The Claw

by Ramsey Campbell

  As the door opened, Anna moved. She had to, otherwise it would have knocked her down. She dodged behind it, out of sight for the moment, and watched in helpless terror as mummy came into the room.

  Mummy was smiling. Her smile was crueller even than her outstretched nails: it wanted Anna to know that she was trapped, that there was nobody to help her, especially not Granny Knight. It wanted Anna to realize what was going to happen to her now. It grew wider as mummy glanced around the room. 'Flaying games, are we?' mummy said softly. 'I know you're here waiting to be rescued. I'll rescue you, you little maggot.' She was reaching behind her to close the door.

  Anna tried to duck under mummy's arm, to dodge round the door before it closed, before mummy noticed where she was. But there wasn't room. Her head bumped mummy's arm, and Anna screamed. Everything seemed to slow down like a nightmare: mummy turning triumphantly on her, her smile widening and her eyes gleaming as she jerked the door towards her, trapping Anna between the door and herself. 'So there you are, you little insect,' she said, grabbing Anna with her other hand.

  Anna wrenched herself out from between mummy and the door just as mummy's hand closed on her shoulder. Mummy's nails ripped her blouse and her skin, but Anna was free and running desperately out of the room. Mummy slammed the door to trap her in it, to squash her in the opening like the insect she'd said Anna was. She was a fraction too late. Anna was beyond the door and on the stairs, almost falling. She couldn't hear her own feet on the stairs for her screams.

  The door of daddy's workroom slammed open before she was halfway down the first flight of stairs. She fell then, clutching wildly at the banister, managing to hold on just as her feet struck the edge of a stair. The impact hurt her ankles terribly, but her only hope was to run downstairs – otherwise she'd fall. She hadn't time to regain her balance, for mummy was already on the landing.

  She ran limping and sobbing to the front door, and fumbled with the latch. Her fingers felt like someone else's, swollen and clumsy; she was terrified that any moment she'd forget how to open the door. As the latch clicked and she remembered to pull at the door, mummy came into the hall.

  She wasn't smiling now, though she was showing her teeth. Anna remembered a dog she'd once seen, dribbling white froth. Mummy had hugged her and told her not to move until men in uniform had come in a van to take the dog away. Mummy looked like that dog now – her face did, as she came rushing down the hall at Anna, her long nails reaching for her.

  How could Anna turn her back on her? But somehow she did, and fled screaming into the fog, which surged forward as if it were helping mummy, telling Anna that she was trapped, that there was no point in running. It made her feel that she wasn't running at all, just trying to struggle through the grey that hardly moved, while mummy overtook her easily, nails stretched out to drag her back. When she reached the gate and limped out onto the road, she felt she'd run almost as far as she could.

  But she could hear a car, on or near the road to the village. Was it Granny Knight's car? It didn't matter who it was, surely they'd hear if she screamed loud enough for help? She ran along the slippery road, screaming at the top of her voice. Her throat felt scraped to shreds by her cries and the fog she was sucking in.

  She hadn't reached the road to the village when she stumbled to a halt. She couldn't hear the car any longer. She began to sob, and then she held her breath, she tried to be completely still, not even to shiver. She couldn't hear mummy either. She didn't know where mummy was, how close she might be in the blinding fog.

  She'd started to cough, and then to sob because she couldn't suppress her coughing, when she heard the car again. It was on the village road. She wanted to scream for help before it went away, but she made herself be quiet, even though her throat was burning with the urge to cough. In a few moments she was sure that the car was coming back.

  Granny Knight must have heard her. She ran towards the village road, screaming Granny Knight's name. It took her so long to reach the road that she thought she'd run past it in the fog. But here it was at last – and here on the verge at the corner, a silent figure was standing. She was dodging away from the looming figure, screaming louder and more desperately, when the fog thinned and she saw that it was the signpost, its pointer dripping like a nose. How could she have thought it was mummy? But any looming shape in the dense fog could be; Anna still didn't know where mummy was.

