Then she heard him scream in real distress.
'Not in there!'
She was already inside by then and turning the key in the lock with shaking hands.
The door handle was pushed down. 'Sibylla, don't do anything stupid!'
She turned to survey the room. An unmade bed stood in the middle of the room. The bed-linen must have been white once, but now it was greyish and stained. A chest of drawers with a mirror on top was placed against the wall facing her. On it he had put a lit candle in a magnificent silver candlestick. It was almost two feet high and would have looked well on a church altar. Next to it was an open Bible.
'Sibylla! You must open that door! Immediately!'
She tried to open the window and was struggling to undo the hasp. He heard the noise of metal scraping against metal.
'Sibylla, don't open the window! The draught will blow out the flame!'
His shouting had a note of desperation and he was banging on the door.
She turned to look. True, the flame was dancing in the draught from the open window. Leaning out through the window, she realised that the stone steps leading to the front door were right below. If she jumped and managed to avoid hitting the iron railings, she would almost certainly crack her head open on the steps.
He called again, sounding very stern.
'Sibylla, you must close that window.'
She left the window open and went to inspect the arrangement next to the mirror. Being in a locked room gave her a few precious moments to collect her thoughts.
Why was he so frantic about the candle?
Next to the candlestick lay two fresh candles, as large as the burning one and still in their wrappers. There were also four unused grave candles in white plastic containers, burning time about sixty hours.
She opened the Bible. On the inside of the stiff cover, someone had written a quote in careful script.
For love is as strong as death
Jealousy is as cruel as the grave.
Its flashes are flashes of fire
A most vehement flame.
Now she understood. Suddenly, the power-balance had shifted in her favour. The burning flame was her weapon.
She could hear something scratching in the lock. She called out loudly.
'If you come in I'll put the flame out!'
The sounds from the keyhole ceased.
'It has been burning since he died, hasn't it? Hasn't it?'
Not a sound from outside the door. It didn't matter, because now she knew. He had kept this flame burning, like the Olympic fire, as a living memory of his beloved.
She had gained more time. But for what? She looked around the room again.
It was empty apart from the bed and the chest of drawers. The floor was covered in a wall-to-wall brown carpet, with a couple of small rugs on top. Could she tie the sheets on the bed together to make a long enough rope to reach the ground? And then what? He could easily catch up with her, on foot or in the car.
Lifting the candlestick very gently, because that flickering flame was her shield, she called to him again.
'You can come in now!'
'You'll have to unlock the door.'
I will, but you must count to three before entering. If you don't I'll blow it out.'
No response. The carpet silenced her steps as she walked over to the door. She quickly turned the key in the lock and backed away. Three seconds later the handle was pressed down.
Then they stood facing each other, separated by the burning candle.
There was no mistaking the fury in his eyes. He held his damaged hand stretched out and when he looked down at it, her eyes followed his. A deep score ran across all his fingers and half the little finger seemed torn off. In the still silence, only the flame was moving.
Then he finally spoke.
'Why are you doing this? What do you hope to gain?' I want you to phone the police.'
He shook his head, not so much in refusal as to show his irritation.
'Don't you see we were meant to do what we've done? You and I are the elect. There's nothing we can do about it. The police don't matter. Put that candle down now.'
She didn't move, just sighed. Her breath made the flame flicker from side to side. The sight was an unwelcome reminder of how fragile her defence was. Instantly, a wave of paralysing terror rolled over her.
Perhaps he saw it in her face, perhaps he could smell her fear. He smiled slowly.
'We're of a kind, you and I. I've read about you in the papers.' How could she get out?
'They've been getting one of your old mates from school to talk about you. Did you read that?'
The flame would die the moment she got outside. It could only protect her inside the house, I used to be a loner too…' 'Where's your telephone?'
'I was different from the start, even in primary school. We are special, both of us, it's obvious to all…'
'Turn around. Walk downstairs, now. Or else, I'll blow.'
His smile disappeared, but he didn't move.
'I see. And tell me, Sibylla – then what will you do?
She said nothing. An eternity seemed to pass. Just when she thought her pounding heart would burst through her ribcage, he turned and walked downstairs. Slowly, she followed a few feet behind him, unsuccessfully attempting to control her breathing. She was holding her hand up to protect the flame and he was still extending his broken hand. Both moved one step at a time, the woman with the candle following the man, as if in a strange ceremonial procession.
She tried to think ahead. Would she tell him to phone? Should she do it herself? Four steps left. He had stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
'Walk on.'
He did as he was told and disappeared into the kitchen.
The silver candlestick was becoming heavy in her hand and she had to lower it. Now she too was standing on the floor of the hall.
He was out of sight.
'Come to the door!'
No movement in the kitchen. She changed hands. 'I'll blow it out!'
But by now it was clear to both of them that this was an empty threat. Once the flame was extinguished, she could do nothing. Then she would be completely in his power.
She walked through the door opposite the door to the kitchen. It led into a sitting room, carpeted with the same material as the upstairs bedroom. There was a sofa with an occasional table in front of it. No telephone anywhere.
On the wall to her left was the door leading into the workshop. It was slightly open. Her arm had become tired and she had to hold the candlestick with both hands now. Not a sound from the kitchen.
'Come out so I can see you!'
Still no reply.
She walked into the workshop, closing the door behind her. There it was, a grey Cobra set spattered with paint in every colour of the rainbow. The dial was underneath the receiver, which meant she had to use both hands. Watching the door to the kitchen, she carefully put the candlestick down, got hold of the receiver and began dialling with shivering fingers. Fear invaded her body, causing her an almost physical pain. So near, yet so far from help.
Then he came at her.
Roaring, he tore open the door to the sitting room and before she could react, beat her to the floor with a kitchen chair. The pain made the world go dark. A moment later he was sitting astride her and she knew that one of her ribs was broken.
He was hissing with rage.
'Don't ever do that again!'
Trying to keep the pain away from her mind, she just shook her head.
'The Lord is with me. You cannot get away.' She shook her head again. Anything to make him get up. Anything to stop him sitting on her ribcage. He looked around. 'Stay on the floor!'
She nodded. At last he left her alone. His first move was to take a cloth from the table and wind it tightly round the injured hand. She wondered if he was right-handed, because if so he would be really handicapped. Not as handicapped as she was, though. That fucking candle was still alight. She hadn't even managed to extinguish it.
What a bloody awful, shitty mess. And she had been so close.