by Lorna Gray
I was on my feet again. A funny little sound like a rugby ball being passed thudded up from the street outside. It was Reed being brought to the ground. We needed to warn Jim. He still didn’t know what we’d learned from the photographs. I went to the window. He wasn’t there.
Adam had followed me. He wasn’t leaving me now. He peered past my shoulder. Reed was face down beneath a crush of about four policemen. Another was holding an ancient charabanc at bay that had nearly run the lot of them down. I couldn’t help wondering what madness had prompted Reed to attempt this little stunt. It wasn’t two o’clock so he didn’t even have the excuse of walking blindly to our meeting.
Below, a man gave a frightened squawk about the whereabouts of the key for the courtyard door. The door was designed to withstand burglary and fire and everything in between if only it could be locked. The man was Rhys.
The impulse that moved me towards the stairs was purely instinctive.
It came as a complete surprise when Adam’s hand flashed out to check me. He caught me at the hip and urged me to turn back. I did. I turned a full circle against his arm, fingers clinging to his sleeve, lifting my gaze to his at the same time as still feeling that desperate impulse to go. There was something very strange in the set to his jaw. Something like a rough shadow of suspicion. Something like a requirement to choose sides. Adam observed in a hard undertone, “He’s very good at making you take his part, isn’t he?”
I know now that I misunderstood him. In hindsight I know this wasn’t about Rhys, at least not directly. Adam didn’t believe I was obediently answering Rhys’s call. Adam was referring to our conversation about the sacrifices Rhys habitually inspired the women in his world to make; and now Adam was asking me not to attempt another, this time for him. I didn’t even know at that time that this was what I was meaning to do.
At the time the impulse to go down the stairs overwhelmed everything. I thought Adam was jealous and he was warning me that my ex-husband was Jim’s idea of a murderous thief. I gabbled, “It’s not Rhys. Rhys thought it was you, remember? He guessed he was wrong when you … when he realised you hadn’t kidnapped me. He tried to stop what had been started with his and Christi’s insinuations. He didn’t want to give up the photograph of you. That was my mistake. He was as frightened as we were. What would you have done?”
“I wouldn’t have begun by sending those men running north after an unsuspecting ex-wife, for a start.”
I was still imagining this was jealousy. The edge to his voice stopped me in the midst of trying to reach the stairs in mind if not in body. It brought my attention back to his face. I faltered. I wanted to say I agreed with him. Of course I did. If Rhys wasn’t guilty of intentional cruelty, he certainly was blindingly, appallingly in the habit of doing whatever happened to be most convenient for him, which unfortunately had lately run to the extent of using me as a shield. But still I begged a little desperately, “Adam, please. I don’t want to have to hate him.”
It was an echo of what I’d said to him on that trip to the castle with Mary and Jim. Back then I’d claimed it was one of my last inviolable rules. A few days ago it would have had awful connotations for my sense of self-worth. Hating Rhys would have meant admitting I was his inferior and that I’d been powerless back then because he really had controlled me. Those fears had passed but the rule still stood, even now, even to the point of stupidity. For me, hating Rhys wasn’t part of my liberation. For me it was the last trap laid by that marriage. It would mean letting my ex-husband define who I was after all, when I intended to just be me.
I was afraid Adam would misunderstand. I was afraid he would take it as weakness and a sign that my ex-husband still had a hold on me.
But Adam’s hands were suddenly firm upon my shoulders. “It’s all right, Kate,” he conceded peaceably. “You told me once that you strive for harmlessness. I suppose this is it. And he did, I will admit, say at the very beginning that everything he’s done has been for her.”
A pause, a hesitation while he drew a short breath. “Only,” he added tentatively as if he were risking something that might come out very wrong. He tried again in a surer voice, “While harmlessness in itself is very commendable, I think you’re misunderstanding its meaning. I don’t think you realise how much you’re still measuring yourself by another lesson he taught you. I don’t think you want to admit that to any other reasonable male …”
He held me there while those grey eyes transfixed me. He emphasised each of the next words with a little bracing pressure from his hands upon my shoulders as he finished, “… You’re very dangerous indeed.”
