Full of excitement she ran into the hall. Words and phrases chattered in her head, primed her lips. ‘You’ll never guess ... the suitcase ... you remember ... Mrs Bundy said ... someone has put it ...’
Honoria was standing, motionless, in the doorway of the library. The words curdled in Amy’s mouth. She knew and understood the situation immediately. A pulse of apprehension fluttered, gained strength, then started to beat forcefully at the base of her throat.
For no reason the phrase ‘save your breath’ came into her mind. Might as well save your breath. She started to inhale slowly and deeply and exhale shallowly as if the air about her was already in short supply.
Her mind was cleanly split. Half ran underground, chattering with fear, making no sense. The other summed up the extreme danger of her position and hunted for a way out. Front door locked, bolted, not opened for years. Back door locked, bolted, would never have time to undo. Must not, must not be forced back down cellar steps to die like a dog. Ground-floor windows locked but she could break one and climb through, bleeding but alive. Alive.
The dark mass across the hall shifted slightly. Hardly a step, more a bulky cleaving of the air. The movement brought Amy’s heart into her mouth.
Stairs. Same distance for us both. I’m smaller, younger, lighter, faster. Get to my room. Bolt the door. Open the window. Scream.
She tried to remember what you did before a sprint. Bend the knees? Up on the toes? It was vital that she got it right. It could mean the difference between ... it could make all the difference.
But then all thoughts of preparation fled, for Honoria did something far worse than just redistribute her weight. She started to laugh. A soft, growly, vibrating thrum like the warm-up of a powerful engine, followed by a series of harsh barks. These were punctuated by honking noises when Honoria ran out of oxygen and snorted more in through her nose.
Amy ran. Hitting the stairs. Up the stairs. On to the landing. Down the landing. Honoria close, so close behind. Panting, lumbering, grabbing handfuls of emptiness but once, when Amy stumbled, brushing the hem of her skirt.
Beneath their feet the ground flew. For Amy, reft of breath, all thought was stripped away. She was no longer even conscious of running, for other darker rhythms had taken her over. Into her room. Fall on the door. Close the door.
Too late.
Amy heaved and pushed but Honoria’s iron foot was already implacably there. She did not push, for there was no need. Or apparently any hurry. Several seconds passed before she started to speak. Before she pushed her snout into the gap and contorted her mouth to spew out her dreadful revelations.
And Amy was forced to listen, for she dared not lift her hands from the door to cover her ears. Nor could she move away. Soon she was crying out at the horror of it but Honoria merely raised her voice, drowning the sounds of Amy’s anguish.
And then, quite suddenly, the streaming poisonous flux dried up. And, shortly after, Amy’s lamentations ceased. She listened intently in the silence, leaning hard against the door, praying that the terrible force on the other side would not decide to do the same. Her face was screwed up grotesquely with physical effort and her cheeks shone with tears.
Honoria punched the door with all her might. Amy hurtled away, falling on her back, and Honoria walked into the room. She stood, looking down at Amy. Honoria’s rough, high-coloured slabby countenance was ghastly pale. Her eyes slithered and slipped about in their sockets or rolled so far back that only the whites showed. Glistening strands of spittle swung from her lower lip.
Amy scrambled up and moved away in a crablike manner, knowing that she must keep looking directly at Honoria, for that was what you had to do with wild things. Lions, tigers, mad dogs. Then they didn’t spring. The pupils of Honoria’s eyes were dark red. Her gross shadow stretched across the wall, the head lolling and wagging.
Amy fetched up against the sash window. She put her hands behind her and felt the cold glass and crumbly paint on the surround. If she could only open it. That would mean turning her back, but only for a second. And where was the alternative?
Amy swung round, reached up and started tugging at the catch. It was rusty and very stiff. She had to push and pull it hard to work it loose. Once she glanced over her shoulder. Honoria stood there, watching, wrapped in a terrible silence.
The window flew up with a crash. Clean cold air swept Amy’s face. She put her hands on the sill and leaned out, looking down the long drive and through the open gates. Far below stretched an expanse of stone slabs.
As Amy stared down at their hard unyielding surface she remembered Mrs Bundy, doing the rough. Describing, as she scrubbed, what Gerald had looked like. What it had looked like.
Amy, feeling dizzy, closed her eyes. The stones rushed upwards. Slammed into her soft body, broke her bones. Sickened, she pulled herself upright and turned round.
Honoria said, ‘Jump.’
Amy gasped aloud in horror and disbelief.
‘Go on.’
Of course she would want that. The case and all that it contained burned and Amy dead. What could suit her better? And a suicide would be perfect. Grief over her husband’s death, I’m afraid. She never got over it. Talked about ending her life quite often, but I never really thought ...
A bitter wind stirred Amy’s hair. Ralph was in her mind and in her heart. Neither of them were believers. But what, Amy now wondered, if the believers had got it right and that, after the dreadful tumbling through that dark, yawning space, the slamming impact and spreading of tender flesh and breaking of bones, she and Ralph would be miraculously once more conjoined. How wonderful, how truly wonderful that would be. But Amy could not believe it. For her it wasn’t true and there was no way she could make it so. The real truth was that she and Ralph would never meet again. Amy felt such extreme pain at this realisation that it was as if she had already fallen.
‘Jump.’
‘No!’ Amy’s profile was transformed into a hard, angry silhouette. ‘I’m not doing it for you.’
Honoria glowered and her feet kicked and pawed savagely at the floor. She looked brutally sure of herself, less mad, much more frightening.
‘I shall fight,’ said Amy. ‘And it will show. They will find you out.’
‘Do you think I care.’ Honoria’s voice was thick with contempt.
‘You will care,’ shouted Amy, ‘when you are in prison for years and years shut up in a cage with the sort of people you despise.’
‘You’re an even bigger fool than I took you for. Once your death is accomplished I shall seek my own. What else have I to live for?’
The appalling desolation behind this remark, springing from a hatred of life that Amy could not even begin to comprehend, evoked unwilling pity. For the first time she was moved to use her sister-in-law’s name.
Honoria crossed swiftly over to Amy and spat in her face. Then she spun Amy round, seized her wrists and wrenched her arms together behind her. Amy kicked out backwards. A high strong kick like a spirited horse. It connected with Honoria’s shins and hurt Amy’s heel even through her boots.
Honoria began to drag her captive towards the open window. Amy’s arms felt as if they were being torn from their sockets. She dug her heels in, rucking up the carpet but, like a chicken on the way to market dangling from tied legs could do little to help herself.
When they reached the window Honoria pushed Amy violently against the frame. The sash bar struck her hard on the nose and blood flowed into her mouth. Now she was being forced to the floor. Amy planted her legs astride, made them rigid and strong, braced the front of her thighs against the sill. Honoria let go of Amy’s wrists, put both of her hands on Amy’s shoulders and bore down with all her might. Amy’s knees gave way with a crack.