scrabbled at the edge, and managed to drag her to a kneeling position. She struggled panting to her feet. The night and the headlamps shook with her pulse. She had scarcely risen when the wind seized her and flung her back.
This time her legs cleared the edge completely. There was no chance of dragging herself to her knees. There was no hold for her clutching fingers. Her nails were no match for the edges of slate, which broke them. She was sliding into the bottomless dark. She knew it had an end, which would be jagged.
Ahead of her, distant as infinity, the figures stood between the lamps. She heard the man say “ah” in appreciation of her fall. He stepped forward. Behind him Peter, no longer supported, slumped towards the ground.
The man was coming to help her fall. He was impatient to be finished. She dragged at the stone with her hands, using her palms now instead of her useless nails. Her feet, whose weight tugged her down, struggled to fasten on something, anything, to help her clamber. Below her the unseen slate was unhelpful as ice. She stared numbly at the stone on which her hands were pressing. They were paralysed there; if anything, her slippery palms were inching towards the edge.
She heard a scrape of rock, and then a blow. The thump sounded like the fall of a heavy stone – but it wasn’t earth that it had struck. Her mind was too possessed by fear to admit hope. Nevertheless she stared towards the light.
Peter hadn’t overcome the man, who was still limping towards her. He must have struck Peter, who stood swaying in front of the van. She had been right not to hope.
A last surge of effort, instinctive as the clawing of a trapped animal, made her drag at the stone with both bruised palms and try to heave herself back onto the rim. Her body had never seemed so clumsy, or so heavy. Her hipbone struck the very edge of the quarry, and began at once to slide back into space.
She shoved frantically with both hands, and managed to roll over on her back. Her foot caught in a gash in the slate. She was no more than her own width away from the edge, and sliding towards it. She pushed again, and reached stone too rough to allow her to slide.
The man limped straight at her. His unsteady leg rose; he was going to kick her over the edge. She managed to crawl out of his path, but he turned at once and followed her. The light caught his face. His mouth was huge with blood like inexpertly applied lipstick. “You haven’t done for me yet,” he was muttering, muffled by blood.
She crawled backwards, terrified. Her retreat seemed intolerably slow, but to clamber to her feet would delay her still more. The wind threw itself against her, trying to force her to the edge. Though he was limping, he was quicker now than she.
As he reached her and drew back his good leg to kick, his injured leg betrayed him. His foot slithered towards the rim. “You bitch,” he screamed as he fell. She saw the edge of the quarry bite into his face.
A long clamour of bumping and scraping fell into the dark. Nothing else came up from the quarry except, for a few seconds, a faint bony rattling of stone.
Peter stumbled towards her, still holding a fist-sized rock. It was brightly stained. He passed her and flung it into the darkness. After its thud, the scuttling of stone seemed unnervingly prolonged.
He stood at the edge, his whole body shaking. “Jesus, I did it,” he mumbled to himself. “I did it.” At last she succeeded in standing up, and went to hold him. She felt as though she might never again be able to speak. When she turned his face to her, she found he was shaking with laughter.
Epilogue
Peter plodded along the street. The pavement blazed like chalk; the paint of all the houses shone as though fresh. Above Anfield the floodlights gleamed, though they were extinguished for the summer. He stepped off the pavement into the house.
The silence was abrupt and violent. He closed his eyes to clear them of the street’s glare, which clung to them and dimmed the stubby hall. Often the house was invaded by chanting from the football ground. Was that why the silence seemed unnatural?
No, it was only that Cathy was holding her breath, nervously waiting for him to announce himself. He dropped the carrier bag of vegetables. “Me,” he called.
The ritual annoyed him. Why was she still nervous of any noise that entered the house? Why wasn’t she answering? “Me,” he roared.
At last he heard her gasping “Yes.” She was upstairs, and sounded short of breath. Was anything wrong? He climbed the stairs irritably; the treads reverberated, muffled by the close walls. On the walls hung two of Fanny Adamson’s paintings. After he’d told the police to check her flat he’d impulsively visited her exhibition. He’d found that he enjoyed her work more since taking his trip. Cathy liked her paintings, and they might be an investment. As soon as the news of her murder was published, interest in her work had grown spectacularly.
He glanced proudly at the paintings. They hung well. He found he enjoyed using the drill for jobs around the house. There were still jobs to be done; some of the cheap improvements had been shoddy.
Why wasn’t Cathy speaking?
She lay naked on the bed. Sunlight through the curtains made her glow orange. Her exercises had tired her into silence. She lay smiling at something within herself. Was it hidden in her head, or was she experiencing the child in her large belly?
When he sat on the bed she opened her eyes. “How are you?” he said.
She seemed to debate whether to be honest. Her smile faded. “I’m depressed, I don’t know why. I suppose depression is part of it. I expect it’ll pass.”
“ We’ll go and see the Halliwells if you like.”
“ Not if you don’t want to.”
At times he resented having to be grateful while repaying Frank’s loan; it made their relationship uncomfortable. But he’d been grateful for the chance to take Cathy away from Aigburth Drive. “Oh, I don’t mind,” he said. “I can smoke a joint first.”
She looked away, her face limp with resignation. “Maybe we’ll just walk up to Stanley Park.”
Perhaps he wouldn’t smoke a joint; he could get pissed at Frank’s instead. Not that he intended to stop smoking – Christ, he needed some relaxation. He took her hand. Was he displaying the razor scar on the back of his hand, to remind her that he wasn’t weak?
She kissed the scar. What was she remembering? On the stage of glaring light he’d pretended to be still stunned, waiting to be sure the slasher was preoccupied with Cathy before he seized the chunk of rock: hard, heavy, jagged, satisfying. He’d felt the man’s mouth cave in, but the razor had snapped at his hand like a bird of prey. He’d thought the blow had finished the slasher. The bruise on his forehead had sent him wandering dizzily until he’d glimpsed the man advancing on Cathy. For a moment he’d thought the man had won.
Her lips moved on the scar. Was she avoiding speech? By smashing the man, Peter had revealed to her what he was capable of. He wasn’t sure that they had come to terms with that revelation. Once, when he’d tried to talk about that drive to Wales, she had changed the subject. She had seemed guilty – he hadn’t asked why.
All at once she clasped his hand. “I love our house. Don’t you?”
“ Yeah.” She seemed more and more unpredictable. He’d had to grow used to her shifts in mood: her sobs at Fanny’s paintings, her locked-in silences, sudden fits of weeping, starts of panic at no sound he could hear. For months she had been too tense for sex. Eventually she’d begun to relax, though sometimes crockery in her hands broke into a spasm of chattering, as though she were trying to hold still a poltergeist. Now, like the limp which her fall had given her, her apprehension was fading. Or was her calm the product of brittle control?
She took his pondering for suppressed impatience. “I’ll make dinner in a minute,” she said.
“ No hurry. Nobody’s coming to visit. You rest a bit if you like.”
They were gentle with each other now, perhaps warily. They hadn’t had a row since the identikit picture. The police had shown them a book of eyes, noses, mouths, from which to compose the face. They hadn’t agreed
