As she faltered, his free hand reached towards the hand that dangled negligently beyond Peter’s shoulder. She heard a slight click; a blade gleamed. His free hand pulled back Peter’s right eyelid, exposing the moist white ball, unconscious or lifeless. She had never felt before how thin the skin of an eyeball was.
“ I won’t tell you again to get in.”
She thought of Mr Craig, and knew at once what this man had done to him. The police had caught the wrong man. Everything seemed unreal – that wasn’t a detective, that wasn’t Peter, that wasn’t a razor – but nothing was unreal enough. The gear lever punched her leg as she clambered in.
“ That’s right. Now close the door. Get behind the wheel. Start the engine. Gently. You wouldn’t like my hand to jerk, would you?”
Perhaps if she obeyed everything he said, immediately, not questioning, the nightmare which threatened her wouldn’t arrive. Surely this must end soon – but she knew it had hardly begun. In the mirror she saw the dull gleam of the blade, hovering before Peter’s eye.
“ You’re going to drive me to Wales,” the man said.
Chapter XXXIII
She could only concentrate on driving, in the hope that that would hold back her panic. She mustn’t make a single error. The traffic lights at Sefton Park Road jolted the van slightly; so did those at Lodge Lane. Each time the hovering gleam wavered.
“ That’s right,” the man said. “Just you go slowly. We don’t want the police stopping us, do we? You won’t be able to stop me now.”
He sounded as though he had a personal score to settle with her. The steering wheel’s jacket was already damp with her sweat. “Which part of Wales do you want me to drive to?” She was trying to gain some hold on the situation, but her voice was jerky, uneven.
“ Oh, don’t you know? All right, we’ll pretend you don’t. You just keep going until I tell you not to.”
He was insane. She was beginning to realise that now. If she told him he’d mistaken her for someone else, that might make him worse. Her hands were shaking. When she grasped the wheel, it trembled. She had to slow the van still more as it manoeuvred over the potholes of Lodge Lane.
“ No need to go to sleep. We can move a bit faster than that. What do you think you’re driving, a hearse? Eh, a hearse?”
He was laughing, a dry insect sound. She halted the van beside a block of dark shops; a broken window grinned jaggedly. Perhaps he would attack her, but she couldn’t go on like this. “I can’t drive if you hold that so close to him,” she muttered dully. “I can’t concentrate. I won’t risk it.”
“ Don’t you tell me what to do!” His voice was thin and vicious. The blade gestured before Peter’s face. “I’ve got the upper hand now! I’ll cut him again!”
Her indifference hardly shocked her; the nightmare had drained her emotions. In any case, Peter might be dead. “That won’t do you any good. It won’t make me drive.”
He stared at her in the mirror. Her face felt slack, too burdened to show concern. At last the blade drooped beside Peter’s shoulder. “All right,” the man said. “Now get on with what you’re here to do. And just remember, I’ve had enough of all your tricks. I’ll have his eye out in no time.”
It had begun to rain. She wished she could feel it on her cheeks, to refresh her. The van’s cacophony of small noises surrounded her, refusing to be left behind. The smell of petrol had turned cloying; it clung to her nostrils. In the mirror heads swayed, and the gleam.
Rain glittered on splashes of light outside pubs. It slashed headlamp beams obliquely, and made the van sound like a tin can beneath a storm. Vague lights drifted underwater on the roadway. Shops and terraced streets glistened blackly. A few people ran, hiding their heads.
She drove across the lights at Smithdown Road. “Where are you going?” the man demanded.
His voice twitched her hands on the wheel. “To the tunnel,” she said almost angrily.
“ Is that so. Just make sure you’ve no idea of heading for Cantril Farm.”
A Bingo hall swam up, spreading its carpet of light. Another set of traffic lights stood on the roots of their deformed reflections. She turned left, hurling a puddle aside.
“ Where are you going now?”
“ To the tunnel. That’s the way to Wales.”
“ I know the way. Don’t think I don’t. You’ve underestimated me long enough.”
She mustn’t answer. His words might drag her into his madness. Whenever she spoke to him she felt her mind unfocusing. She drove. Rain pelted the van; rain rushed incessantly over land bared by demolition. It emphasised her metal cell.
The van rolled downhill, towards the city centre. Ahead and to her left was the university clock. Nearly five to ten. Surely the downtown streets would be crowded. Mightn’t someone see what was wrong? Mightn’t they call the police or even be quick enough to overpower the man before he injured Peter permanently – if he hadn’t already done so?
Rain streamed down bright display windows. Streams deepened in the gutters. Rainbow patches of petrol shone on the roadway, amid the riot of neon. London Road was almost deserted. A few couples hurried, or huddled in doorways; sombre figures queued in a chemist’s. Whenever anyone crossed in front of the van, the gleam lifted in the mirror.
The empty foyer of the Odeon sailed by on its amber glow. Two men were striding away from the cinema. Could she call out, wrench, the van off balance, disarm the man? He might go berserk, and even her nightmare failed to show her what would happen then.
She drove towards the Mersey Tunnel. There were few pavements now. Cavernous subways led beneath the roadway, but nobody was walking. The tenements of Gerard Gardens stood close to the road, deafened by incessant traffic.
The tunnel closed overhead. It was bright and pale as a hospital corridor, and seemed as ominous. Rear lights led her along the subterranean trail. She felt the city pressing on the tunnel, and then the weight of the river. She was trapped and helpless as a puppet in a tin box.
Overhead lights flicked by. In the mirror the faces flickered monotonously with shadow; the image in the frame looked like a senile film – unreal, unconvincing. Peter was so still. She hadn’t seen or heard him breathing. Mightn’t he be dead? If he were, that would end the nightmare; she could jump from the van at the far end of the tunnel, without worrying about him.
Her thoughts – surely they weren’t hopes – dismayed her. She mustn’t think such things, she must plan how to save him. Somehow, when she halted at the toll booth, she had to alert the man in the booth without letting the madman see.
She passed the halfway sign: LIVERPOOL/BIRKENHEAD. The tunnel was interminable; its vanishing point receded like an optical illusion. Sweat stung her eye. She dabbed the trickle away, blinking and weeping. She must clutch the tollman’s hand when she paid him, and show him with her eyes that something was wrong behind her. Suppose he spoke and gave her away?
The string of red lights dawdled uphill. A string of white lights was let down beside them. The vanishing point became a curve in the tunnel, and crept forward. Nearly there. It’ll work, she reassured her shaking hands.
An arch of glaring light advanced down the tunnel, dazzling her; a driver had neglected to switch off his headlights. She was groping stealthily in her handbag for the toll, so as not to betray to the man with the razor what was coming, when he spoke.
“ Just one thing before we get there. Don’t try talking to your friends in the pay box.”
Had he known all the time what she was planning? Could he read her mind? The mirror flashed a warning. The gleam looked as though it was touching Peter’s unprotected eye.
If the van jerked, if a car in front halted suddenly, if her hands (which felt cramped by panic) twitched on
