Weyward(84)

Think. Think. She opens her eyes. He’s knocking again, harder this time, punctuated by the thud of his bodyweight against the door. She’ll have to pull the ladder up inside the attic. It’s the only option. She switches on the torch of her phone. The old bureau is behind her. She hooks one leg around it to anchor herself, praying that Simon won’t hear, then shifts onto her side, before lowering her upper body through the trapdoor.

The blood rushes to her head, pounding like the sea. She grabs the ladder and pulls, wincing at the pain in her hand. Come on, Kate. Come on. Half the ladder is inside the attic now. Thank God there’s so much room in here. She scoots as far back into the attic as she can, tugging hard on the ladder. She can hear Simon pacing outside, occasionally pausing. She imagines him peering through the windows, looking for her.

Kate wonders how many seconds she has until he makes his way to the back of the house and tries the door. Five; ten if she’s lucky. Her arms burn, and there’s a scraping sound as she finally pulls the rest of the ladder inside. She yanks the trapdoor shut just in time to hear the back door swing open.





43


VIOLET


Violet was in the beech tree, looking down at the valley. Far below, the beck glinted like a golden thread. She could see the wood, a bruise on the land. Then air rushed at her. She was flying – away, far away.

The dream faded, and Violet swam up to consciousness. Outside, the wind had died down to a low whistle. The blankets were sodden with blood.

I began to dream of her, grown into a dark-haired beauty, but alone and bleeding in our cottage.

This was the fate her mother had foreseen. The fate her mother had done everything – had laid down her life – to alter. All in vain.

The candle was still burning, the flame quivering blue. Violet was cold, so very cold.

She lifted the candle and pushed back the covers.

It had worked.

There was nothing of Frederick inside her anymore. She was free.

It took her a long time to stand up. Her legs felt weak, and the room kept slipping in and out of focus. She was so tired. Perhaps she should lie back down and sleep, she thought. Close her eyes and return to the beech tree, feel the sun and wind on her face. But the thing, the thing that had come from Frederick – she had to get rid of it.

She felt her way into the other room, gripping the cool stone of the wall. She needed water, food. Her fingers shook as she cupped water from the bucket and drank. It took an age to open one of the tins of Spam. Her hand slipped and the metal sliced into her palm, the blood welling up in bright drops. Her head buzzed and she sat down at the table heavily. The blood on her nightdress was beginning to crust and darken into brown peaks and swirls, like a map.

The Spam gleamed pale and wet in the tin. It made her think of the spore. She pushed it away. The wind had picked up again and she sat for a while, listening. The wind had a peculiar high pitch to it, almost like a human voice. Violet, it seemed to say. Violet.





44


KATE


Kate puts her hand to her mouth, tasting blood.

Below her, the floorboards creak as Simon stalks through the cottage.

‘Kate?’ he calls. ‘I know you’re in here. Come on, Kate, you can’t hide from me.’

She can hear him opening cupboards then slamming them shut again. There is the crash of porcelain on wood from the kitchen. He swears loudly.

She listens to the click of the back door opening. He’s looking for her in the garden again. Kate takes the opportunity to light some candles, fingers trembling. The shapes of the attic emerge under the orange glow of the guttering flames. The bureau. The shelves, with their glass jars of insects. Being surrounded by Aunt Violet’s things makes her feel a little bit stronger.

She needs the police. She pulls her phone from her pocket and dials 999, listening for the sound of him coming back into the house. The reception in the attic is patchy and the connection drops out after the first ring.

Swearing under her breath, she tries again.

‘Emergency, which service do you require?’

She opens her mouth to speak. The back door clicks again.

‘Hello? Which service do you require?’

The footsteps are in the hallway now. They stop. She hangs up the phone. There is no sound other than the beat of her heart in her ears. Kate thinks he must be directly beneath her. She is gulping at the air now, her breathing fast and ragged. What if he can hear it?

He must be looking at the trapdoor. Wondering what it leads to. Wondering if it leads to her. Tears sting her eyes as she remembers all the times he’s hurt her. She touches the scar on her arm. All those years she’s lost. Six years of cowering from him, of letting him tell her she is stupid, incompetent. Worthless. The fear is replaced by a hot bolt of fury.

He’s not going to hurt her again. He’s not. She won’t let him.

And she won’t let him anywhere near her child.

The footsteps start again. She hears him walk into the sitting room. There’s a faint creak as he settles onto the sofa. She can picture him, staring at the window, waiting for her to come home.

Kate shifts position, slowly and carefully. She looks at her phone: the reception bar flickers. She needs to get help – she should have dialled 999 as soon as she saw those messages, but her mind was too blurred by panic, by the need to hide. And now it’s too late for her to call. He’ll hear her, and discover her hiding spot.