The Wife Before Me(97)

‘You can silence me but that won’t stop the truth coming out. You killed those men and you would have killed Mark, only your luck ran―’

This time he brings her to the floor. Struggling for breath, she coils away from him in a vain effort to avoid being kicked.

‘That fucking paedophile had it coming to him, and so have you. I’m going to shut your mouth once―’ He stops in mid-movement, the admission he has made freezing him into a shocked silence.

She is dragged upright and shoved against the wall. He runs his hands roughly over her. The coldness of his touch against her skin is petrifying as he searches for the wire he believes she is wearing.

‘You lying, vicious bitch,’ he whispers. ‘Where is it?’

She has trained for this moment, dreamed of it, visualised it in her imagination. When she drives her knee into his groin and his body doubles over, his lips puckering with pain, she feels a brutal rush of satisfaction. Is that what compels him to behave so monstrously? The intoxicating sensation of being able to reduce someone to a whimper or to absolute silence?

When he straightens, his hands pressed against his testes, she drives her fist into his chin with such force that his head snaps back. She only has an instant to push her advantage before he retaliates, and he is too fast for her. She staggers back, her ears still ringing from his earlier blows, and falls clumsily against the stacked logs. They clatter as they roll over the floor and he, startled by the noise, bends to pick up a log. He remains in that crouched position, his eyes fixed on the wall, his head moving closer to study it, his breath whistling through his teeth as realisation dawns on him. Triumph blazes through his pain as he grips the log and stands. She lifts her arms to protect herself and manages to blunt the force of the blow to her cheek. Her eyes roll as red stars spin. She knows what he is going to do. Helpless to intervene, she watches as he presses the switch and the panel begins to slide across.

He calls out to Amelia. Her name on his lips becomes a moan, fury and longing dragging the harsh sound from him. He will recognise her instantly. The fall of her hair and its unusual blonde sheen diminishes her features but he will identify the oval sweep of her face, her almond-shaped eyes, her nose with its slight tilt, the full lips he kissed so often. Elena pitches into unconsciousness, or so she believes, as the room darkens and he is lost from sight. But how can this be oblivion when the pain in her face is too severe and her fear too overpowering?

She tries to concentrate. This must be an electrical outage. Amelia had spoken about them, how their unpredictability often hampered her work. She hears Nicholas curse as a log rolls under his foot. The thud of his body when he falls. He is close to her. She smells his sweat, shot through with his aftershave, a sharp citrus scent that he orders from abroad. He scrabbles across the floor, trying, like her, to find his bearings in this impenetrable blackness. Blood streams from her nose and bubbles in her mouth. Silently, afraid to make a sound in case she draws him to her, she tries to prevent her stomach from retching. Her cheek is swelling rapidly and tightening her skin. She suspects that he has broken her cheekbone. Does terror have its own unique smell? If so, he will be upon her soon. Nicholas does not need light to kill.





Sixty





The gardai are on their way from Rannavale. Amelia phoned them as soon as Nicholas admitted he had murdered her father. But they will arrive too late. She tests the tip of the knife against her finger. It is the same knife she placed on the table when Elena first came to Mag’s Head. It’s impossible to see in front of her but she heard the soft whirr as the panel slid across. Her hiding place has been discovered. She expects the light to return at any moment and expose her. When that happens, she will plunge the knife through his heart.

Elena is in danger. Amelia heard her cries but she has been silent since then. Which way to turn? She keeps a store of candles and a storm lantern for such emergencies. Usually when there is an outage she can find her way to the sideboard where she keeps her supplies, but she is lost in this darkness, unable to make out anything familiar that will guide her towards Elena and away from Nicholas.

Her task had been to record him, Elena’s to goad him into an admission. The eerily familiarity of his taunts, as fresh as yesterday, had stirred up emotions she believed she had overcome. That fucking paedophile had it coming to him… those words pound inside her head. She had hoped desperately that, somehow, Elena had got it wrong when she came to Mag’s Head the second time with her horrifying revelations. To believe that her father was struck down by the man she had married seemed too heavy a burden to carry. Now, she has recorded the truth. Enough proof to put him behind bars and give her the freedom to reclaim her life.

She takes one step forward but stops short when she hears Elena moan.

‘Damn you, where is she?’ Nicholas shouts. ‘If you don’t tell me where she is I’ll… I’ll…’

She hears his panic, his fear that his threat will be recorded. He is disorientated also but he has found Elena. His hands are clasped round her neck – Amelia recognises that strangled wheeze and is horrified by the thought of knowing he can take Elena’s breath away if he decides to apply more pressure.

‘I’m here, Nicholas,’ she says. She grips the knife tighter and raises it. ‘Leave her alone and I’ll come to you.’

‘Amelia.’ He doesn’t sound surprised. ‘I knew I’d find you, even if it took a lifetime to do so.’