She was downstairs again surprisingly quickly, wearing a glittery stole over her backless ankle-length dress. 'I'm sure it would do me just as much good to stay with you,' she said. 'We could have our own party. I bet it would be sexier than Gail's.'
'Well, I'm pretty tired. I wouldn't be good company.' He felt impatient for her to leave – tiredness, no doubt, a desire to stop talking, to be alone to enjoy his sense of relief. 'Never mind,' he said, seeing her look of disappointment. 'There'll be other nights.'
He stood at the front door and watched as she drove away, her headlights picking out the curve of the hedges beside the road. Then, almost at once, the night had swallowed her up and he couldn't even distinguish the outline of the hedges from the rest of the dark. For a moment he wanted to call her back, but why should he want to do that? It was about time he spent some time alone with Anna. Now the sound of Liz's car had merged with the roar of the sea. He closed the door.
At the foot of the stairs he halted, listening. There was no sound from Anna; the breathing was the sound of waves. All at once he was glad that Liz had gone; he felt somehow freer, less constrained. Perhaps he'd felt that she no longer trusted him enough to leave him alone with Anna. Why ever not? It wasn't as if he had actually done anything to the child, or ever would. No point in speculating about Liz's feelings; he might grow angry with her if he thought about it for too long. He tiptoed upstairs.
Anna was lying on her right side, her right hand nestling beneath her red hair. As he eased the door open, the light from the hall touched her face and her sleeping eyes flickered, her left hand opened and closed on the quilt. He froze, afraid to wake her. He wished he hadn't come to look, for the sight of her was making him uneasy. No wonder: the memories of how he'd felt about her were uncomfortably vivid, even though the cause of his feelings had now been taken away.
Suddenly, he was aware of how hungry he felt – he was ravenous. He closed the bedroom door as quickly as he could without making a noise, and crept downstairs to the kitchen.
He found cold meats and some of Liz's home-made rolls in the fridge, but the meat tasted oddly unsatisfying, no doubt because he was tired; it had been an exhausting day. He finished chewing at last, then, when he'd washed the dishes, he went into the long room to pour himself a large Jack Daniels and find something to watch.
There was nothing that could hold him. Even when he played a cassette of a Hitchcock film he felt restless, more aware of the flickering of the image than of the film itself. It felt as if a storm were building up behind the film, with distant flickers of lightning. He couldn't read either. He found that he was suffering from a neurosis he'd experienced when he had begun writing books: if he tried to read someone else's fiction, he was so aware of the effort behind every sentence that there was no flow at all to his reading. Eventually he put the book aside and put on a record of a Brahms quartet. Perhaps that would calm his nerves, still jangling after the stress and strain of the last couple of weeks.
Soon he dozed. Traces of old dreams troubled him: Anna running, the claw reaching out to fasten on her, drag her back… Couldn't he have dreamed that because he'd already known about the Leopard Men? He'd known something of them before he met Hetherington, but now it seemed impossible to recall how much. He nodded, started awake with an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He didn't want to sleep just yet, because there was something that needed explaining. In his moment of dozing he'd forgotten it again. The Brahms was twining and unravelling its complicated melodies. He turned off the sound and stood by the hi-fi, trying to remember.
His head was empty, and felt hollow with the sound of the sea; never before had it seemed so loud. He paced up and down the long room, glancing now and then at the mantelpiece. Whatever the answer was, it wasn't there. Moonlit waves were frozen in Liz's painting on the wall, while the sea roared outside in the dark. He licked his lips – the unpleasant taste was still there – and tried to retrace his thoughts. Leopard Men, Hetherington, Leopard Men… cups of tea, the sound of clippers on a lawn… He felt as if he had no control over his thoughts. Hetherington, Hetherington…
And then he thought of Marlowe. At once he knew. Why had Marlowe killed himself when he'd already got rid of the claw?
Alan hardly noticed he was still pacing back and forth as if the room were a cage. Surely he needn't worry about Marlowe? No doubt Hetherington had been right – Marlowe must have been put under intolerable strain by his research into the Leopard cult… But Alan was remembering what Marlowe had said on the way to the airport: how he shouldn't have brought his daughter to Nigeria, how he had to get her away before it was too late. How much had Marlowe hinted that he hadn't dared admit openly? Had it already been too late?
