“For God’s sake, love, get that cat out of your head! Nearly all dogs chase cats. And who’s to say it was your cat?” There it was again, like a drum-beat. “Okay, the dog chases a cat, any cat. Perhaps it was the feral cat. Gets up to the Renshaws, goes into the corn store, the drain-pipe is knocked over for some reason; he eats the meal with the Warfarin in it. He has a cut on his mouth. If it didn’t happen just after he had eaten the poison it could have happened today or tomorrow. The effect would have been the same. Even a bruise would have caused him to bleed internally and that would have killed him.”
“Alec, what if it wasn’t a cut?”
“What do you mean, if it wasn’t a cut?”
“What if it was a scratch?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Don’t you see? The cat could have scratched Franco!”
“It’s possible, I suppose.” And then her implication dawned on him. “Wait a minute! Are you saying that the cat led the dog to the Warfarin and then deliberately scratched him?”
“Why not?” she whispered.
“Because it’s preposterous!”
“You told me how clever cats were. You told me how big their brains were. How they think like us.”
“Rachel, I meant they have similar instincts to us, given a similar set of stimuli. I didn’t mean that they can plan an entire campaign around killing a dog by luring it to eat poison and later scratching it to start uncontrollable bleeding. I’ve never heard anything so fantastic in my life!”
She sat there, staring at him. He couldn’t understand. He didn’t know the cat as she did. Nor had he ever harmed it.
“I once knew an old woman over in Addiscombe who lived with thirty cats. Total amity all round.” He was talking for the sake of it, to give her time to collect herself. “I remember her name was Mulgrave. Old Miss Mulgrave, we used to call her. Lived all by herself in an old mansion with her cats. No one was allowed in except me; I was the vet, you see. She became odder and odder. Starved herself to death finally. No one knew for days.”
“What about the cats?”
“What about the cats?”
“When she died, what happened to the cats?”
“Oh, my God — you never saw ...” Suddenly he found himself floundering and finished lamely, “Some broke through a mesh screen on one of her windows and got out.”
“You see,” she said fiercely. “They can think. They can plan!”
*
The cat was working at the mesh screen over the cellar window, and this time it had some success. A section of the screen had started to rust years ago and by now had become weakened. A small piece of worn mesh, not more than a centimetre, came away. The cat felt it, and sensed the weakness. It began to pull at the place again with its claws and had soon opened a hole about the size of one of its paws.
9
“You mean to say he simply bled to death?” Celia said.
“As simple as that. If I’d only noticed earlier we might have saved him.”
They were in a first-class compartment on the train to London, and had it to themselves.
“And you think it was the cat?” Celia said.
“I know it sounds hysterical and I was feeling hysterical at the time, but isn’t it uncanny? You saw Franco up at the Renshaws chasing the cat ...”
“I didn’t say it was the cat that has been bothering you.”
“I know you didn’t, but I’d bet on it.”
“Why don’t we forget it? Put it out of your mind. No gloomy thoughts today. Pure enjoyment.”
It was a bright, sunny, crisp winter’s day and as the train sped through the Sussex countryside Rachel felt she was leaving an incubus behind. “All right,” she said. “I’ll forget it.” And even as she said it, her spirits rose.
London was at its best. There were few tourists in the streets and rain from the previous night had washed the air and the buildings, so that everything stood out in razor-sharp relief. The colour of the old brick was mellow in the sunshine, the new white buildings were golden and the place had a serenity which Rachel associated with an earlier time.
She had not been shopping in London since long before Sophie was born. She had been planning a celebratory extravaganza once her figure returned to normal, but that had coincided with the accident. She was like a desert traveller who unexpectedly sees an oasis. As the taxi took her past the great shops, she thought she had never seen clothes look more beautiful, nor had she ever felt more lustful for them. Prices had gone up, but nothing was going to deter her. She told herself that she owed it to Bill to look her best.
The day was an expensive blur. At Brown’s in South Molton Street she bought a dark green, velvet dress. At Ferragamo’s in Bond Street, matching sandals with high heels. She knew she would not be able to wear them often with her knee in its present condition, but that would change. They went on to Janet Reger’s, where she bought underwear and a nightdress: everything was silk or satin, lace-trimmed, with a feeling of luxury and a hint of decadence.
Then they went into a small shop in Bond Street where Celia bought an expensive handbag. As they were on their way out, she saw a frame of dress-rings.
“Those are nice,” she remarked.
“Aren’t they lovely?” the saleswoman said. “Mexican silver and turquoise.”
“Do you like them?” Celia asked Rachel.
“I wish I had the hands for them.”
“I love chunky rings.” She tried two or three and finally settled on one with a setting in the shape of a serpent. The stone was a single long turquoise. “I’ll take this.”
When they were outside she said, “Lunch. My treat. I’ve booked a table at the Ritz. Well ... why not?”
“Sure. Why not.” Rachel was feeling high for the first time for months and she had never been to the Ritz. They sat near a window that looked over Green Park. She ate too much and drank too much but she didn’t care. She was enjoying herself. The cat and the dark, enclosed valley in the Downs seemed a long way away.