He didn’t quite smile.
The effect was electrifying. I’ve never known anything like it. A shiver went through me. There was more than a glimmer of mockery there. Superficially it was a compliment. He knew the effect a comment on my person like that would have and yet his gaze was utterly serious. It carried, beneath the confident assertion that he’d dressed in a teasing note for my sake, a bewilderingly intense confession of his vulnerability.
I could feel his pulse pounding against my skin. It was running even faster than mine. For a moment I’d been about to wonder if he really thought I might have the power to hurt him. This stopped me as nothing else would. I said with a fresh awakening to my own fear, “Adam … What’s wrong?”
He didn’t get to answer. There was a clatter of the courtyard door swinging open downstairs, the creak as it shut again and the click of a key turning in its lock. There was a fresh cry from Rhys in the throes of terror. It sounded like he was in the desk chair. I could say that with some confidence because I’d heard him yelling for more tea from there often enough over the years. Then Christi screamed my name in a choking sort of way and there was a thump in the corner, presumably as she sat down. She’d meant it as a warning. Somebody moved from the exhibition room into the office. It was all sound. I had nothing but sound. Adam still had his hands on me and he used them to turn me behind him so that he stood first in the doorway. With a single look he issued a reproof and asserted his willingness to defy me in this. This was the moment I realised that I would have put myself before him.
My view was of the shabby wallpaper and the carved newel post at the foot of the next flight of stairs. The next sound made me think PC Downe had been trying to recall policemen from the street outside. There was the groan of the front door swinging and the hasty clump of his feet across the exhibition room floor. He was stepping forwards to control the scene.
But it was Gregory who moved before him into the centre of the office and was meeting the man who stepped in through the unguarded back door. And it was Gregory’s voice that raced as a wild yell of disbelief up the stairs, “You’re going to hit me?”
And then Gregory screamed. A scream of real pain and all the evidence collapsed again. All the theories of who had done what and why disintegrated. And were rebuilt in an insane new pattern a moment later.
A painfully familiar voice hallooed up the stairs.
It belonged to Clarke. He was calling out clearly, “Mr Hitchen, sir? Are you up there? What do you want me to do to help? Because whatever you do to silence her it had better be swift. Reed was a bad choice for the part of decoy. He’s a simple brute and it won’t take them long to unpick his tale. They’ll soon realise they don’t have anything on him except the crime of playing a child’s game of knocking on doors and running away.”
Before me, Adam turned his head. I was close behind him, gripping his sleeves, cheek brushing the tip of his shoulder.
“Adam,” I whispered desperately. “No, no, no.”
Chapter 34
Adam’s gaze was burning on mine when he turned to me. He handed me the envelope. He raised his voice and answered, “It won’t work, Clarke. The police know your names. And she’s already established what Black took. We’ve got the evidence we need.”
I hoped Clarke would run. He ought to have run. I heard the creak as he set foot on the stairs and Adam steppe
d out to meet him. I had Adam’s hand. I knew the truth. This was what Adam had anticipated. This was the cause of the hesitation that had prompted him to snatch me back just now when I’d moved to step past him. Adam knew I would feel called on to stand between him and something like this. It was my fault he was here after all. But, unlike my ex-husband, he absolutely knew he was not going to let me.
The decision he’d made was terrifying. He was not a physical man. He was strong, yes, and fit and beautiful and generous and brave, and perfectly capable of dealing with any normal challenge. But violence came to him as naturally as selflessness came to Rhys. It was possible, but only in times of war.
This wasn’t war. Clarke was mounting the short run of the stairs at a sprint. Adam’s hand urged me onwards. And then corrected me when I moved towards the bedroom window. “No.” There wasn’t enough time. “Up.”
