X-ray wasn’t conclusive: they might want to operate. Alone, now, for the nurse had also gone, she looked at her reflection in a small mirror. She was heavy-bosomed, but still shapely; and she had a lovely, near-white skin. She knew how much George loved its smoothness; she could almost imagine his large, strong, gentle hands on her, now. She felt no pain when he held her, thank heavens; that was the one thing which gave her most hope.
Juanita Conception heard the telephone ring.
She lay in exactly the same position as before, but she was awake and less drowsy than she had been; and so, more afraid. She new there were men in the other room and could hear the drone of voices, but she could not distinguish one from the other. The bell stopped ringing, and a man spoke with sudden shrillness.
“What?” she heard him say. Then:
“So that bitch did give us away “
Juanita winced at the venom in the voice.
“All right,” he added. “Too right I will!” And she knew from that ‘too right’ that it was Roy Roche, the man from Western Australia. He was the one she disliked most; the one she feared more than any of the others. And now she stared at the door, her teeth clenched and her jaws working: there was something almost primeval about the man Roche.
There was a sound at the door, and it banged open. Roy Roche stood on the threshold, Kenneth Noble and one of the others just behind him. Roche’s face, with its straggly beard and full, rather wet lips, made Juanita shudder. He strode across to her, picked a corner of the adhesive-plaster free with his forefinger, and then ripped it off. The pain was so sudden and fierce that she cried out.
“Now, you bitch, let’s have the truth!” he rasped. “The whole bloody Committee’s being picked up! Did you give the police our names? Are you the stinking little stool-pigeon? Come on, talk!” He raised his voice and at the same time took a knife from his pocket — a knife with a short, thick, razor-sharp blade, which he now held close to her face.
“Roy — !” Kenneth Noble began.
But the only man who mattered here, Juanita knew instinctively, was this beast with the knife.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Did you give them our names?” Roche almost hissed the words. “Come on, you little bitch — did you?” He bent over her and the blade glinted in front of her eyes, the point very close to her cheek. “Come on, damn you — tell me! Did you give the cops our names?”
When she didn’t answer, he made a quick, slashing motion with the knife and she caught her breath as she felt the sharp pain, the slow-coming warmth. He had slashed her cheek.
“Did you? Tell me — or I’ll fix you so your own mother won’t bloody know you!”
She was quite sure that he meant what he said; and in truth, there was no real need for silence, now. But if she admitted what she had done, what would it help her? She saw in Roche what she had not seen in the others: a capacity for evil. It showed in his eyes, in the way his lips were drawn back over his small teeth. He was not simply outraged because of the discovery: he was doing what came naturally to him-hating her, perhaps hating humanity, enjoying his ascendancy; a bullying, cold-blooded sadist, finding pleasure in inflicting pain. And if she told him -
“For God’s sake, tell him!” gasped Ken Noble, at his shoulder. There was sweat on his forehead and fear, not hatred, in his eyes.
“If she doesn’t, I’ll —”
“Yes,” Juanita made herself say. “I told them. I am a—”
“I ought to cut your tongue out.” Roche rasped, and he looked bestial enough to do exactly that. “My God, I will!”
He slashed at her lips, and she screamed. The blade cut, there was surging terror in her, yet her eyes were wide open and she saw all that happened. She saw the knife above her face, blood-dripping, then Ken Noble’s hand close over Roche’s wrist. Roche turned, as if astounded. Noble clenched his fist and drove it into Roche’s face, throwing him off-balance. At that same moment, there was a shout from the room beyond: “Look out! Police!”
And a police-whistle shrilled out; harsh, urgent.
Roche recovered his balance, but he was no longer looking at Juanita. He stood, knife in hand, in front of Ken Noble, who was shielding Juanita with his body as he gasped a near incoherent: “Roy — let’s get out! Let’s —”
Roche drove the knife into his chest.
One moment, Noble was speaking, his fear vivid on his face. The next, he was silent; staring as if stupidly at the man who had plunged the knife into him, leaving only the handle protruding. There was a moment of silence, an awful moment in which everything seemed to stand still, even the breath in Juanita’s body. Then police-whistles and the thumping of feet on stairs let sudden bedlam loose-while very slowly, Kenneth Noble crumpled to the floor in a lifeless heap.
Then, Roche turned to Juanita.
She was still fastened at the waist, but her arms were free. Thank God, her arms were free! And he had nothing in his hands now; his knife was deep in Noble’s body. It was impossible to judge what was passing through his mind: whether he realised that he had committed murder and that she had seen the killing. It was impossible to know, from those glittering eyes, whether he was even thinking of her. She was in stark terror, and aware not of pain, but the warmth of oozing blood.
Then, the door across the room behind Roche was flung back.
She did not see the policeman, but she heard his voice and was sure he was one.
“Come on, pack it in! You’ll only make more trouble for yourselves. Don’t —”
