Flight of a Witch

It was staggering, but it was true. What did he have of his own? From the time he’d married Regina her estates had taken up all his time. And what did he want with a profession when she would gladly buy him or give him anything he wanted? Except, of course, the one thing he had wanted to death, and couldn’t ask her for. For that he’d had to provide himself.

Poor devil!

All this passed through Tom’s mind by fitful glimpses, like light from a guttering candle, in the few seconds while he listened to the fervent footsteps his heart recognised now only too well. He wanted to call out to her to go back, while there was time, but he’d hesitated too long, and it was too late. Annet was there against the sky, her hair streaming.

Blacklock had lowered the gun; he knew her now, and sprang with open arms to meet her. But the true impetus that flung them together, strained breast to breast in a ravenous embrace, was hers, and had always been hers. She wasn’t his victim; he was hers. She had destroyed him by loving him. If she’d never even noticed him, except as a middle-aged man, a father figure, he’d have mastered his feelings for her. But she’d opened to him, she’d loved him, he’d been forced to turn longing and dream into action. No, Annet was nobody’s victim, she had done what she had chosen to do, taken him because he was the weakest, the most helpless, the least effective, the unhappiest of all the men it might have been. All good reasons, and there was no going back on them now.

Blacklock said: ‘Annet!’ as a man dying of thirst might have said: ‘Water!’ He had his arms locked round her, the gun, still in his hand, pressed against her back. And then there was a silence that tore at Tom’s senses, while they kissed and he burned.

‘I thought you weren’t coming. I was afraid!’

‘I came as soon as I could. You knew I’d come.’ And again the silence, aching and hurried and brief. ‘Darling! Darling!’ Her deep voice throaty and charged with agonising tenderness, the implications in its tones of stroking hands, and the deliberate, assuaging pressure of her body, reassuring, caressing, protecting.

‘Yes, I knew! If you could, I knew you’d come. But I was afraid. We’ve got to hurry,’ he said urgently. ‘The bike’s down below. If we can get an hour’s start we can shake them. They won’t look for us westwards. And from Ireland—’

He broke off there to take her in more exactly. ‘You haven’t even got a coat! We must buy you one somewhere tomorrow. You can wear my windjacket for tonight.’ He stooped to snatch up the briefcase from the ground, and caught Annet by the wrist. ‘Come on, hurry, they’ll be after us soon.’

They would go, he would tow her down the hill in his wake and drag her into his crime, she who had done nothing criminal yet. It was more than Tom could bear. She must not do it. She must not make herself an accessory after the fact, an outlaw and a felon, not even for love’s sake. To hold her back from that was something worth dying for.

He didn’t know what he was going to do until he had done it. Scrambling, shouting, he broke out of the shadow of the rocks and flung himself between them and the edge of the slope.

‘Annet, don’t! Don’t listen to him! Don’t go with him! Don’t make yourself a murderess! Don’t—’

Blacklock uttered a soft, terrified cry of panic and despair, and loosed Annet’s arm. Hugging the briefcase to him, he fired blindly at the half-seen figure that distorted the darkness, fired rather at the shouting and the threat than at any corporeal opponent. The impact of the bullet sent Tom staggering backwards, and swung him partially round before he dropped.

He groped along the ground, astonished, lucid and without pain for an instant, dazed by the whirling of stars over him, and the chill and shock of the ground under him. Then the pain came, knifing at his shoulder a full second after the impact, and he cried out in bitter indignation, one brief, angry shout of agony. The earth and the sky stilled, he knew himself lying at Annet’s feet, and felt the stillness of horror holding her paralysed over him. Fumbling at his left shoulder, he felt the hot stickiness of blood; and when he tried to lift himself on one elbow, he fell back ignominiously into the grass.

Darkness lurched at him, withdrew, stooped again. He fought it off, straining upwards obstinately towards Annet’s unseen face and frozen stillness.

‘Don’t go! Don’t let him make you.’ His own voice sounded grotesquely faint and far, and faded like a weak radio signal. He thought he had uttered more words than he heard, and some had been lost, but he went on trying. It was all he could do for her now. ‘You didn’t kill anyone – you didn’t steal— Don’t let him make you what he is.’

There was no way to silence him but one. Shaking, sweating and half-blinded, Blacklock passed his forearm across his eyes to clear them, and reached the hand that clutched the briefcase to push Annet out of the way.

‘Annet, go on ahead!’

He pointed the gun carefully at the patch of muted darkness heaving on the ground. His finger tightened convulsively on the trigger. The voice had to stop. It was like a barrier between them and freedom, there was no escape until it was silenced.

She woke to realisation and awareness, starting out of her daze of horror.

‘No, don’t!’ She flung herself between them with arms spread.

‘Annet, please!’ He dropped the briefcase then to grasp her by the arm and pluck her out of the way, his voice a wail of despair.

Annet tore herself out of his grip and dropped like a bird, stretching her body upon Tom’s on the ground, winding her arms about him fiercely. Her cheek was pressed against his, her hair spread silken and cool over his forehead and eyes. Breast to breast, her chin upon his shoulder, she clung to him tenaciously with all her slight, warm, dear weight, covering him from harm.

‘Annet!’

‘No, you shan’t, I won’t let you!’

And she felt nothing for him, nothing at all! That was worse than the drain of blood out of his burning shoulder, worse than the terror of death. She felt nothing for him, all her agony and resolution was to save her darling from damning himself beneath a still greater load of guilt, a second and more deliberate murder.

Faint and sick, Tom lay quaking with his new knowledge of her. She had never needed him to show her her duty. He should have known it. She had run up here to her meeting without even a coat, without so much as a