The Wife Before Me(98)
‘Elena, are you okay?’ she calls into the darkness. She imagines Nicholas straining blindly towards her voice.
Elena doesn’t reply but her abrasive breathing is still audible.
‘Switch on the light, Amelia.’ He has moved closer to her.
‘I didn’t create the darkness,’ she says. ‘You did, as soon as you came into our lives.’
‘Don’t lie to me.’
‘The electricity has gone. I can’t fix a power failure.’
‘But it wasn’t beyond your power to come back to life. Or to carry another man’s bastard to full term. Whore.’
A citrus scent cloys the air. On a weekend trip to Paris, she had bought the aftershave for him in an exclusive men’s boutique. He had liked it enough to continue ordering it. Now, she recoils from the scent and the memory it stirs.
The shutters rattle as the wind sweeps in from the ocean. They are normally secure enough to withstand the weather and the sudden noise startles her. It also offers her a sense of direction. If she moves to the left, she will reach the window and from there she can feel her way to the door. If only she can find Elena and bring her to safety.
She has always believed that the thick, stone walls of Clearwater would protect her, that if danger threatened her it would come from outside. At night, lying in bed and listening to the pitch of the wind, she would compare it to the exultant strains of an overture but, now, it is a gale of unconstrained fury. The walls shudder from its force. She feels the vibration in her feet and wonders if the floor has been charged with electricity. The glass panels of the front door shatter. This is not a gale, Amelia thinks. It’s a tornado roaring through the hall and twisting its way towards them. The living room door bursts open. She braces herself against the onslaught. Objects fall around her, crashing, clanging, thudding. She hears Nicholas grunt and the dull thump of his body as he hits the floor. She drops to her knees and crawls forward. Her hand touches something soft. Flesh, stubble. Nicholas is flat on his back and silent. She touches his closed eyelids, feels the rise and fall of his chest. Her arm is steady when she lifts the knife.
The wind dies away as suddenly as it whipped up. Someone or something has entered the room. A new energy is breaking through this rage that has consumed them all. Elena moans. The anguished sound stops Amelia, forces her to concentrate. She lowers the knife and the urge to kill her husband passes from her like an exhausted sigh.
The outage is over. Light floods the room. Books have been blown from their shelves, cushions and throws scattered, pictures tilted. A hand sculpted in glass, palm curled in supplication, lies beside Nicholas’s shoulder. The wind must have hurled it from its position on the windowsill and smashed it against his forehead. She is amazed it did not break when it fell. His eyes are closed, his mouth a rictus of shock and pain. The swelling on his left temple shows where he took the blow. Up close to him, she sees that he has changed little over the years since she left him, yet she notices, as she never did before, the dominant thrust of his eyebrows, the aggressive slant of his chin. Now he is unconscious and unable to project his charm, the finely chiselled lines of his face map his true personality.
Her only concern is escaping from him before he recovers consciousness, and bringing Elena with her. She kneels beside her and feels her pulse.
‘Elena. Elena… can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’ Elena’s voice rasps as she slowly uncurls from her foetal position. Her face is streaked with blood. She struggles to open her eyes but the swelling on her cheek has already closed the left one.
‘Can you stand? Amelia whispers to her.
Elena nods, but cries out when Amelia helps her to her feet. ‘Have you got the evidence?’ She is still dazed and disoriented, yet aware that this is all that matters.
‘It’s on a memory key,’ Amelia reassures her. ‘I’ve contacted the gardai in Rannavale. They’re on their way but it’ll take time to reach us. Lean on me. We have to get out of here before he comes to.’
The feel of the knife in her hand repulses her. She stretches up to the top shelf of the bookcase and shoves it out of sight. The hall door is still open. Shards from the shattered glass panels crunch under their feet. One glance at the gate tells them that escaping in her jeep is impossible. Nicholas has blocked their exit with his BMW.
‘I’ll have to go back and get his keys.’ Amelia tries to disguise her fear, yet it ripples from her to Elena.
‘You can’t,’ she whispers. ‘He’ll kill you. Leave me here and find somewhere to hide. I’ll only slow you down―’ She presses her hands to her head and staggers, almost falling before Amelia steadies her.
She opens the door on the passenger side of the jeep and helps Elena up into the seat. ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ she promises as she shoves the keys into the ignition and closes the door quietly.
His black bomber jacket is open, the quilted lining visible. He used to keep his keys in an inside pocket and that is where she must search. She kneels beside him and folds back one side of the jacket. The pocket is zipped but she sees the bulky shape of his keys inside it. The thought of touching him is petrifying but his stillness might not last much longer. Her hands shake so much she has to pause and breathe deeply. Carefully, she pulls at the zipper. It refuses to budge at first and she is forced to apply more pressure before the zip slides across.