  She limped along the village road as fast as she could. Whenever she slipped on the glistening tarmac, shapes lurched at her out of the fog. She hadn't the breath to cry out now, even though the car was nearer. In a few minutes she saw its lights, steaming like ice. The light touched her and probed beyond her, picking out a crouching shape about to leap. The shape was a stile. The car had halted a few yards from her, and the door behind Granny Knight was opening. Once Anna was in the car, she would be safe.

  Then the man who'd opened the door climbed out and came toward her, and she began to scream.

  It was daddy, but all she could see were his nails. They were longer than mummy's, and they were reaching for her. As she stumbled backward away from him, she caught sight of his face. It looked worse than it had the night he'd gone away: it was white and hungry and desperate, the face of a stranger who was hardly even bothering to look like daddy. As he opened his mouth to speak, she shoved her hands over her ears and fled screaming, without the least idea of where she was going, back into the fog.

  Fifty-one

  Liz had almost reached the village road when she heard the car turn back. She ran until she came to the dripping signpost and halted there, clutching her chest, which felt raw, full of fog. She'd never catch Anna now, she could hear how far ahead the child was. As she clawed at the signpost, a splinter painful as a red-hot needle dug under one nail, frenzying her, but it was no use: Isobel had heard the child's screams and was coming to save her. She was welcome to the little bitch.

  Liz paced forward, just to hear what they said about her. They'd never see her in the fog. Once she'd heard what Anna said, she would steal away into the fog, which she hoped would never lift. Anna had made her like this, forcing her to creep about in the fog, having to hide from Alan. By God, she wished she could give the little bitch what she deserved.

  She stopped, because the car had. The only sound in the fog was the quick flat slap of Anna's footsteps on the road. Fog drifted about Liz's face, wiping out her sense of distance. She couldn't tell how far away Anna was, but if she could hear her running, she'd be able to hear what she said. When she put her hand over her mouth and nose so as not to cough, she felt as if she were clawing her own face in frustrated rage.

  Then she strained forward like a runner at the start of a race. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. She stole forward almost before she even realized she was moving, and then she began to grin. Anna was screaming and running. She was running back towards Liz.

  Liz crept forward swiftly, enjoying her stealth. Her speed felt effortless; she seemed fluid as the fog. She still couldn't judge how close Anna's limping footsteps were; they sounded flattened, and so did the muffled argument Alan was having with Isobel; running and voices merged into a single plane. Perhaps Anna thought she was fleeing towards their voices instead of away from them.

  Then Isobel raised her voice. 'Oh, can't I make you understand? She locked the child up. Anna must have been upstairs all the time we were there. If you knew how she'd been treating the child since you went away, you wouldn't find it so hard to believe. That's only one of the things she's been doing.'

  So Isobel knew everything, did she? So much the worse for Anna: there was no longer any reason for Liz to hide what she meant to do. Liz was loping silently towards Anna's limping footsteps; already her throbbing fingernails felt as if they were embedded in her flesh. By God, Anna would pay for betraying her to Isobel and Alan. She didn't care if they were so near; their presence only made her more eager to deal with Anna once and for all. The fog would help.

  She faltered f
or a moment as the car started, then she ran faster. She was still making very little noise. The car would herd the child towards her. She ran a few steps, then she halted, for even her stealthy movements were making it difficult for her to hear. So was the car, and she had to strain her ears for a frustratingly long time before she was sure that she could no longer hear Anna.

  Was the child standing still, waiting for the car to pass? Or was she tiptoeing? She might tiptoe past Liz in the fog. Liz stood in the middle of the road and glared around her. The child wouldn't escape her this time. Liz would have to dodge out of the way when she saw the car's lights, but they wouldn't see her. The car was approaching too slowly to take her unawares.

  It was the fog that made it seem so. Suddenly the smouldering beams of the headlights found her, splayed past her, lit up a movement on the verge to her left. She spun round, lurching that way to give Anna no chance to escape. But it wasn't Anna, it was a protruding clump of hedge.