“What about some strawberries? They’re flown in from Kenya,” Celia said.
“No. I’m going the whole hog. Rum baba.” She had a rum baba and a Cointreau with her coffee and by that time her leg, which had suffered in the shopping, was no longer aching.
It was when they were on their second cup of coffee that Celia told her about Sally.
There was a hiatus in the conversation, and Rachel was staring dreamily down into the park, when she heard the words: “Rachel, I know Bill’s first wife.”
“What?”
“I know her. Sally. I’ve been wondering ever since I met you whether I should tell you and now we’re friends I thought I must. I mean, you obviously didn’t want to talk about her the other night, but I thought it would be too embarrassing if I let something out accidentally.”
She was looking down into her coffee cup, eyes hooded. With her dark, sleek hair and pale skin she looked like a Madonna from a Renaissance painting.
“I don’t think I understand,” Rachel said carefully. “You mean Sally is a friend of yours?”
“I suppose so. Yes, she’s a friend. But so are you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I didn’t know how you would feel. I — I didn’t want to spoil anything.”
“When did you find out who — who Bill and I were?”
“Only when I arrived in Lexton, of course, and heard people talking about the well-known author and his wife. It doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, we can still be friends. If you like, I’ll never mention her again.”
Rachel laughed. “For God’s sake, I’m pretty civilised, I hope. Of course it won’t make any difference between us. Sally’s in the past. Bill’s my husband now, and I guess she’s made her own life and scarcely remembers him.”
“I think she does, rather. I gather they were very much in love.”
“But it was years ago. Celia, tell me about her. What’s she like?”
; “To look at? Oh, tallish, good-looking.”
“Dark or fair?”
“Middling. Hasn’t Bill told you all about her?”
Rachel shook her head. “It was an unhappy marriage. He doesn’t care to talk about it, and I absolutely understand. It’s just that I can’t help being curious. Where does she live?”
“She was near me in Yorkshire. Actually, someone told me the other day that she’d gone to America.”
Rachel felt a stab of foreboding. “Really. I wonder why?”
Celia shrugged. “No idea. She always loved travelling. Quite a coincidence. Wouldn’t it be curious if she and Bill ran into each other?”
“Very curious.”
They were very much in love.
“I suppose you know about the child,” Celia said after a pause.
“Child? No, I don’t.”
“She and Bill had a baby. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No.”
The coffee tasted like dust and the view over Green Park had darkened. It had never occurred to her that Bill had another child. Yet why not? He must have been married to Sally for several years. Suddenly, she wanted to go home, where she could think. She stood up abruptly.
“Time to go?” Celia said. “We should just catch the three thirty. Rachel, you aren’t upset that I told you? I honestly didn’t realise you knew so little about Sally.”
“It’s okay. As I said, it was all a long time ago. I don’t believe Bill ever thinks about her.”
On the train they again had a compartment to themselves. For Rachel, the magic of the day had gone. Clouds were building up and the afternoon was beginning to fade. Bill and Sally. Sally Chater. Their child. Sally in America. Bill in America. They were very much in love. And Bill had gone to a cabin in the mountains where, he had said, she could not contact him. But he was with Talini, wasn’t he? Or was he?
Driving from the station in Chichester back to Lexton, she felt tension mounting, and her urge to be home was mixed with dread. Another lonely night. The fear of fear. Fear itself, closing in on her, with the added burden of what she had learnt about Bill and his first wife.
It was completely dark by the time they reached the house. Penny came to the car to help with her parcels.
“That’s mine.” Celia indicated one of the carrier bags. “Put it in my car, will you? Rachel, it’s been fun. We must do it again.”
“Won’t you stay for a drink?”
“Well, just one, then I must go. I promised Alec I’d drop in for coffee later. He’s a dear, isn’t he? By the way, you haven’t told me, what’s the latest news from Bill?”
Rachel described Bill’s most recent letter (was there anything he had not told her, she wondered), and they chatted desultorily about it and then about the Renshaws who, Celia said, were about to leave to spend the rest of the winter in Morocco. Although she found David and Moira bores, Rachel heard this news with a pang: her isolation, it seemed, was increasing. She had no dog and now she knew only Alec and Celia in the vicinity.
She watched the red tail-lights of Celia’s car go down the drive and out of the gate. When she had driven Penny home she bolted the front door and went round the house, locking up. As she drew the curtains in all the ground-floor rooms, she thought how vulnerable she was to watching eyes. From ground-level outside even a child, on tip-toe, could see through the house. The back passage seemed bare and lonely without Franco curled up in his basket. I’ll get another dog, she thought. And then: but what if it happens again?
She went into the sitting-room, turned on the TV and, without thinking, poured herself a whisky and took it to the big armchair near the fire. She was physically tired after the day in London and that pleased her, for she would probably be able to sleep. No matter how she tried to ignore it, the thought of Bill and Sally kept creeping into her mind. Why had he been so unwilling to talk about her? She had assumed it was because, as he said, the marriage had been unhappy and he wanted to forget it. Could it have been, instead, that he had been so broken-hearted by its collapse that he could not bear to share his unhappiness, especially with his new wife?
