Eye of the Needle(102)
“Downstairs,” she whispered. “Quietly.”
She held his collar and let him lead her down the stairs. In the darkness she felt for the banister, forgetting she had chopped it up for her barricades, and she almost overbalanced. She regained her equilibrium and sucked at a splinter in her finger.
The dog hesitated in the hall, then growled more loudly and tugged her toward the kitchen. She picked him up and held his muzzle shut to silence him. Then she crept through the doorway.
She looked in the direction of the window, but there was nothing in front of her eyes other than the deep blackness.
She listened. The window creaked—at first almost inaudibly, then louder. He was trying to get in. Bob rumbled threateningly, deep in his throat, but seemed to understand the sudden squeeze she gave his muzzle.
The night became quieter. Lucy realized the storm was easing, almost imperceptibly. Henry seemed to have given up on the kitchen window. She moved to the living room.
She heard the same creak of old wood resisting pressure. Now Henry seemed more determined: there were three muffled bumps, as if he were tapping the window frame with the cushioned heel of his hand.
Lucy put the dog down and hefted the shotgun. It might almost have been imagination, but she could just make out the window as a square of grey in the blank darkness. If he got the window open, she would fire immediately.
There was a much harder bang. Bob lost control and gave a loud bark. She heard a scuffling noise outside.
Then came the voice.
“Lucy?”
She bit her lip.
“Lucy?”
He was using the voice he used in bed—deep, soft, intimate.
“Lucy, can you hear me? Don’t be afraid. I don’t want to hurt you. Talk to me, please.”
She had to fight the urge to pull both triggers there and then, just to silence that awful sound and destroy the memories it brought to her.
“Lucy, darling…” She thought she heard a muffled sob. “Lucy, he attacked me—I had to kill him…I killed for my country, you shouldn’t hate me for that—”
What in the world did that mean…? It sounded crazy. Could he be insane and have hidden it for two intimate days? Actually he had seemed saner than most people—and yet he had already committed murder…though she had no idea of the circumstances…Stop it…she was softening up, which of course was exactly what he wanted.
She had an idea.
“Lucy, just speak to me…”
His voice faded as she tiptoed into the kitchen. Bob would surely warn her if Henry did anything more than talk. She fumbled in Tom’s tool box and found a pair of pliers. She went to the kitchen window and with her fingertips located the heads of the three nails she had hammered there. Carefully, as quietly as possible, she drew them out. The job demanded all her strength.
When they were out she went back to the living room to listen.
“…don’t cause me trouble and I’ll leave you alone…”
As silently as she could she lifted the kitchen window. She crept into the living room, picked up the dog and returned once again to the kitchen.
“…hurt you, last thing in the world…”
She stroked the dog once or twice and murmured, “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to, boy.” Then she pushed him out of the window.
She closed it rapidly, found a nail, and hammered it in at a new spot with three sharp blows.
She dropped the hammer, picked up the gun, and ran into the front room to stand close to the window, pressing herself up against the wall.
“…give you one last chance—!”
There was a scampering sound, from Bob, followed by a terrible, terrifying bark Lucy had never before heard from a sheepdog; then a scuffling sound and the noise of a man falling. She could hear Henry’s breathing—gasping, grunting; then another flurry of Bob’s scampering, a shout of pain, a curse in the foreign language, another terrible bark.
The noises now became muffled and more distant, then suddenly ended. Lucy waited, pressed against the wall next to the window, straining to hear. She wanted to go and check Jo, wanted to try the radio again, wanted to cough; but she did not dare to move. Bloody visions of what Bob might have done to Henry passed in and out of her mind, and she badly wanted to hear the dog snuffling at the door.
She looked at the window…then realized she was looking at the window; she could see, and not just a square patch of faintly lighter grey, but the wooden crosspiece of the frame. It was still night, but only just, and she knew if she looked outside the sky would be faintly diffused with a just-perceptible light instead of being impenetrably black. Dawn would come at any minute, she would be able to see the furniture in the room, and Henry would no longer be able to surprise her in the darkness—
There was a crash of breaking glass inches away from her face. She jumped. She felt a small sharp pain in her cheek, touched the spot, and knew that she had been cut by a flying shard. She hefted the shotgun, waiting for Henry to come through the window. Nothing happened. It was not until a minute or two had passed that she wondered what had broken the window.
She peered at the floor. Among the pieces of broken glass was a large dark shape. She found she could see it better if she looked to one side of it rather than directly at it. When she did, she was able to make out the familiar shape of the dog.
She closed her eyes, then looked away. She was unable to feel any emotion at all. Her heart had been numbed by all the terror and death that had gone before: first David, then Tom, then the endless screaming tension of the all-night siege…All she felt was hunger. All day yesterday she had been too nervous to eat, which meant it was some thirty-six hours since her last meal. Now, incongruously, ridiculously, she found herself longing for a cheese sandwich.