I barely had time to react before Clarke reached the landing. I’d been wondering all along why PC Downe and the other constable hadn’t pressed close and it wasn’t as I feared. It wasn’t that Clarke held a gun. He only held a metal crowbar. It was still an intimidating sight but it wasn’t the reason why no help could follow him. That was because no one could get through the office door from the exhibition room. When Gregory had fallen he’d crushed Christi into the corner by the door and PC Downe was both trying to climb over the combined mass of two unwieldy bodies – one shrieking and one quiet and innocent – and trying to not commit murder himself by further injuring anyone. PC Downe was fighting his way through with the other constable just behind but he wasn’t going to be quick enough.
Clarke was moving swiftly. He was wearing his crisp pinstriped suit. He looked gaunt in this light and young too. Barely out of his teens. Clarke had his hand extending towards Adam’s sleeve; reaching, seeking that first moment of contact and fending off the probability that Adam would attack first. For good reason. There was a scuff as Adam’s feet adjusted their position. I was on the lower steps of the stairs to the attic. Below I heard the policeman curse as his foot was snagged by the mass. Downe wasn’t being so gentle now in his efforts to break clear. Clarke stepped closer.
And then he hesitated, considering.
Clarke’s lightly formed fist was only inches away when he said to Adam, “I did my basic training on National Service too. But unlike you, I’d already been doing this kind of thing for years. What were you going to do? Catch my wrist and put me on the floor?” His smart businesslike exterior disintegrated as the crowbar glinted. “Think again, you …” And he lashed out with the small wooden block he’d held concealed in his other hand.
---
For a moment I actually thought Adam was dead.
There was a scream – probably mine – and a crash of limbs on wooden floorboards. Adam dropped; the force of his fall flung me sprawling upon the next flight of steps. It was agonising for me. I’m not sure how much Adam was able to feel. For about five awful heartbeats I thought Adam had hit his head on the newel post. If he had, it would all have been over then.
His body ended up at the foot of my stairs with his head turned awkwardly to one side. In one rapid snatch, Clarke bent in to touch Adam’s hands to the metal crowbar. His fingerprints. It was all done in a matter of seconds. I could hear my heartbeat. Clarke’s gasping breath. Pure passionate horror made me reach out to strike him with my foot – I’m not sure what it would have done if it had landed, left a small bruise perhaps – when he stepped back and let the crowbar slide from Adam’s grip to the floor. He kicked it away so that it skittered across the wooden boards to meet the doorframe into the kitchen. He didn’t even notice that I was still crashing about there above them both on the next rise, clinging to the banister rail struggling to regain my balance after that abortive idea of attack, still waiting to feel eternally grateful when Adam moved. He did move. I saw him turn a little onto one side at the foot of the stairs. I saw him tentatively touch a hand to his head. The hand came away bloodied and he swore quietly under his breath. Repeatedly.
Then Clarke lightly nudged his foot and Adam winced and jerkily turned his gaze. He didn’t move again. Satisfied, Clarke finally lifted his head to acknowledge me.
I was much closer than I ought to have been. I think I’d forgotten that Adam had done this purely in the hope of giving me time to get away. I had been gearing up for my next attack in the forlorn hope of intervening. What sort of woman would I have been if I hadn’t? Now I remembered. I was sickened. Ashamed. I turned on my step, slithered, lost my grip, recovered and fled.
The stairs to the attic seemed steeper. I heard the thump behind and the nasty curse as Clarke stepped over Adam and was tripped instead. But even as I reached the turn once more that led to the darkroom door, I felt him drawing close. Hands, legs and everything kept my body moving upwards. I plunged for the handle. The door swung. I fell in and took the key with me. The door slammed. Bulged again with the slap of Clarke’s hand flinging itself at the last step, then my shoulder engaged with the wooden panel of the door and the key rammed home its bolt.
The door rattled but held. I reached a shaking hand for the place on the wall where I knew the light switch would be. The room shone blood red. It was a terrible colour to lighten my gasping retreat to the heavily shuttered window. If I had wanted to disappear in here, I might have done better to have left it off.
