“No, go round. Fetch a ladder and come round the drive.”
His face was in shadow. “Florence, have we got a ladder? We haven’t got a ladder,” he yelled back. “Hang on. I’ll be there in two minutes.”
“It’s no use, they won’t let you in.” Too late. Colin scrambled and heaved himself over the fence, crunching wood under his feet. “You stay there, Florence,” he called. “I’ll sort this out.” His arms flailing, he crashed through the Axons’ shrubbery and was lost to view around the side of the house. Isabel heard him banging on the back door.
“Stay in sight, please,” she called to Florence. “Please stay where I can see you. I’m sure they won’t let him in.”
Florence’s voice was piercing in the gloom. “Ought I to call the police?”
“No. No, don’t do that. Please keep your torch on me.” She admitted it, the words sticking in her throat; again a brush at her hand, a twitch at her skirt. “I’m afraid. I’m frightened. Please don’t go.”
“Of course you are,” Florence boomed. “They frighten me too. We’ll soon have you out, don’t you worry.”
Getting no reply from the back, Colin ran around the house and rang at the front door. He put his thumb on the bell and held it there, and hammered on the door with his other hand. Quite obviously they were not going to let him in. The back door would be the easier option; never mind what’s happened, he thought, she must be got out first.
He twisted the knob of the back door, rattled it to no avail. In a frenzy, he rammed his shoulder into it; he withdrew, gasping with pain and rubbing his bruised arm. He stepped back, preparing a great kick that would splinter the wood or break the lock; heard a bolt slide, and presented the sole of his shoe to Muriel Axon’s grinning face.
“Miss Axon, I have to come in.” With difficulty, he steadied himself. Muriel stood in the doorway, a strange gaunt figure, her eyes vacant, her large feet thrust into fluffy bedroom slippers.
“Muriel,” a voice called from inside. “Muriel, don’t unfasten that back door, don’t you dare.”
Something like a mad excitement came into Muriel’s eyes. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, extracted something from it, and dropped it at Colin’s feet. He bent down for it.
“This the key?”
She nodded, and dropped back to let him pass. He hustled through the kitchen and into the hall. The layout of the house was not hard to imagine. As he reached the foot of the stairs, a figure appeared from the back room, an old woman with a face like clay. He stopped short. She looked harmless and feeble. She smelled, he thought. They both smelled, of must and poor nutrition and neglect. In a second he took in the desolation around him, the peeling wallpaper, the caked mud on the parquet floor.
“I told you, Muriel,” Mrs. Axon said. “You always do the opposite of what I tell you, don’t you?”
“Mrs. Axon, what are you up to?” Alarmed as he was, he tried to moderate his tone. “Why have you locked Miss Field in the bedroom?”
“Oh, you know her, do you?” the woman said, with a hard sneer. As if to back her up, Muriel sniggered loudly. Colin started towards the stairs, Evelyn following him and pulling at his arm.
“I’ve got the key,” he said, trying to shake her off. “It’s no use, I’ll have to go up, I’m afraid.”
She hung on grimly, her hand scrabbling at his collar, her weight holding him back. Dragging her with him, he mounted four steps into the darkness.
“You’ll let them out,” she gasped. “Don’t for heaven’s sake let them out.”
“What?” He twisted round, trying to hold her off. “Who else have you got locked up?”
She reached up and fastened her hand over his face, jabbing him in the eye with her forefinger. He swore. “Let me go, you silly bitch, you nearly had my eye out. I’m coming, hold on,” he yelled up the stairs. With an effort he shook Evelyn off and gave her a push. She lost her footing and slid halfway down the stairs, her breath jolted out of her in a cry. At the top he turned and saw her ready to come after him, her hand on the banister ready to haul herself up, her jaw set like someone facing the Matterhorn. Suddenly a hand shot out and wrenched her savagely sideways, slamming her face into the wall. She did not make a sound. Her hand knotted into her mother’s clothes like someone controlling a puppet, Muriel hauled her upright again and let her go. Evelyn’s mouth opened for air. Her face, so far as he could see, wore an expression of amazement; but it was dark, he could not see very much. She put one hand to her chest, buckled at the knees, and slid down the last half-dozen steps to the hall floor, where she lay untidily on her side, one arm flung out.
Colin leapt down the stairs three at a time and hunched himself over the body. He knew, quite certainly and without investigation, that she was dead. Without touching, he stared at her for a moment, then jumped up and ran back up the stairs. “I’m coming,” he called. He pounded along the landing and turned the key in the lock of the room at the end. Isabel stumbled out, straight into his arms, almost knocking him down. He held her gingerly, and then forced her away from him, gripping her by the upper arms.
“You don’t know me,” he hissed. “You don’t know my name.”
Drunkenly, she nodded. She pressed her fingers, which were stiff and blue with cold, across her mouth. “I’m going to be sick.”
“The bathroom’s there.” He released her and started down the stairs, hearing her retching and shivering behind him. Florence had come in. Solid and square, wearing her gardening coat, she blocked the hallway. Muriel peeped over her shoulder at Evelyn’s body.
“Colin?”
“Yes. I’m here. Coming down now.”
“There’s no light in here. What’s happened?”
“Mrs. Axon’s collapsed. It’s all right, Florence, here I am.”
“Is the young lady all right?”