All at once Alan was afraid for Anna. Surely he needn't feel that way – and yet he had to see her. He took a last gulp of Jack Daniels in an attempt to drown the lingering taste – could it just be the taste of sleep and stale drink? -then he headed for the stairs. He hadn't reached them when he felt an inexplicable compulsion not to go up – not until he'd called Liz home from the hotel. Christ, hadn't he the courage to go upstairs by himself? Besides, whatever would Liz think? She was already suspicious of him.
He crept upstairs. He felt pleased by how silent he could be; after all, he didn't want to wake Anna, did he? Outside the window, the darkness was breathing long, slow, moist breaths. At the end of the back garden the hedge looked wet with dimness; beyond that, the darkness was solid as tar.
He tiptoed along the hall to Anna's room and inched the door open. Her face-was still toward him, but her posture was contorted, as if she were trying to fight off an unpleasant dream. Without warning, and for no reason he could grasp, he found himself thinking: thank God, she was asleep – he mustn't wake her, mustn't let her see him. Why not, for God's sake? He backed out of the room, afraid as much of his own feelings as of waking her. Slowly he eased the door closed, so slowly that it seemed it would never meet the frame. It had inches to go when it gave a faint creak, and she woke.
Seventeen
It was broad daylight when Anna went to bed, and she felt as if she would never fall asleep. She lay and watched her bedroom curtains darkening as the sun moved on; she listened to cars on the coast road, whirring into the distance until they sounded smaller than ants. She was waiting to hear daddy's car.
Mummy must be waiting too, downstairs. She knew mummy was nervous, waiting to tell him that the metal claw had gone. That didn't worry Anna – she was glad it was gone, she hoped it never came back – but mummy's nervousness disturbed her. It wasn't like mummy to feel that way about daddy; they had always seemed sure of each other before, and that had made Anna feel sure of them too. The idea that that could change disturbed her more than anything else she could think of. Somehow, all at once, everything seemed to have gone wrong. A thief had got into their home, and she couldn't understand how he'd managed it when she'd been in her playroom across the hall; it made her feel she was to blame for not seeing. Mummy and Granny Knight had been arguing about her, too, and she felt as if that was her fault: she wouldn't have minded going to see Granny Knight, she was just a bit funny sometimes – old people were. She couldn't tell daddy or even mummy how she felt, and that made it worse. She was sure there were things they weren't telling her. They hadn't told her about Joseph.
He must have been the man she'd known was hiding near the house – the man who had killed the poor goat. Yesterday, when mummy had made her stay in her playroom, she was sure they'd found out something they didn't want her to know. As soon as mummy was out of the way, Anna had run upstairs to the toilet and then crept into her bedroom. That was how she'd seen the policeman dragging Joseph to the van. She'd felt sorry for Joseph, especially when his arms were twisted up behind his back, until she'd caught sight of his nails, his long, bloody nails. He must have killed another goat, for there were only two now.
She hadn't been meant to see Joseph. She'd dodged back from her window before daddy could see her and had h
idden in her playroom, feeling sick. So Joseph had been the one – that must have been why he'd behaved so strangely toward her. At least the goats were safe now. But instead of being relieved, all she felt was guilt: she hadn't been supposed to see him – she'd seen something that she wasn't meant to see. She wondered if Joseph had seen her, if he would come back to punish her for watching…
Now she felt worse. He must have done all that to the poor goat with just his nails. Mummy had told her that the police had locked up the man who'd hurt the goats – Anna wished she could have told mummy that she knew who he was, but that would have meant admitting she'd been spying. And anyway, she was still frightened, even if he was locked up. The house didn't feel the same, didn't even smell the same; she had nothing to rely on. She lay in her room, which was growing larger and more vague as it grew dark, dreading the moment when daddy would find out the claw was gone. She was listening for his car, and mistaking the sound of the waves for a car in the distance, when she fell asleep.
