“ The window. I won’t tell you again.”
Even if Peter shouted the razor would finish him long before help arrived. He reached out and closed the sash; compulsion rather than thought dragged his hands down. Their trembling dismayed and infuriated him. His stomach felt like the whirlpool of a drain.
“ Now then,” the man said. “You’re going to drive me to Wales.”
Despite his panic, Peter felt close to hysterical laughter. It made his words jerky. “No chance, brother. I can’t drive.”
Before he could move, the razor flicked towards his right eye. The pain was steely cold, but the liquid that spilled down his face was warm. He had to struggle to raise his hand, to discover where the blade had touched him: just below the eye.
“ You’re going to drive me to Wales.”
“ Jesus Christ, are you mad?” Peter screamed. “I can’t drive!”
“ Shall I cut you again? I’ve told you once to make less noise.”
Peter’s hands writhed, struggling to signify his truthfulness. “You’ve got to believe me.” Blood trickled into his mouth. “My wife’s the one who drives. I can’t.” This was grotesque; he was chatting reasonably, as though the man were a persistent hitchhiker. “I can’t fucking drive,” he moaned.
The man shook his head, as though offended. He advanced; the razor lifted. Peter’s back thumped the corner beyond the window. He was trapped, with no weapon in reach. “Then you’re no use to me at all, are you?” the man said.
Chapter XXXII
The library was clear. The last of the old people who converged on the light and warmth like moths had gone. Here was someone, knocking urgently on the doors. He wasn’t Peter; he was a plaintive spinsterish man whose books were due for return today. Cathy accepted the books mechanically and wondered where Peter was.
He must be on his way. She’d phoned the flat to remind him to meet her, but there had been no reply. She waited outside the library. Her colleagues hurried away. Cars whisked by; groups of people passed, chattering and laughing. The pair of telephone boxes shone, glass exhibition cases with nothing to show. A cold wind nagged at her.
Fanny’s pictures had been startlingly cheap. A few were still unsold; she’d liked them all. Should she have bought one? Peter bought his comics without consulting her. Where was he?
On his way through the park, no doubt, and smoking a joint: that would rob him of his sense of time, among other things. She might as well meet him; waiting frustrated her. She dawdled along Lark Lane. The shops were dark, but light and a cheerful uproar filled the Masonic pub. A gargoyle leaned out from the old police station.
On Aigburth Drive the occasional lamps looked inadequate as matches stuck in the night. By squinting, she could just distinguish the van parked near the house. There was no sign of Peter. He must be in the park. He knew the route that she always used.
She walked down the path among the trees, avoiding heaps of turf cleared from the lawns. She was sure they could talk more freely away from the house; last night she’d had an irrational suspicion that they were being overheard.
A car droned along Aigburth Drive. When it had passed, silence closed in. The cold wind set trees creaking. Branches were intricately clear against the dim sky, and looked surrounded by an aura. They stirred delicately as ferns.
On her right was a tennis court. Beyond the wire netting, a shape squatted. She almost shouted at it, infuriated by her start of nervousness. But it wasn’t Peter lurking to leap out at her. It was a heavy roller.
Now she was wary. It would be just like him to hide in the dark to scare her. Peering out from behind a tree, head wagging – but it was a bush. She hurried down to the lake. The park exhibited her footsteps, its loudest sound.
Above her, Eros stood on one tiptoe atop his pinnacle. In daylight he always looked as though he were waiting impatiently outside the cafe for someone to bring him an ice cream. Now the hovering life-size figure troubled her. It made her feel that it wasn’t the only figure nearby.
She paced beside the lake, towards the bandstand. Violent wings fluttered on the water, which lapped nervously. The dark was crowded with shapes that moved on the edge of her vision, creeping around behind her. “Peter,” she cried, enraged.
The silence returned her cry, flattened. For no reason that she could define, the sound made her fear for him. Had he had an LSD flashback? Might he be unable to meet her? She peered anxiously into the shelter near the bandstand, but all the shapes in there were darkness.
No doubt he was home by now, and wondering where she was. And of course he wouldn’t understand why she had been worried. She must hurry home. Shapes were waiting for her: a group of bushes tall as men shifted restlessly beside the path. Were they all bushes?
Certainly they were. She knew that as soon as she’d passed them, when none of them had seized her. And those were only litter-bins that crouched on the forecourt of the cafe. A black stain spread across the sky, dimming the park. Cracked and wrinkled concrete snagged her feet.
Wasn’t there one litter-bin too many? Rubbish – she’d never counted them. No, nobody was lurking on the benches by Eros. Nothing was sneaking after her except windblown litter. She hurried onto the avenue, towards the obelisk.
Had any of the bins moved? She glanced back. No, of course not. How stupid! Along the avenue, trees stepped out stealthily from behind one another. Again she looked back. None of the blurred shapes moved before the advancing darkness engulfed them.
Nearly home now. Just let him watch what he said if she found him waiting there. She hoped he was waiting. The obelisk grew nearer. It was wider than a man. Just let him jump out at her! Wasn’t that a shadow protruding from behind it? No, only a wet patch on the ground. Nobody was hiding.
As she hurried towards the house she saw that the flat was dark. Oh, where could he be? Getting stoned, no doubt – leaving her to shiver on the dark deserted road. She glanced automatically towards the van, to check that nobody had interfered with it.
A thick strip of darkness outlined the nearside door – too thick. The door was ajar. Peter must have gone into the van for something – but why on earth couldn’t he have locked it after him? Not that there was anything in there worth stealing.
She pulled the door back, and poked her head in to glance at the jumble of petrol cans, crumpled stained paperbacks for long journeys, the capacious old armchair for those who wanted to sit in it. Her harsh gasp made her cough. A couple was sitting in the armchair.
Good God, couldn’t they find anywhere else? Her shock gave way to amused incredulity. She’d heard of squatters, but this was ridiculous. Why were they so still? The girl’s head rested on the man’s shoulder; his arm embraced her. Deep in Cathy’s mind was bewilderment and worse. Dimly she made out that the long-haired one wasn’t a girl at all, for he had a beard. Why, they were both men. She squinted at the face beneath the long hair. Why was it so desperately urgent that she see?
“ Ah, there you are,” the other man said. “Get in.”
He sounded as though he were taking up a previous conversation. Her mind refused to work; all she could do was switch on the dashboard light. It revealed the detective whom Fanny had met, sitting with his arm around Peter. Peter’s forehead was darkened by a large bruise, if it was nothing more serious. Dried blood linked the corner of his mouth to his right eye.
“ Get in and make no noise,” the man said.
Her mind seemed incapable of grasping the situation. She couldn’t struggle past the notion that Peter was dead. She had no idea what to do. Who was this man?
