The darkness was all around her, oppressive and prickly as fever; it felt like the threat of a total loss of control. She mustn't dawdle, she had to make the call before she began to have second thoughts. She carried the phone into the long room and sat down, or fell down. 'I'll get you there,' she promised.
She dialled as quickly as she could. The bell sounded distant and hollow, the way calls sounded when Alan picked up one of the extensions while she was on the phone. For a moment she thought someone upstairs was listening in, until she made herself wake. The darkness lingered, prickling. Suddenly the ringing ceased. 'Hello, who's this?' her father said.
He sounded more like his old self than the last time she had called. 'It's Liz,' she said.
'Well, that's always good news. How are you?'
'More to the point, how are you?'
'Oh, pretty well. You'd never know the old machine had been in for repairs. Just a bit sick of sitting around at home, that's all.'
'Would you like a little visitor to cheer you up?'
'She's always welcome, you know that.' But there was a slight hesitation in his voice, as if he regretted having made light of his condition quite so much. 'It's just that your mother has rather a lot to do while I'm convalescing.'
'She won't be any trouble. Will you?' She glanced sharply at Anna; she didn't mind if the child was scared, so long as she did as she was told. 'I really think she needs a change, and to be honest, so do I.'
'Well, let's see how things are in a couple of weeks.'
'I was wondering if she might be able to come sooner.' The darkness was closer, the prickling was worse. Why hadn't she thought out what to say before she phoned? 'You see,' she said desperately, 'something very tragic happened to one of our friends. It's affecting us both rather badly. Our friend killed her baby, you see. I've got to do what I can for her, and with Alan away, there's nobody to look after Anna.'
She'd turned away from the child; Anna must know she was lying. Or had Anna been affected by the news of Georgie's death? It was difficult to tell when she was so withdrawn. Liz closed her eyes; at least the dark in there was less unnatural, though it seemed darker in there than it ought to be.
'Well,' her father said eventually, 'that is a bad situation. Very bad.' He must be tapping the mouthpiece of the phone; the scrape of fingernails on plastic was very loud. 'I don't see how we can refuse. When would you want us to have her?'
'Would tomorrow be too soon?'
'Tomorrow?' He sounded taken aback. 'Just hold on while I have a word with your mother.'
She held onto the prickly receiver. Of course the plastic was smooth as ever; the prickling was in her, and so was the dark. She must have been mistaken about the sound of fingernails; it was continuing even now that her father had put down the phone. Apart from that sound there was a prolonged silence, until she heard his footsteps returning. Were they so slow because of his illness, or because he was about to disappoint her? She closed her eyes again, on prickly darkness.
'Are you there?' he said. 'Under the circumstances, we don't mind if she comes tomorrow.'
'Oh, fine. Great. Thanks ever so much.' She opened her eyes; she could stand the hovering darkness now. 'I'll run her to London and put her on the early train,' she said. As soon as they'd agreed on arrangements for meeting Anna at his end, Liz rang off. 'That'll be nice, won't it? Perhaps you can stay with them until daddy comes home.'
Certainly Anna seemed happier – relieved to be escaping, perhaps, but Liz couldn't brood about that just now. 'Shouldn't we pack?' Anna said, as if she needed to see that before she could believe her good luck.
'Yes, we should.' Packing might tire them both enough to sleep and by then Anna would have forgotten all her nonsense about there being someone upstairs. Perhaps not, however: for once they reached her bedroom she kept glancing nervously toward the wall. There was nothing beyond the posters – giant enlargements of flowers with a bee the size of Liz's head emerging from a rose – except Liz's workroom with its telephone extension. The darkness was lingering, but Liz could stand it now. As the huge flowers glowed through it, she was reminded of a jungle. Would Alan ever phone?
Anna fell asleep before she did. No doubt that showed how glad she was to be leaving. Liz lay and wondered about Joanna Marlowe. Was the woman crazy because of her husband's suicide? There were too many things Liz didn't understand, and trying to think about them made her prickly all over. Once Anna was out of the way, she'd be able to think.