  Her mistake, and her rage at it, blinded her for a moment. Suddenly she was slithering on the wet road, but she didn't realize how badly she'd lost her balance until she fell. The tarmac hit her like a mallet as big as she was. She tried to suck in a breath that would help her throw herself out of the path of the car, but the car was coming too fast. Liz couldn't believe what was happening. As she raised herself on her hands to hurl herself aside, the front of the car rammed into her chest, smashing her backward on the road.

  Fog poured into her body, and she was somewhere else, high in the grey air or across the invisible fields, hearing the belated screech of the brakes, the distant slam of car doors, voices that ebbed and surged, clear then muffled, then clear again. 'Oh my God,' Isobel was saying over and over like an evangelical record that had got stuck. 'Oh my God.'

  Liz wished she could see Isobel's face, because for the first time in her life Isobel sounded as if she cared about her. All the same, she was glad to be so far from her own body, otherwise she wouldn't have been able to bear the growing pain. The whole front of her body was turning into pain. Hands touched her, she didn't know whose. 'You'll have to get to a phone,' Alan said in his new voice. 'I don't feel up to driving.'

  Isobel had regained control of herself. 'You can't leave her on the road, not in this weather.'

  Silence, grey: perhaps Liz had drifted away. 'If we're going to move her at all,' Alan said, 'you might as well drive her to the hospital.'

  Metal noises, the hatchback being lifted, the back seat folded down. Liz was floating – no, hands were lifting her. It felt as if her pain had made her soar into the air. When they laid her down, nothing beneath her felt solid. 'You're coming too,' Isobel said, suddenly alarmed and startlingly close.

  'I must get Anna. There she is.' Footsteps were running away. When he shouted Anna's name, the footsteps quickened. 'She must be heading for Derek and Jane's,' he said.

  ^ 4 I can't let you go by yourself, not the way you are.'

  'I'm all right. Just let me take care of myself for a change. You get Liz to the hospital,' he said more gently. 'I can deal with things here, don't worry.'

  Liz heard him running after Anna, then hood's door slammed. She could imagine Isobel shaking her head sadly, blaming Liz for his stubbornness. It didn't matter: Liz was floating away from her pain, and she didn't want to come back. Wait – wasn't there a reason why Anna shouldn't go to Jane's cottage, why she oughtn't to be there with Alan? The car started gently, and her pain surged up. She couldn't have stayed even if she'd wanted to. She was floating away where there were no more thoughts.

  Fifty-two

  Anna closed her eyes, which were smarting with the fog, and clung to the signpost, though the wood oozed like a snail in her hand. The ground squelched under her feet, mud was seeping into her shoes. Fog drifted toward her and away, making her feel as if she were swaying. She wanted to run and never to stop, but she couldn't go on until her heart slowed down. Besides, she wasn't sure what she had just heard.

  She couldn't think, she couldn't plan. Her heart felt as if it was thumping her to pieces. Daddy had almost caught her, and then mummy had. When the car with daddy in it – if he was still in it – had started after her, she'd taken to the grass verge, sobbing inside herself and shaking as she'd tried to creep along. She'd been abreast of mummy before she'd seen her; the fog had parted and shown her mummy a few steps away, glaring about, looking for her. Anna had wanted to scream and give up, but she hadn't been able to; her feet on their aching ankles were still moving, smuggling her past in the fog. The fog had closed before mummy had seen her, and she'd stumbled as far as the signpost and was clinging there when she'd heard the sound.

  It had something to do with the car. She'd heard a thud, and the car had stopped. Now Granny Knight was crying, 'Oh my God,' over and over. Perhaps the car had gone off the road and crashed into something; perhaps that was what the voices were muttering about now – but Anna couldn't tell whose voices, or even how many. It wouldn't help her if the car had crashed; it would only mean that Granny Knight, who might still be on her side, would be left behind by mummy and daddy while they hunted Anna in the fog.

  She heaved herself away from the spongy signpost and began to run. She was weeping as the glare of the fog stung her eyes, weeping with hopelessness. She couldn't head for the village, and it was too far to the hotel. She could only run toward Jane's.

