And precariously balanced at the top of the steps, shrunken and pale, a gnome grinned. As he watched it fell forward and toppled down the steps. Blinded by rage at himself, Terry stumbled forward and smashed the gnome to pieces on the pebbles. The stones gnashed, blotting out any final distant sounds among the trees.
When Terry panted back to Kim’s house, still confronted by a thousand dim threshing figures which were branches, Kim’s father met him in the shattered doorway. He stood like a sentry, blotting out the radiance from within. “Not now, Terry,” he said. “Kim’s ill.”
“You mean she’s here?” Then Terry heard the sobbing, and her mother’s voice, the words inaudible but soothing.
“We went for a walk in the park to leave her alone for a while. You know what I mean, Terry. We found her there. She was as you can hear. I saw someone running into the bushes, but I haven’t got them yet. They must have heard me coming. Her mother held her hand and I carried her back here. If she wants to she’ll tell us what happened.”
“Thank God,” Terry said. Then: “How is she?”
“She’d been knocked unconscious. Her cheek was bleeding, but she’s safe. I’m sure of that. The doctor’s coming.”
“I must see her,” Terry cried. But her father blocked his way. “She’s been ill all day because of you,” he said. “You’ve brought nothing but chaos into this house. Let’s be adult about this, Terry. She’s unlikely ever to want to see you again.”
“I love her,” Terry said.
“So do I. And I’ve been here longer than you, Terry.” The door closed. Through the shattered pane Terry saw the angel. He stood numb. Then Kim’s father reappeared and blocked the view with a piece of cardboard. Terry turned and walked past the empty lawn.
As he drove down the street, a figure waved him to halt. It was Ted Pyke.
“Alone?” Pyke said. “How about my proposition?”
Terry sat silent. “Why not,” he muttered finally. “Get in.” Pyke opened the passenger door. The light blazed and caught something on the windscreen. It was the St Christopher medal. Kim’s hand touched Terry’s. He heard her sobbing. “No,” he told Pyke. “I’ve changed my mind. Find someone else.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’ll tell you,” Terry said. “I’m not going to be dragged down to your level.”
“Thanks,” said Pyke. “You bastard.”
Terry watched him walk into the night, picking his way from streetlamp to streetlamp. He hadn’t liked to say it, but it had had to be said. He turned the car and drove back. He thought of Kim limp on the pillow, purged by tears, her mother at her side. The three of them against her father. So long as she survived.
As he left the car his hands trembled. He controlled one, and looked up to Kim’s bright window. Silently he made the sign of the cross. Then he walked toward the house.
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