She hushed the babel of her thoughts and tried to sleep. She still felt she was being watched in the dark. She could stand it for one more night – she knew she'd be rid of it once she was rid of Anna – but what on earth made her think that? It must be one of those thoughts that float on the edge of sleep, less thoughts than dreams. Soon she was asleep.
Anna woke her as soon as it was light. 'You said I was going to stay with granny and grandpa today.' She sounded afraid that Liz had changed her mind. 'So you are,' Liz said, hugging her and rolling out of bed. After last night's prickly darkness she felt full of sunshine, just like the house. It seemed the kind of day when nothing could go wrong.
At breakfast she grew wistful. 'You'll write to me, won't you? And I'll phone you now and then.' Anna promised to write, mumbling through a mouthful of cereal; she was obviously anxious to get away, and Liz couldn't blame her. She'd make it up to Anna when she came home, make up for the way she'd treated her. She only hoped that Anna would be willing to come back.
She left the dishes in the sink and carried Anna's case downstairs. It was really too small for her now: a toddler's case, plastered with souvenir stickers, its corners scuffed like the toes of a three-year-old's shoes. Liz remembered the first time Anna had carried the case – a sunny Cornish day, Alan squeezing her arm as the pair of them watched Anna trotting proudly ahead. Suddenly she felt her eyes grow moist. She locked the front door quickly and dropped the case outside the garage. She heaved at the garage door, which flew up, rattling. She had to stoop again for the case, and so she caught sight of the pool of brake fluid at once.
As she bent lower to peer under the car, the prickly darkness closed in. She could see at once that the brakes would be useless. She hadn't used the car since Rebecca had told her about Jane, and now she remembered driving furiously home from The Stone Shop, too angry and distressed even to look at Anna. Had she driven over a bump in the road too violently? If so, it was a miracle they hadn't had an accident on the way home.
Anna was gazing at the pool of fluid, and the corners of her mouth began to droop. This was her fault too, Liz thought – not that that was any help. 'Does that mean I can't go?' Anna said miserably.
'Not at all. We'll get you there.' Liz was thinking fast: she'd intended to drive Anna to London and put her on the direct train from Euston; now they'd have to take the train from the village to Norwich, then another from Norwich to Euston. Good God, she'd be away all day. She slammed the garage door into its groove and grabbed the suitcase. 'We'll have to hurry,' she said.
By the time they were halfway to the village, she was panting. Anna kept running ahead to the next curve, glancing back. 'Go on,' Liz cried. The day was already hot; the hedges looked dusty as her throat was becoming; the baking air seemed to cling to her, an additional weight that was imperceptible but enervating. A couple of families passed her on their way to the beach; the adults smiled sympathetically, the children stared. What time was the train? At least she hadn't heard it. Surely that meant it hadn't gone.
The village was crowded. Old folk ambled, fanning themselves with hats or newspapers, slowing down their progress. Birds fluttered back and forth under the roof of the bus shed, cottages blazed like sheets in a detergent ad. At least there was no train at the station. The tiny booking hall was deserted; the ticket window was a frame from which the painting had been removed, glass over brown board; the hall smelled like an attic, dust and old wood. Perhaps you had to pay on the train. If not, they could pay at Norwich.
&
nbsp; She sat and watched the crowds and tried not to think how long she'd be away while Alan might be trying to contact her. His faded display had gone from the window of the post office, someone else's bright new books had moved in. Now and then she heard an engine, but it was always a barge on the waterways. Shouldn't she accompany Anna all the way, rather than putting her on the train at Euston? It was a long way for a six-year-old to travel on her own.
Anna was growing restless, marching up and down the platform. 'Isn't it coming yet? How long will it be?' She sounded afraid that Liz would change her mind and take her back home. There was chugging in the distance, along the brownish railway lines – but it must have been another barge, because the sound was drifting away. Liz was growing as fidgety as Anna; she didn't like being away from the phone for so long. She was beginning to wonder if it was such a good idea to send Anna away after all.