She dreamed that Joseph had got into the house. Mummy and daddy were arguing downstairs, so loudly that they didn't hear her when she cried out to them. She ran to her window, but it wouldn't open. She thumped it with her fists and cried for help, but none of the crowd of people strolling by could hear – not even Granny Knight, who didn't seem to want to look at her. Everything was sunny out there, everyone wore bright clothes; only her room was very dark. When she heard Joseph on the stairs, she couldn't scream. She couldn't hear her parents now; perhaps they were no longer in the house. She ran back to the bed and hid under the blankets.
She tried to lie absolutely quiet and still as he came into the room. It was no use. The longer she held her breath, the louder her gasp would have to be; she knew that from playing hide and seek. He was padding toward the bed, reaching out with his long nails, and somehow she knew that when she saw him it would be even worse than she feared. Perhaps he'd brought the goat's head, perhaps he was wearing it on his. She was dreaming; she knew it was a dream, she must wake before he reached her, before he pulled the blankets off her and she saw. If she cried out she would wake, if she could just stop holding her breath, if she could just move a muscle. Her fear had her frozen, she was trapped. She felt him reach for her, his nails dragging at the blankets like a dog's claws, and she choked and cried out and woke.
She was lying on her side in a knot of blankets. She had been dreaming, she was awake now, the dream would go away. She forced herself to open her eyes to make it go more quickly. The room was very dark, as dark as it had been in her nightmare, but that wasn't why she screamed. A figure with nails so long that the light from the landing shone through them was standing in the doorway, watching her.
She cringed back until she felt the headboard pressing against her through her pillow. The floor just inside her room creaked as the figure came in. He was going to do to her what he'd done to the goats. Apart from the creak of the board she could hear no sound in the house – no sound of mummy or daddy. They had left her alone with Joseph. Her disbelief and horror almost choked her. 'Mummy!' she screamed.
The figure halted. Oh, please let mummy be here after all! Please let her scream have scared him away! 'It's all right, Anna,' the figure said. 'Go back to sleep.'
It was daddy. He was holding up one hand, making a gesture that was meant to calm her down, but it only showed his nails. How could she be calm when he didn't sound calm himself? 'I want mummy,' she said.
'She isn't here just now.'
'Where is she?'
'At the hotel. You go back to sleep now. I'm here.'
He sounded as if he didn't want to be. His voice was so harsh by now that it only made her more awake. 'I want her to come home,' she pleaded.
'She won't be long.' He stepped forward. 'Here, let me tuck you up, and then you must go to sleep.'
He'd moved so suddenly that she couldn't help flinching back, toward the far edge of the bed. Why was he so anxious for her to go to sleep? The sight of his nails made her distrust his words. She remembered the way he'd scratched her on the beach. She couldn't bear that now, here in the empty house, in the dark.
'What are you doing, Anna?' He was reaching for her with those nails. 'Don't do that, don't be stupid. You'll fall out of bed.'
Perhaps he only meant to catch her before she fell, perhaps that was why he made a grab for her, but his voice was savage now, and so was his face – what she could see of it in the dark. Before he could reach her, she struggled out of bed.
'What's wrong with you, child?' He came round the foot of the bed, and the light from the landing touched his face. For a moment she was terrified that it wouldn't be his. It was, but it looked so vicious that it didn't look like him after all. 'Get back into bed at once,' he said, as if he was still daddy.
As he moved toward her, trapping her between the bed and the wall, she climbed onto the bed. Her bare feet were tangled in the pillows; she was going to fall into his arms, into his claws. She clutched the headboard and kicked herself free, then she jumped off the bed and ran out of the room.
Where could she run? The house was empty; mummy wouldn't hear if she cried for help; nobody would. She thought of hiding until mummy came home, but where? She had just reached the downstairs hall when she heard him above her. 'Want to play hide and seek, do you? You won't like it when you're caught, by God you won't.'
She couldn't hide. It was as though he'd heard what she was thinking. She thought of hiding in the dark and waiting to be caught by those nails. She ran to the front door. She wanted mummy, she had to go to her.