She swallowed her drink and felt the first warmth spread through her limbs. Automatically, she rose to pour herself another and, as she passed the gilt mirror above the fireplace, glanced at herself. She saw a woman of thirty, her body still firm and supple, breasts high and firm. But she was small, not ‘tallish’ as Celia had described Sally. And she had never thought of herself as good-looking: the face under the auburn hair was less gaunt than it had been, but a shade too sharp for real beauty and there was still a shadow in the depths of her eyes.
The telephone rang as she was pouring water into her whisky and her hand jerked so some drops splashed on to the carpet. She went into Bill’s study to answer it.
“Hello?”
There was a jumble of sound at the other end. A voice said something, but too quickly for her to make out.
“What?”
There was a click as the line went dead.
She stood staring at the telephone. It had been a man’s voice, but that was all she could tell. Muffled. Quick.
She returned to her chair and crouched in front of the television. The news ended. She finished her drink and switched off the machine. Bed, she said to herself. She did not want to think about the telephone call, either.
And then she remembered that she had not taken anything out of the freezer for the following day’s lunch. She usually did this in the daylight hours because there was something about going into the cellar at night that she disliked. She opened the door and switched on the light. A flight of concrete steps led down. The single bulb only lit the cellar’s central area and the corners drifted away into shadow. As she went down the stairs the domestic boiler was directly on her right. Opposite was the chest-freezer and the shelves which she used for storage. Halfway across the floor she noticed that something had fallen from one of the shelves. She could make out part of a package. It was a large carton of mixed dried fruit and some of the fruit had rolled out onto the floor. It must have fallen from one of the shelves and burst on impact. It was the sort of thing that would bring mice or, God forbid, rats, if it was not cleaned up. She moved forward, bent to pick it up, and saw the cat.
It was crouching in the corner where the freezer joined the wall. It seemed huge. Its back was arched and some of its hair stood on end. Its mouth was open, showing the big incisor teeth. Suddenly it spat at her. The air hissed up its throat. She reared back and screamed, flailing her hands in front of her. The black mass on the floor launched itself upwards at her. She felt the fur on her face, covering her mouth, choking her. And the claws digging into her shoulders. Everything happened in a split second. The roiling, spitting body seemed to envelop her. She screamed again, fighting it with her hands. And then it leapt to the top of the freezer and she saw a black blur as it raced the length of the cellar, up what had been the old coal-chute, and was gone.
She put her hands up to her neck. One came away with blood on it. She stared at it and screamed and screamed, her whole body shaking and shuddering. Then she turned and ran.
10
“And you say it was there?” Alec said, indicating the dark corner between freezer and wall.
It was the following morning and they were in the cellar. It seemed impossible to Rachel now that the incident had ever happened, yet there on the floor was the broken carton of dried fruit.
“It was feeding,” Alec said, picking up part of a pear which showed marks of having been chewed. He held it close to his weak eye. “It must have been ravenous to go after this. You bent down?”
“Just as you’ve done. I bent to pick up the carton.”
“And it went for you?”
“Yes.”
She lit a cigarette and found that her hands were shaking so much that she could hardly bring the flame and the end of the cigarette together. Coming into the cellar had brought it all back.
“Poor thing must have been ter
rified,” Alec said.
She laughed bitterly. “They say the English like animals more than people, don’t they?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound that way. But it’s true, isn’t it?”
She tried to control the anger in her voice, but she was suddenly seething. “You didn’t believe me!” she said. “And now you see what’s happened!”
She had not slept much. After the attack she had closed and locked the cellar door and had gone upstairs to Sophie, picked her out of her cot and spent the night with the light on and the baby beside her. As grey dawn had begun to lighten the room she had dozed for a while, then it was time to get up and fetch Penny. She had told the girl nothing but as soon as she had fed Sophie she had gone in search of Alec.
“You’re making too much out of this,” he said.
“Look!” She pulled down the top of her roll-neck sweater and showed him the scratch marks. “Is that all you can say?”
He flushed. But only in parts of his face. The grafted skin remained its normal brownish-white and, with his one good eye, it gave him an alarming, blotchy appearance. “It was terrified,” he repeated. “That’s why it attacked you.”
“It was waiting for me,” she said flatly.
“Don’t you see, you got between it and the window? It couldn’t see a way around you. The freezer was hemming it in, the shelves were above it. You were in the way.”
“It’s easy to rationalise now. You weren’t there.”
“Listen, love, I think I can understand how you feel, but believe me, that cat wasn’t waiting for you. It’s far more terrified of you than you are of it. You’ve made it into a sort of monster, but it’s only a cat.”
“It is a monster,” she said. “Look how it got in here. It just happened to pick on the weakest part of the screen?”
He took her hand and said, “I’m worried about you, Rachel. You’ve let this get you down. And really, it’s all in your mind.”
She heard echoes of her earlier thoughts: the fear of fear itself. She felt tears well up behind her eyes and she wanted to put her head down on his shoulder and let him comfort her as her father would have done. But it wasn’t possible. You’re a grown lady, she told herself, for God’s sake act like one. She fought her emotions and said, “Alec, I want the cat killed.”
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