right hand, which was really your left – but how did that help? Her sobs were growing louder, she didn't care how loud. Then she pressed her hand against her mouth, because she felt that someone was just beyond the edge of the fog, invisible yet watching her. Was it only her own snuffling she could hear?
She fled into the fog again, heading left, but then she paused. Was that the direction she should follow? She veered to the right in case that was the way and because she had a vague idea of dodging whatever was out there in the fog. Suppose she couldn't get into the cottage? Baby Georgia was dead, and Jane had gone away; she wouldn't be able to get in unless Georgie's daddy Derek was there. Surely he would be – it was where he lived.
A patch of fog on her left stood too still for fog, and turned into stone, white stone; the windmill. She ought to have gone right after all, she was running in circles in the fog. She was limping away, her throat too clogged with fog even to sob, when she glimpsed a corner of the stone as it sank back into the grey. The windmill had no corners. As she peered at it, afraid to go closer in case it was another false hope, she made out the edge of the garden, the unkempt hedgeless garden that merged with the held. She'd found the house after all.
Now that she was so close, she could hardly move for fear that she wouldn't be able to get in. Jane had always left the back door unlocked so that anyone who came visiting could walk straight into her kitchen, but Jane had gone away. If she couldn't get in, where would she go? She'd have to run into the fog, on and on until she fell, until mummy and daddy came for her.
They were somewhere in the fog, their long cruel nails were. Perhaps they were very near. She limped toward the cottage, which came nodding at her as if it weren't much more solid than the fog. The ground oozed, soaking her feet; fog closed on the sides of the house, walling her in with the door. She had almost reached the door; she was lifting her hand to knock, although it was shaking with fear that nobody would be in, when she stopped and stared. Unless the fog was playing tricks, the door was ajar.
Had Jane come home? Anna hoped it was Jane: she didn't know Derek so well – she didn't know if she could tell him why she was running away. The fog surged toward her, an imaginary attacker which perhaps hid a real one. She could hear nothing but her own gulping breaths, couldn't hear where mummy and daddy were, how close they were to catching her. The door was open a crack, the fog hadn't deceived her. Someone was in the cottage, that was all that mattered. She stepped forward and pushed open the kitchen door.
Fifty-three
She didn't quite know why she was opening the kitchen door so slowly. When it squeaked she wished she could hide inside herself. Fog closed in on both sides of her. She was shivering so badly that she almost let go of the handle. As soon as the door was open wide enough, she slipped in and eased it shut behind her, so that she could let go at last.
It took her a long time to calm down enough to look round the kitchen. At least she was in Jane's house. But somehow the house had never felt like this before, too empty yet not quite empty after all, darker than she'd ever seen it, with the fog walling up the windows. It made her think of an attic that nobody had been in for years, where you knew that something was waiting to be fed in all the corners. It was the small dark grubby place she had been in for weeks, but at last it was real.
Now that she was able to look about, she felt less and less safe. Unwashed plates spilled out of the sink, a kitchen drawer lay on the linoleum, surrounded by fallen knives. The stench of stale cooking fat hung thickly in the air. A buzzing drew her reluctantly to the sink, where a large fly was struggling in the grey water. She couldn't stay in the kitchen with the dying fly, its fat glistening body rolling about in the greasy water, wings blurring desperately. The door off the kitchen was open wide enough for her to steal into the dining-room.
But the dining-room made her more uneasy. A pan of milk stood on the polished mahogany table; the skin on the milk was greyish and pockmarked, it made her think of things that had gone bad. Next to the pan one of baby Georgie's feeding bottles had dribbled on the polish. On the mantelpiece and on a chair she saw half-eaten sandwiches. A fly buzzed past in front of her eyes, and she flinched back so violently that she almost lost her balance.
She didn't know why, but she was even more afraid now that she was in the house. She was afraid to stay where she was, afraid to go on, afraid to run out of the house. Just now she wished she could run out, for the smell of staleness was making her sick; it was closing around her, worse than the fog. There was something about it that made her think of animals, of the zoo. The sense of things hiding in the corners, or somewhere near her in the grubby dimness, was growing. If the door into the hall hadn't been ajar, she might just have stood there, too afraid to move.
She managed to slip into the hall without making a noise. If someone was here, shouldn't she want them to come to her? The smell was even thicker and more sickening in the hall. Fog and condensation crawled up the front-door panes, the living-room door stood open just beyond the foot of the stairs. On the hall table between the two doors, the telephone was perched on top of a pile of directories.
She hoped that Derek wasn't in the cottage, because the phone was more reassuring. She could call the police. They'd come and take her away – they had to when your mummy and daddy were going to harm you. She limped forward, making no noise on the crumby carpet but no longer caring if she did. She was at the foot of the stairs, a few paces from the phone, when she heard daddy opening the kitchen door.
She began to shiver so badly it seemed her legs might give way. She clung to the slippery post at the foot of the banister as her body leaned forward as if it had somewhere to go. She couldn't run, he was too close, but perhaps she could keep out of his way. She could hide upstairs, if only she could sneak up. There was a hiding place in Georgie's room.
She'd hidden there before. She'd squeezed into the cupboard full of toys and poked her head out to make baby
Georgie laugh. Daddy would never think of looking there, only mummy and Jane knew, and they weren't here to tell. Nobody was. Nobody could save her from him but herself – and she couldn't move.
Her mouth shook as she bit her lip to keep in her scream. She didn't realize she had wet herself until her scratched legs began to sting. The discomfort made her legs move before she could control them, and the movement frightened her so much that she dodged up three stairs. There she froze, terrified to go further. She had forgotten which stairs creaked.
She was clinging to the banister, shaking from head to foot because she'd realized that she shouldn't have dodged upstairs at all but out of the house to hide while she'd had the chance, when she heard a creak. It wasn't the stairs, it was below her. Perhaps he was already in the hall.
She remembered how he looked. Though she was shuddering with unvoiced sobs, she began to drag herself upstairs by the banister, clambering desperately upward before he could see her. Her wet thighs rubbed together, stinging. The discomfort and her shaking made it impossible for her to choose where she trod on the stairs.
There were fourteen stairs above her, and it seemed to take forever for her mind to count them as she climbed. The banister felt like a balloon that was leaking; the stairs were swaying, stairs in a fun house that was no fun at all. She didn't dare look down for fear that she would see daddy, his blank eyes gleaming, his nails reaching for her. The fourth stair from the top began to creak under her foot, and she heaved herself upward away from it so desperately that the banister creaked instead. Blind with terror, she dragged herself up to the landing, trying not to touch the last three stairs.
The fog and the stale fat seemed to have gathered up here; the light was yellowish, the smell that made her think of a zoo was stronger; she had to press both hands over her mouth to stop herself from coughing. Downstairs the hall floor creaked, and only the stinging of her thighs prevented her from running.
She was passing Jane's and Derek's bedroom now. It was even more of a mess than downstairs. The bedclothes looked like giant knots, the drawers of the dressing-table lay all over the floor; Jane's make-up was spilt on the carpet, smashed jars and bottles covered the floor under the grey swirling window. Jane must have made all this mess, she must have been looking for something. Anna hadn't time to wonder what that might have been, for now she'd reached the door of baby Georgie's room.
She had to go in. She couldn't stand here waiting to be found, she'd scream and never stop until daddy