The shock of her first step on the cold hard path made her realize how far she would have to run barefoot, all the way to the hotel. She might have given up, except that she heard daddy on the stairs. 'Going to tell tales to your mother, are you?' he was muttering. 'No you don't, you little fucker.' She ran down the path, biting her lip to stop herself from crying out as the stone hurt her feet, and out of the gate.
There was only one way she could run barefoot: along the beach. She could just see the cliff-top by the afterglow which hung like mist above the fields. She fled across the grass, veering away from where the poor goats had been killed. She couldn't see the remaining goats, but there was an animal smell in the air.
When she reached the path, she wavered. Did she really have to run all the way along the beach in the dark? It was so unfair. Waves made the beach seem to be expanding and contracting dimly; she could see nothing else. She glanced over her shoulder at the house, wishing desperately that she could go back. A dark shape was searching near the house, hands stretched out for her. She dodged out of sight at once, down the path.
At least the sandy path was kinder to her feet, though she had to go slowly for fear of skidding over the edge. Once the glimmer of the pillbox was out of sight she had a better view of the beach. It was dark, bleak, deserted. Only the waves shifted, hissing. Along the cliff, so distant that she couldn't imagine running all that way, were the lights and music of the Britannia Hotel.
She stumbled across the pebbles, bruising her feet, and slithered down the sea wall on her bottom. Another strip of pebbles, and then she was on soft sand, cool and soothing. She ran. At first it had been the pain in her feet that had made her cry, but now fear took over. What had happened to daddy to make him like this? She was sure that he wanted to harm her – that he hated her.
She turned, hearing his footsteps on the path down the cliff. Though she couldn't see him for tears, she could hear him. 'Running to mummy, are we?' he shouted. 'You don't stand a chance. You come back here right now or it'll be all the worse for you.' His voice no longer sounded like his. She fled in terror along the beach.
She heard him clattering over the pebbles and jumping down the sea wall. Pebbles ground together, a vicious sound that lodged in her head. He came thudding over the soft sand after her, cursing and snarling as his feet sank into it, becoming more savage with each step. The lights of the hotel seemed to have floated away. 'Mummy!' she sc
reamed, and ran panting toward the receding lights.
At least he wasn't gaining on her, even when she passed beneath the graveyard. A shower of soil came raining down, and she dodged widely aside to avoid it. Now the sand underfoot was moist and chill, and she felt as if it were grabbing at her. A patch of polluted foam lay stranded yards from the edge of the sea, quivering like tripe. She flinched aside from it, and glanced back to see how far behind he was.
Then she screamed. He'd sneaked up, unheard, over the sea wall and now came clattering over the stones up there, faster than she could ever run on the sand or anywhere else. She screamed again for mummy, she turned to flee over the yielding juicy sand. She had taken only a few steps when he fell.
She faltered and looked back. His fall on the stones had been a heavy one, and she couldn't help hoping he might not get up – at least not until she'd reached the hotel. But already he was rearing up and brandishing the object that had tripped him. For a moment, as he raised it above his head and came for her, she thought he'd found the claw. But, no, it was a piece of wood. And as she turned, screaming, to flee, she saw that protruding from one end of it was a long, sharp nail.
Eighteen
Before long, the party overflowed out of the hotel bar and into the foyer. Red wine tinted the goldfish pond, cigarette stubs were gathering at the roots of the potted plants; now and then the roar of conversation and laughter made the cut-glass chandeliers jingle. Most of the hotel guests had been drawn into the party now that their children were in bed, and then there were Gail's and Ned's friends from here to Norwich – big-buttocked girls who ran a riding school, middle-aged ladies Liz had seen sitting at their easels on the cliffs, a fiery old woman called Mrs Tremayne, who had made an elaborate flower arrangement specially and was now shaking her stick at Gail: 'Don't you be saying I shouldn't have made you a present, Gail Marshall.' A pair of Labradors were chasing through the ground floor into the bar, where the chef was arm-wrestling all comers; from there into the lounge where Jimmy the barman was singing folk songs to a guitar – and finally round and round the goldfish pond, almost knocking Rebecca from her perch on the stone rim, where she sat looking pensive. No doubt she was thinking about Jane. Liz felt almost guilty for enjoying herself so much.
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