An Unwanted Guest(61)
She must not fall asleep. She gives her head a little shake, trying to stay awake.
Gwen catches David’s eye across from her, but she cannot tell what he is thinking. Does he think Ian is the killer? If Lauren was in the sitting room, then they can’t be sure where Ian was when Candice was killed. But then, they can’t really be sure where any of them were at the time of the killings. That’s the problem, it’s all so confusing and unclear, and she’s so tired she can’t think it through …
She drifts off for a moment and then wakes with a start. She shifts her position, fighting to stay awake. This is her second night of almost no sleep. She wishes again that she had something to protect herself with. But the truth is, even if she had a knife, she doesn’t think she could use it. If the killer came for her, or for someone else, could she plunge a knife into his neck? She looks at Ian, staring moodily into the fire. Could she plunge a knife into Ian’s neck? She studies his neck, the Adam’s apple that protrudes ever so slightly. She watches him swallow in the firelight, unaware of her scrutiny, of what she’s thinking.
She doesn’t think she would have the guts. She shivers beneath the thick wool blanket that covers Lauren and her. She reaches for Lauren’s hand beneath the blanket and holds it. Lauren squeezes her hand back.
Sunday, 4:05 AM
‘We should kill him,’ Henry says into the dark without warning, ‘before he kills us.’
David feels the small hairs on the back of his neck stirring. It’s as if everyone has stopped breathing. He takes a deep breath and says, his voice outraged beneath the evenness, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Henry – we don’t know that Ian killed anybody.’
Henry says recklessly, ‘It’s him or us!’
He’s in no mood to listen to reason, David realizes. They are all reaching breaking point; perhaps Henry has just reached it first.
David glances quickly at Ian; he looks petrified.
David gets angry then, at the recklessness of it. ‘We can’t just murder him.’
‘Why not?’ Henry says. ‘It would be self-defence!’
David shakes his head at Henry. ‘You fool,’ he says, raising his voice. ‘It would be murder in cold blood. We don’t know that he killed anyone. Look at him, cowering in his chair. There are seven of us, and only one of him. Do you really think you can kill him and get away with it? You want to be judge, jury, and executioner all at once?’ He can’t help it; the outrage has taken over, and comes through loud and clear.
Henry grudgingly settles back into his chair, his face hidden in shadow.
Sunday, 4:59 AM
Henry’s eyes flutter. He’s having a dream, a very unpleasant dream, that he is paralysed, that he can’t move, can’t act. He’s had this dream before – it’s symbolic of course, but it has never seemed so real. He’s held fast inside this nightmare. He can’t move his arms, or legs, not even his fingers or toes. He cannot move his tongue, which feels thick in his mouth. The only thing that is alive is his brain, his mind.
He realizes now that something is terribly wrong. He’d been sleeping, but this isn’t a dream. He tries to speak, but he can’t open his mouth, can’t form any words. It’s difficult to swallow. He thinks his eyes are open, but he can’t move his eyelids, and all is darkness. He can’t see anything – it’s as if a black film has fallen over his eyes, like that moment before you pass out. He knows he’s dying but he can’t tell anyone. He wants to flail and thrash to get their attention, but he is unable to. He knows where he is, even though he can no longer see. His sense of smell is still working, and he recognizes the scent of the logs burning in the fireplace; it reminds him of Christmases as a boy. He’s still in the lobby of Mitchell’s Inn, and the murderer has got him, too.
Chapter Thirty-one
Sunday, 6:30 AM
OUTSIDE THE HOTEL, wild things scurry and howl in the forest. The wind has dropped to a whimper. The sky is just beginning to lighten in the east, but inside, it is still dark, and quiet as the grave. Suddenly the chandelier overhead flickers and turns on, flooding the lobby with light. The remaining guests stir and look up in surprise. There are sounds of whirring and clicking as various parts of the hotel come back to life. The power is back on.
David, who hasn’t closed his eyes all night, glances first at Gwen, who appears to be asleep, her dark lashes a smudge against her pale face. She’s breathing peacefully, for the moment at least. Lauren is curled beside her. He shifts his eyes next to Beverly. She’s looking at him, blinking in the sudden brightness.
‘The electricity’s back,’ she says with feeling. ‘Thank God.’
At the sound of her voice, Gwen stirs, opens her eyes.
Lauren straightens up suddenly on the sofa. ‘Hallelujah,’ she says.
Matthew and Ian shift beneath their blankets; David doesn’t know if they were ever really asleep, but they’re wide awake now. James is slumped in his chair; his eyes are open, and David can’t tell if he’s slept at all.
Now Beverly gives a startled cry, and they all quickly turn her way. She’s staring at Henry.
‘Henry!’ Beverly cries. Her face is aghast, and she shakes his arm.
But there’s no mistaking that Henry is dead. He’s perfectly still in his chair, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, his mouth open. In the light of the chandelier his face has a hideous pallor.