened or closed. She was momentarily angry with herself for not being more aware.

  She glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock. It could only be Weston, coming home for that meal the musician had been going to cook for her, but that Weston would not now eat. Donna hesitated, looking towards the oblong of pale light that was the bungalow’s front door. Half of her wanted to stay and hide somewhere so she could witness Weston’s agony, but the other half knew she must not risk it.

  A shadow moved just beyond the door, and Donna darted back to the kitchen. Back door? What do I do if there isn’t one? But there was a half-glazed door that opened onto a paved area beyond the kitchen. Locked? Yes, but the key was in the lock. She turned it, and stepped out into the cool night air, and as she did so, she heard someone tread on the broken glass and push open the shattered front door.