Meanwhile, I kept Violet's hand wrapped up in my room. On the first day, I sketched it. On the second day, I was drawing it again when I thought I saw the fingers move. On the third day, I came home and found the bag empty. After a nervous search, I finally found it clinging to the back of the curtains, fingers gripping the fabric so tightly the knuckles had gone shiny with tension. I prised it loose, wrapped it in a dozen layers of polythene, and put it in an old biscuit tin, sealing the lid with Sellotape, masking tape, electrical tape, and any other tape I could find. That night I lay on my bed, trying to sleep but unable to do anything but lie in the darkness, listening to the muted metallic tunka-tunk of soft but persistent rapping from the inside of the tin.
My nerve cracked. I couldn't live with this thing any longer. The next day, I took it into college and late in the afternoon, when all but the most dedicated students had abandoned their easels, went up to the deserted etching department — setting of that first historic glimpse of my late rival and consequently, I thought, an appropriate place in which to dispose of her last remnants. I opened the tin and found the hand nestling on a cushion of shredded polythene. For ten minutes I sat and stared at it, but it didn't move a muscle. I began to wonder if I'd ever seen it moving in the first place; perhaps I was hallucinating after all the sleepless nights. But I wasn't going to take any chances. I didn't fancy waking up to find those fingernails doing to my face what they'd done to the polythene.
Carefully, with tongs, I lowered it into the etching bath. I'd always wanted to see what hydrochloric acid would do to human flesh. Inhuman flesh was the next best thing, but the immediate effect was disappointing — not, as I'd imagined, like a shoal of piranhas latching on to a chunk of meat. There was no thrashing at all. It was nothing more than a lump of dead matter covered in tiny bubbles. But, after an hour or so, I saw that the outline was less distinct, that the bubbles were eating into it. I didn't dare go home and leave it, so I turned the lights off and lay low until the night watchman had done his rounds.
It took most of the night. By first light, the flesh had dissolved, but the bones were still resisting. I dried them off, wrapped them in a shoebox, and mailed them to the Smithsonian Institute. I didn't bother marking the parcel with a return address.
As for Duncan and me, things didn't exactly turn out the way I'd planned. He seemed fine for a couple of days — friendly enough, though neither of us made any reference to what had happened, and he avoided catching my eye. But after that he did a U-turn and started sinking. He'd been off college a lot after meeting Violet, but now he stopped attending altogether. A rumour began to circulate that he'd either dropped out of — or been dropped from — the course. I tried to reach him on the phone once or twice. When I hadn't seen him in a fortnight, I had a bad feeling and went round to the flat. He was there, and he let me in, but I could tell he was on a downward spiral. There was nothing I could do about it; I was feeling rather peculiar myself, and I didn't want him dragging me down. I wasn't even sure I fancied him any more, not when he was like this. It wasn't the discoloured teeth that put me off, nor the scraggy beard he'd sprouted because he could no longer be bothered to shave. It was the smile I didn't like. It was the smile of someone who had lost his grip.
There was nowhere to sit because he had thrown out most of his furniture. The floor was spread with dust-sheets, and he had started to repaint some of the walls, but sloppily. He didn't talk much, and when he did, he mumbled, so it was difficult to catch what he was going on about. His gaze kept flicking past my shoulder, to something that wasn't there.
'It wasn't murder, you know,' I said. 'She wasn't human.' It was the first time I'd brought the subject up.
'I'd rather not talk about it.'
I found that I didn't want to talk about it either. So that was that. He said he wanted to be left alone for a while, and by the time I popped back, a few days later, he'd gone. There was someone else in the flat — a short, stocky man with a sand-coloured moustache, who told me Duncan was in Scotland. 'Edinburgh, I think. I'm not sure.'
This was the first I'd heard of it. 'When will he be back?'
The man with the moustache shrugged. 'Haven't a clue. He said I could stay here as long as I wanted.'
Had he left a forwarding address? No, he hadn't. Any idea how I might get in touch? No, none at all. I thought about travelling up to Scotland after him, but I didn't think about it for very long. I wasn't sure I had enough money for train fare, let alone for food or a hotel, and I had no idea how long it might take to track him down.
In the end, I had to admit I was relieved he was out of the way. Now he could have his breakdown, or whatever it was he was having, hundreds of miles away from the scene of the crime, and I wouldn't have to endure the spectacle of him cracking up. I knew he would come back to me, eventually. He was mine now. He would always be mine. The tip of a finger was a small price to pay.
Part Three
Chapter 1
I caught the Bakerloo line from Lambeth North to Oxford Circus, and I went shopping. This is what I bought: one pair of silver crucifix earrings; two gold charm bracelets with assorted attachments in the shape of tiny football boots, piglets, and crucifixes; one diamante crucifix; one black plastic crucifix with a hologram of Jesus Christ on it; one black plastic rosary. On the way home, I stopped off at the supermarket and bought three dozen heads of garlic, a couple of jars of garlic salt, and some packets of dried garlic slices. I also stopped off at the timber merchants and snapped up all their dowelling offcuts for a knock-down price. I even remembered to stock up with some replacement blades for my Stanley knife.
Back at the flat, I launched into a frenzy of activity: sprinkling garlic salt around the doors and windows, peeling cloves and hiding them at strategic points, digging out my old crucifixes and hanging them on the walls. I decked myself out in some of my brand-new knick-knacks and offered a silent prayer to Madonna Louise Ciccone for achievements in popularizing the crucifix as an acceptable fashion item. I would be attracting curious glances in the days to come, but only because my choice of accessory was now considered a little passe. This whole business would very likely end up ruining my reputation as a person with her finger on the pulse of fashion.
There were one or two things which continued to puzzle me. I couldn't understand why Violet had gone to so much trouble over Patricia Rice, of all people. What was the point of prolonging such a wretched existence? Why hadn't she just ripped out the jugular and got it over with? The idea of an undead Patricia made me come over all shivery. Worse, I realized I was envious. Why her and not me? What had she got that I hadn't? But I knew the answer to that. She had her name on the Multiglom hit list, and I'd been the one to put it there.
I'd almost forgotten about Duncan. It was nearly midnight when he phoned. He sounded out of breath. 'Did you get my messages?'
'No.' I looked down at the counter on my answering machine. I'd been so busy, I hadn't thought to check it. There were four messages, and all of them turned out to be from Duncan.
'Dora, she's still not back.'
There was a tingling in my missing fingertip. 'She hasn't rung?'