Anna was plucking at the long sleeves of her blouse. 'I'm so hot, mummy. Can I go and get a drink?'
'Better not, in case the train comes.' The nearest shop for lemonade was the post office, and all at once she was afraid of losing Anna in the crowd. Passers-by were gazing at her as if she were some kind of tourist attraction, a wax figure on a disused station. She felt like wax – melting wax. Three youths in denim stared at her for a while before swaggering toward the beach. 'Don't miss your bus,' one shouted, which she thought especially pointless.
She went to the end of the platform and stared along the tracks. She'd never seen them looking so disused. Surely the train ought to be here by now. Suppose it had been cancelled? These trains sometimes were. If only there were someone to ask… Then she heard footsteps in the booking hall, three steps on the hollow boards; three were all it took to cross the hall. She turned as he emerged onto the sunlit platform. It was Jimmy.
'What do you think you're waiting for?' he said.
'Would a train be too much to hope for?'
'I'm afraid it would,' he said, and her innards lurched. 'Surely you heard? There's an unofficial strike to try and stop them closing the line. No trains until further notice.'
'Oh no,' Liz said, more for Anna's sake than because of any disappointment of her own.
'Where were you wanting to go?'
'I wasn't going anywhere. I was sending Anna to stay with my parents,' Liz said, hugging the child in a bid to console her. 'We'd been getting on each other's nerves, hadn't we, Anna? Something had to be done. We'll just have to get on with each other, that's all.'
It sounded false even to her, especially since Anna had pulled away. 'What brings you to the village?' Liz said, for the sake of something to say.
'Mostly keeping out of the way. Mrs Marshall's in a foul mood. She's had a cancellation for the next seven days, and she's got no chance of filling it now.'
'Perhaps I'll call in and commiserate later.' For a moment, until she realized what she was thinking, Liz thought of taking up the cancelled booking, just to get them out of the house. Was she mad? No – she was letting Anna confuse her again, that was all. It was Anna's fault, just like everything else. Why had she let the child get to her so badly? What tales would Anna have told her parents about her? Anna could just stay with her, where she belonged – and she'd better behave herself; she'd made Liz waste enough time as it was. Liz took Anna's elbow and the case, and strode toward the road. She wasn't going to be distracted again. She still had to decide how to retrieve the claw.
Thirty-nine
The jeep lurched to a stop. The forest was closing in, and so was the thick moist green twilight beneath the trees. 'We shall have to walk from here,' Isaac said.
Alan stared about him in the desperate hope that the lurch of the jeep might have woken him up. Of course it was an absurd hope. He was already wide awake, and neurotically alert. He wasn't dreaming, though the forest resembled a dream. It resembled the forest he had dreamed of, which suggested that he was close to the dreadful thing he had been told he must do.
How could he distinguish this place from any other part of the forest? He and Isaac had been in here for so long that it seemed strange to think of the open sky, of any sky that wasn't composed of countless overlays of green. Nothing distinguished this place: great sweaty limbs of trees reached up through the green twilight to the green ceiling, young trees grew in the spaces between them, thin stalks tipped with a few pale leaves. Yet he felt as if this place led to his dream, as if one of the paths between the trees led there – as if this place had been the start of his dream, which he couldn't remember. As he sat there in the passenger seat his body was stiffening, his innards felt like bile.
Isaac took the pistol from under the dashboard and thrust it into his belt, then he came round the jeep to Alan. His eyes were sympathetic and encouraging. 'Come on,' he said, clasping Alan's shoulder for a moment. 'Perhaps we haven't far to go now.'
Of course that was what Alan feared. Isaac laid one hand on the pistol. 'I will help you all I can.'
