I don’t know why Moker didn’t ring the bell; perhaps he thought using the knocker above the letterbox was more portentous, more scary, who knows?
I’d gone into our long lounge—it extended to the back of the house since a dividing wall had been taken out —and watched Andrea on the sofa as she wept quietly.
She looked dreadful. Her dark hair was unkempt, her face sallow, sickly-looking. The rims of her eyes were red and looked very sore, while the skin around them was puffy. She seemed frail, as if she had neither eaten nor slept well for a week, and she was hunched forward on the edge of the sofa, elbows on knees, twisting a sodden handkerchief in her hands.
“I’m so sorry, Jim,” I heard her say in a voice that was weak, full of sadness and regret.
For a moment, I wanted to go to her and hold her tight, comfort her with forgiving words, but the thought of her duplicity prevented me (not that it would have been possible anyway). At last aware of all those years of deception and adultery, I raged inwardly, and my pity was limited. Had our whole marriage been a sham? If—I would have screamed my thoughts had I had a voice that could be heard—if Primrose was Oliver’s daughter, then his and Andrea’s affair must have revived itself shortly after we got together, even before we married, so what was wrong with me, how had I failed her? I loved Andrea as much as any man could possibly love a woman, yet it wasn’t enough for her. Dark images of the two of them sneaking around, making love in the daytime, when I was always on photo or film shoots, at night when Andrea had made some excuse of having a girls’ night out, staying with one of her closest friends because it was so late—all those thoughts rushed through my head. Guinane and Andrea naked, together, Guinane touching my wife’s body, entering her. Fucking her. The thought, like the word, was brutal. Brutal and ugly.
But it was the shock of learning the truth about Primrose that subjugated all else. That had finally busted me.
I loved her so much and the thought that she was not truly my daughter broke my heart, my will—my soul. This child whom I’d adored since first she had slid oh-so-easily from Andrea’s womb, all sticky and bloody, but the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. How nervous I’d been because it was all so new to me, I’d never had someone who would depend on me so much, and how gratifying fatherhood had come to be.
If I were still alive and Guinane suddenly announced to the world that he was Prim’s true father and even took blood tests to prove it, I would fight tooth and nail to keep her as mine. I would never love her any less, to me she would always be my daughter, and I was sure that to her I’d always be her daddy.
I could only look down at the wretched figure of Andrea as she quietly wept and curse her for what she had done to me.
Andrea’s bowed head came up and she looked towards the open lounge doorway.
“Oliver…?” she whispered.
Her sad, tear-stained face took on some kind of firmness, a hard glint narrowing her dampened eyes.
“No,” I heard her say in a voice that was angry as much as remorseful. “I told you, it’s over.”
Three sharp knocks again.
Andrea rose from the sofa and took weary but determined strides across the carpet. She passed right through me and I suddenly felt a mental anguish that was almost a match for my own. It was as if a cloud full of misery, regret, with anger gnawing at its edges, had enveloped me. Only fear—fear for her—sent me after her.
I raced around her as she reached the lounge door and held up my hands as if to block her way.
“No!” I screamed into her face. “Don’t open the door, please don’t open the door.”
Once again, her distress engulfed me, but this time I was ready for it and let it slip through without burdening myself. I went with her, screeching in her ear all the way to the thick oak front door to our house.
“Don’t let him in! For God’s sake, don’t open the door!”
Then it all became like a slow-motion dream: She’s hesitating, as though she’s heard me, but she couldn’t have, because she’s taking another slow, oh so slow, step closer to the door, and she’s lifting an arm, her hand reaching for the latch, and I’m screaming at her—don’t do it, Andrea, please don’t let him in!—and her wrist is twisting as she says Oliver’s name, and now my wife, my widow, is pulling the door open, stepping back to allow it to swing wide…
And Moker was standing outside on the doorstep.
His scarf no longer hid his face; it was draped around his shoulders, the ends dangling past his waist. He still wore the hat and he held a sharp-pointed knitting needle in one hand.
This must be his method, I realized, for I’ve witnessed it before, in the underground car park. He stuns his intended victim by showing them his ghastly face, paralysing them with fear for a moment or two, giving him just enough time to plunge the knitting needle up into their heart, his other hand covering their mouth to stifle whatever screams might come.
There was darkness behind him, but light from the hall revealed the shocking visage, the deep crater that should have been a face. Swiftly, he moved his hands, one to strike, the other to smother, but Andrea took a step backwards in horror, and before Moker could move forward, she turned and ran through the doorway to the lounge.
I tried to stand in his way, willed myself to be solid, but it was hopeless. He walked right through me and for an instant my soul was filled with a complete blackness. I shuddered.
Then Moker paused, looked back for a second as though he had been made aware of my presence. The moment was all too quickly gone and he turned his grotesque head to seek out his quarry. Andrea tried to shut the lounge door behind her, but Moker held up a hand and pushed back, so viciously that Andrea was sent reeling backwards. When he lumbered after her into the lounge, she was on one knee, struggling to rise, her breath taken in short panic-stricken gasps.
I rushed past Moker, with only a shoulder passing through him, and tried to lift Andrea, always forgetting I could not influence anything in my old world.
“Get out, Andrea!” I yelled at her. “Get out of the house! Don’t let him get near you!”
It was worse than useless—it was a waste of time. I wheeled around and threw myself at Moker again. Once more the total blackness. And once more he stopped, the sharp point of the steel knitting needle pointing upwards. He looked this way and that, his large dark eyes confused. He had felt me, just for a moment. He’d experienced something that was close to my own experience, a sensation of fusion with something else; something alien.
It was quickly gone, because I staggered out on the other side of him, but the delay was enough for Andrea to get to her feet again. She ran round to the back of the sofa, keeping it between herself and the monster who stalked her, forcing herself to look away from him to search for anything that would help her, anything she could use as a weapon.
I did the same, scanning the long room for any object she could use to defend herself. I saw the heavy poker leaning against the side of the stark white fireplace towards the other end of the room. Nothing more warming to the soul than a real fire with real flames, I’d always insisted, and was now glad that I had.
“The poker, Andrea! Get the poker!” Maybe I expected that by shouting at her, the thought itself might be put inside her head. And perhaps it had worked, because she made a sudden dash towards the poker.
She screamed as she ran, and maybe it was partly to rouse our neighbours and not only because of fear. I had never regretted living in a detached house before, but I did on this night. Nobody was near enough to hear.
Moker lumbered after her like a zombie on speed, aware she had no place to go and making peculiar snorting noises. Although there were patio doors at the far end of the room, which led out to our largish but unspectacular garden, they were always kept locked, the key hidden in the drawer of the long sideboard that stood opposite the fireplace. Keys were only in the lock when the doors were in use on summer days or evenings, and the chances now of Andrea getting to the drawer, retrieving the key, and unlocking the doors before Moker got to her were zero.
Thank God she was going for the poker. Only she wasn’t. Instead she ran past the fireplace and made for a Grecian bust mounted on a plinth.
I realized what she was going for and cried out, “No, you’ll never make it, he’s too close!” (Stupidly, I just couldn’t get out of the habit of acting like a normal human being.) Naturally she didn’t hear.
Earlier in the day, Andrea had obviously been on the phone, taking it from its charger, usually kept on an elegant stand in the hall, and had wandered over to the lounge’s big door-windows to look out at the garden while she talked, something she invariably did when she knew the conversation was going to be lengthy, and I saw the