  They'd heard her. The muttering stopped, and daddy shouted her name. She ran faster, taking to the verge to make less noise. She could hear daddy running to the signpost, coming after her along the coast road. She could hear the car. It was heading for the village.

  So Granny Knight didn't care what happened to her. Mummy and daddy must have said something to her, to make her believe they weren't going to hurt her. Anna had no breath left to scream, and in any case, Granny Knight wouldn't believe her screams. The car dwindled into the fog and then, suddenly, between two painful heartbeats, it was gone. All Anna could hear now were daddy's feet padding quickly after her.

  She couldn't hear mummy. She fled along the verge, terrified in case mummy had sneaked ahead of her and was waiting to pounce. Dripping grass-blades slashed at her, fog oozed back along the slimy hedges; underfoot the grass was slippery as polish. Whenever she slipped, she felt as if she were at the edge of the cliff, falling toward the sea she couldn't hear.

  Daddy had stopped shouting her name. The fog made it impossible for her to tell whether or not he was catching up with her; his footsteps sounded closer than her own. He'd stopped shouting so that he could hear her better. He was going to catch her. All he had to do was run faster than she was running, along the road.

  She dodged, sobbing, off the grass verge, towards the edge of the cliff. She had no idea how close it was. She felt she must be near Jane's by now, but perhaps that was just wishful thinking. The fog dragged over the grass, which looked coated with it; blades nodded, as if the passing of the fog had forced them down. The road had vanished, and the fog seemed to be spinning around her now; there was nothing to hold her sense of direction. She shouldn't have left the road, because now she couldn't hear daddy any more – or anyone else who might be coming for her. Was someone watching her, just at the edge of her eye? When she turned there was nothing but a fading glimpse of red.

  She stumbled through the unkempt grass, and felt as if her feet were sinking into the soggy ground; mustn't quicksand feel like this? She wasn't running so much as putting her feet forward to stop herself from falling. She hardly knew where she was, or what she was doing. When she finally reached a landmark she knew, she was almost in it before she remembered what it meant.

  It was the blackberry thick: t. That meant she wasn't far from Jane's, though she wasn't as near as she'd been praying. She could follow the path through the mounds to the field next to Jane's house. The blackberries would hide her. She limped between the first of the dark thorny mounds.

  At once she wished she hadn't. The mounds and the fog made her feel closed in, unable to get out of th
e small dark grubby place that was growing darker and grubbier. As each mound swelled up out of the fog she thought that it was lying in wait for her, and then that something behind it was. She would have turned back, except that her sense of being followed was even stronger. That made her run wildly, flinching as each new mound loomed up, but now the blackberries were trying to catch her too, thorny tendrils fastening on her clothes. When they caught her they felt like claws, like mummy's or daddy's fingernails tearing at her flesh. Once, when she swung round to disentangle herself, there were no thorns at all, only a blur of red in the closing fog. The red must be berries – the tendrils must have let go and sprung back, but she had no time to be sure, she was too busy running and sobbing.

  By the time she realized she'd strayed from the path between the mounds, she didn't dare turn back. Now she wondered if that flash of red really had been berries after all. She was struggling along a side path and praying it would take her out of the mounds, crawling as thorns closed overhead. When thorns clawed her shoulders, she felt as if someone had leaned down to scratch her, like a cat playing with a mouse. The blurred shapes that loomed over her seemed red more and more often now, but she couldn't raise her head to see.

  She wormed her way between two mounds, sobbing because there was nothing left of her except the urge to sob. Sand squeezed under her nails, sand rubbed her sides; it felt like salt in a wound. What was it that kept looming over her and at her back besides the thorns? She struggled among the blackberry roots, so wildly that she dislodged part of one mound, uprooting part of the tangle overhead. The net of thorns was falling on her, it would hold her until daddy and mummy came with their nails that were worse than thorns. But she heaved herself out from between the roots with an effort that left her back a mass of scratches, and suddenly she was out of the thicket.