The Paying Guests(110)
She nodded to Lilian, caught hold of Leonard again, and began to back her way down the stairs.
It was terrifyingly different from crossing the level floor. She had to grope blindly with her foot for each step, taking more and more of the weight of the tilting body as she descended. Lilian, above her, struggling for footholds of her own, held on to Leonard’s trouser-cuffs for as long as she was able, but soon one and then the other slipped from her fingers; the force of his collapsing limbs sent Frances swaying backward and she cried out, imagining herself going tumbling down with the body coming heavily after her. Sweating, straining, she at last found her balance, and managed the rest of the descent without Lilian’s help, simply hauling Leonard down like a sack of potatoes, so that his feet bumped and bounced about on the stairs and against the banisters.
At the bottom she let him sag completely to the floor and stood doubled over, panting after her breath. But she felt more exposed and anxious here, more impressed by the horrifying reality of it all. If her mother should walk in now —! The thought made her reach for Leonard again. Her arms, however, felt as though they’d been half torn from her shoulders, and her hands, for the moment, had lost their power to close. She plucked uselessly at his body, another wave of panic running through her. They couldn’t get him back up the stairs now, even if they wanted to!
She hooked her wrists under his armpits and nodded to Lilian. ‘Help me!’
But Lilian, after following her down, had sunk on to the lowest step. She was shivering. ‘I need to rest, just for a minute.’
‘There isn’t time. Come on!’
‘I can’t, Frances.’
Frances’s voice burst free by itself. ‘You made us do this! You have to! You have to!’
And as the cry faded there were footsteps in the street, followed by a man’s voice, and laughter: the sounds seemed to pass hideously close on the other side of the shut front door, and made them both leap back into life. Frances caught up the body properly and, again, began simply to drag it. ‘Go on ahead of me,’ she panted to Lilian, and Lilian, with a sob, scurried past her to get the back door open. The heels of Leonard’s shoes were leaving long scuff lines on the floor of the passage; now his foot caught the leg of a table and pulled it inches out of place. But Frances kept on without a pause, staggering backward into the kitchen and across to the open door, then practically falling down the two worn steps that led to the yard. And then she was out in the damp, coal-scented night. Lilian, following, was silhouetted for a moment in the bright oblong of the doorway, but once the door was closed the yard was lighted only by the glow of the curtained kitchen window, and seemed full of shadow.
Frances, in sheer relief to be out of the house, let go Leonard’s body so that it slumped forward like a Guy Fawkes over its own splayed legs. She went to the wall of the WC to lean against the bricks. Her arms were trembling, the strength in them gone. It was as much as she could do to raise a hand to her sweating face. She lifted the hat from her forehead and it felt like something made of lead.
Even now, though, they mustn’t rest. They must keep going. The yard was not so dark, after all. She could see very clearly Lilian’s ash-pale, tear-wet features. She could make out Leonard’s lolling hands, the white of his cuffs and his collar, the yellow cushion bound so grotesquely to his head. But she was conscious, too, that what they had to do next – get him down the garden and into the lane – was the most dangerous part of the whole business. She had to gather her thoughts, hang on to her nerve. She beckoned to Lilian, felt for her hand, and spoke in an urgent whisper.
‘We’re nearly there. It isn’t far now. Say, fifty steps. You can take fifty steps, I know it. But, listen. This is important. Once we’ve started down the garden we mustn’t let Leonard drop. We mustn’t let his feet drag, even. There mustn’t be any marks on his clothes or his shoes to show that he’s been carried. You understand? Lilian? You’ve got to keep tight hold of his ankles. We’ve got to go quickly, too, but silently. As silently as we possibly can. Now, wait here. I’m going to go a little way down, to be sure that no one’s about. Keep him like this, with his shoulders high —’
‘Don’t leave me with him!’
‘Just for a moment! Keep him like this, away from the wet ground.’
Lilian’s fingers clutched at hers, but she broke free and stole across to the start of the lawn. She picked her way along the path and then she paused, turning her head. The darkness here was much deeper than the darkness of the yard, and there was mist and chimney-smoke in it, making the air feel flannelly. Even so, the sensation of openness and exposure was terrifying. She could hear no voices or movements from any of the gardens close by, but beyond the wall, through the leaves of the trees, she could see lights at the Goldings’, lights at the Desboroughs’: that meant that any of her neighbours, should they chance to be looking out, could also see her. Or, could they? How concealing was the darkness? She wasn’t sure. She ought to have tested it. She ought to have made Lilian come and stand here while she herself remained indoors, peering out from her bedroom window. There wasn’t time for it now. Lilian’s strength was failing. Her own was failing, too. And in any case, she thought again, what else could they do? Having brought Leonard down here, they had to get rid of him somehow.
Making her way back to the yard, looking again at the rosily lighted windows of her own and her neighbours’ houses, she had the stifling sensation that she was putting herself beyond the reach of those warm, ordinary rooms, cutting herself off for ever from all that was decent and calm.