But I wasn’t here to hide. I was already at the end of the attic in the steep triangle of the gable and running fumbling fingers around the frame to find the uppermost bolts that secured the ancient shutters.
Behind, that wiry villain was clawing at my door. This door was stronger than the one at my hotel room but still I heard the lock splinter. Clarke roared something – something like, “I haven’t got time for this.” It was followed by what sounded roughly along the lines of a description of what happens to a person when they get cornered like a rat.
The shutters had been painted many times. I didn’t have the barest hope that even the force of my panic would be enough to move their crusted fastenings. But I had to try. I set myself at the first of the bolts that were Rhys’ accursed obsession. The photographer’s whole life depended on denying light and now he was having his way just when I needed it most. I hung my whole weight from my hands.
And almost hit the ground when the bolt slid cleanly along its groove. The shutters had been opened recently – Jim really hadn’t exaggerated when he told me he’d been over every inch of this place.
I didn’t need a reminder of that policeman’s determination to magnify mine. Willingly, the second bolt gave and the third, taking several pieces of fingernail with it. Then the fourth began to yield. It stuck, leaving me hanging from its high niche, cursing and scrabbling for extra leverage while behind the door splintered and Clarke shot across the room.
The bolt moved; and with the blinding glare of daylight came the crash as the shutter smacked back against the wall. A distant echo sounded somewhere below. It was smothered by Clarke’s breathless snarl just behind.
He held out his hand. “Give that envelope to me.”
His head was low so that he was peering at me from beneath sweating brows. His breath was roaring in his throat. Sweat glistened. Ready in his other hand was that hateful block of wood. He’d planned this perfectly. The bloodied weapon downstairs held Adam’s prints. This weapon would be unidentifiable and burned just as soon as it could be. Perhaps he believed he would only injure me. My previously battered mind shied from the improbability of it.
This high window was divided prettily into many dimpled rectangles. Jim wasn’t down on the street many, many yards below. He still was nowhere to be seen. I had achieved nothing. Clarke was there and this wild attempt to ensure that Jim was armed with the truth was failing. I did what I hadn’t imagined possible. I swung the heel of my hand at the old thin glass in the window, a little rectangle amongst a dozen or so more smeared with grime. Then I flung my left hand through the sudden maze of splintering glass. With it went th
e envelope and the precious proof that must with a mind like Jim’s ultimately exonerate Adam, regardless of what came next for the rest of us now.
I opened my grip and, praying that the policeman was at least somewhere within the range of sound, screamed Jim’s name for all I was worth.
I didn’t get to see whether anyone down there on the street heard.
Clarke snatched me back. Another cry escaped as the jagged edge of shattered glass traced a fine line across the back of my wrist and drew blood. Clarke’s rapid breath grazed my cheek as he peered out past me at the street below, at his prize lost somewhere on the busy tarmacadam and the old grey-haired man in a long raincoat who was peering curiously upwards.
I was nursing my wounded wrist. I heard Clarke curse and felt him release his grip. He strode away from me across the bare attic floor and out of the flare of bright sunlight and left me standing there leaning back weakly against the casement.
Then he turned back. The combination of daylight and the red light bulb cast him in a rosy glow. And flung the room into dust and leaping shadows.
I gasped out, “You murdered him, didn’t you? The policeman Black. The journalist.” I cringed as Clarke closed the few yards between us.
Clarke hissed something vicious through bared teeth and snatched me aside to swing the shutter closed only to shove me back again onto the rigid black panelling. It made me rebound with a teeth-rattling crash. Then, seemingly satisfied by this startlingly childish act, he simply snarled at my pathetic little shrinking form as it sank against the wooden board.
He said, “It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill him. I thought you were a thief.”
Suddenly looking very much like a frightened youth who had stepped into something far beyond his scope of experience, Clarke span away towards the tempting rectangle of the gaping darkroom door. He ran straight into the arms of the four plain-clothes policemen who were pounding up the stairs.