Even if he was undertaking to kill the Leopard Man, that still left the worst for Alan. Perhaps the chief in the village of beehive huts had been wrong after all, yet it seemed horribly logical: cannibals ate their victims in order to ingest their power, therefore in order to consume the power of a cannibal cult for ever one would have to… He swallowed, choking, desperate to believe he was dreaming, but the last time he'd slept was last night in the jeep, baboons swinging down from the dark overhead to scratch and scream at the windows, huge shadows lumbering past beyond the reach of the headlights. It wasn't a dream, nor could he tame what was happening to him by thinking how he might write about it one day; that no longer worked. It was happening now, and it was all he could do for Liz and Anna. Though his legs felt heavy as concrete, he climbed out of the jeep. 'All right,' he said through his stiff cumbersome lips.
He strode out at once. If he had hesitated now, he would never have been able to go on. The ground between the trees was springy with leaf-mould; it yielded underfoot, an oddly intimate sensation – he felt as if the forest were accepting him. He was striding so determinedly that Isaac had to hurry to catch up. 'This way, you think?' Isaac said, and it was only then that Alan realized that he was acting as if he knew.
He glared about. He couldn't know, there was nothing to recognize, it was all the same: the moist green velvet light, the looming juicy green of vegetation, screams and leaping overhead, snakes like liberated vines. Fruit bats dangled, furry blotches in the dimness; they hadn't been in his dreams. He was walking in the direction the jeep had been going, that was all. 'It's as good a way as any,' he muttered. He mustn't stop, he mustn't falter; above all, he mustn't think about what he'd done in his dream.
The trees went on for ever. The world had turned into forest. The darkening path felt warm and soft as fur. A whirring overhead made him glance up. He'd thought it was a flock of bats, but it was a helicopter, invisible above the mass of foliage. It seemed a promise of help, until he realized that it could never land in the forest. The sound was already fading away to his left, away from the path he had to follow.
He couldn't know that; there was nothing to show that it was. His dream meant nothing, he mustn't trust a dream. But there was one thing he couldn't ignore: that long before his meeting with the chief, he'd already dreamed of doing what the chief had told him he must do. His innards were struggling now, rebelling. Just because the path was darkening, that didn't necessarily mean he was near his goal – but he would be there eventually, he had no choice but to act out his dream. He felt as if he weren't so much walking now as stumbling forward under the weight of that thought.
Isaac halted him. The translator was gazing about, holding up one hand for quiet. He stood for a while, then he shook his head. It had only been the helicopter. 'We should be stealthy now,' he whispered, 'in case we are near.'
Alan found his own voice was too shaky to control. 'Do you think we are?'
'I don't know. But we ought to be careful.' Isaac was gazing at him as if to discover how Alan would face what
lay ahead. 'I told you that they may hunt in packs – if they are the last traces of the original Ju-ju.'
But now it was Alan who was gesturing for silence. He'd been staring ahead between the trees, where the path darkened progressively. Now he saw why. A quarter of a mile or so further on, the foliage closed in, a tangle of young trees and creepers and vines. There was no longer a path.
He knew what that meant. In these last days in the forest, such places had been the only signs of humanity they had found: deserted native farms, cleared areas where plants and small trees had taken over. Why did the sight of this latest one make his throat grow dry and burning?
He was stumbling forward before he knew it, hardly aware of the leaf-mould beneath his feet, hushing his footsteps. As he approached the tangle of vegetation, not only dimness but silence closed in, as if the green wall could soak up sound as well as light. After the incessant clamour of monkeys and birds, the silence was suffocating. He could hear his heart, which sounded large, juicy, very soft. He felt intensely vulnerable and, despite Isaac, quite alone.
But the faint track was turning. It bypassed the impenetrable confusion of trees and undergrowth. For a moment he felt as if he'd been reprieved, as if he wouldn't have to do what his dreams and the chief and Isaac had all told him he must. He glimpsed dim conical shapes through chinks in the foliage.
'It's just another deserted village,' Isaac said.
Did he sound relieved? Nevertheless he was still whispering. 'Abandoned,' Alan corrected him, and halted, legs suddenly trembling. He had seen a gap in the tangle, a way through.
It took him a long time to step forward. He could see that it was the hidden entrance to a path. It had been made since the perimeter of the village had become overgrown – since the village had been abandoned. The place was not deserted.
The Claw Page 25
