Roots of Evil(71)

His mind finally snapped out of the frozen paralysis, so that he could think logically again. His father was not smiling, of course. His lips had a blueish tinge and they were slightly open. They were expressionless, giving nothing away. It was the other lips directly underneath, the lips of the deep, gaping wound across his throat that curved into that dreadful grin, and that glistened wetly with blood…

He’s cut his throat, thought Edmund. That’s what’s happened. He found the old-fashioned razor and then he got into a hot bath, and he slashed the razor across his throat. That’s what I’m seeing. I’m seeing someone who no longer wanted to live.

A dozen different emotions were scalding his entire body, but at last he walked across the damp tiles. The hot tap was still dribbling into the bath; moving like an automaton he turned it off, and then reached into the still-warm water for one of the flaccid hands, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. And Crispin’s skin was unmistakably lifeless. Dead meat. But I’ve got to make sure, thought Edmund. How about a heartbeat? It was unexpectedly distasteful to reach into the warm water to touch the bloodied chest, but it was necessary. Don’t think, said his mind, just do it. You’ve got to make certain beyond all doubt that he’s dead. If you phone an ambulance now, that’s what they’ll tell you to do. The flat of your hand against the left side of his chest. A bit higher. That’s about right. And if there’s the least sign of anything beating—

But there was nothing at all, and at last Edmund stepped back from the bath, suddenly realizing that he was shaking violently, and that despite the warm damp bathroom he was icily cold. He leaned back against the wall, wrapping his arms around his body as if it might bring back some warmth, staring down at the thing that had been his father. For several moments he fought to remain in control, because he must not give way to nerves or confusion, he must not…And looked at logically, there was nothing in here that could possible hurt him or threaten him.

Or was there?

The trembling had stopped and he was just gathering himself together to go downstairs to the phone, to summon ambulances or doctors, or whoever else might need to come out to deal with a dead man in the middle of the night. It was then that he caught a flicker of movement on the rim of his vision, and he spun round at once, his heart leaping up into his throat. Someone here? Someone hiding in the tiny bathroom, standing in the pale mistiness watching him? He remembered what his father had said earlier. ‘Listen,’ he had said. ‘It sounds like someone creeping up the stairs.’ Edmund felt the blood start to pulsate inside his head again.

And then he realized that what he had seen was his own reflection in the big oak-framed mirror above the washbasin. A small nervous laugh escaped his lips, releasing some of the throbbing tension. Only his own reflection.

Or was it? He peered through the wisps of vapour. The surface of the mirror was still patchily misted, but wasn’t it a subtly different Edmund who stood there; an Edmund who was somehow more definite, more vivid? An Edmund whose hair seemed almost to catch an unseen shaft of light, so that it gleamed faintly red…

Edmund moved one hand experimentally, and the other Edmund moved his hand also, but not quite in synchronization, more as if he was sketching a half mocking, half amused salute from the depths of the glass.

I’ll always be with you, Edmund…

The memory made Edmund’s lips twist in a brief acknowledgement that was almost a smile. At once the image in the mirror gave the same near-smile as well, and this time there was no doubt about it; this time the smile was definitely not his own. It was the smile of a young man who once upon a time had possessed sufficient charm to attract a wicked, mischievous lady – a lady with skin like porcelain and hair like polished silk…A young man who had killed and escaped the consequences of killing…A young man with hair the colour of honey with the sun in it, and a smile filled with charm…

Crispin. Crispin standing in the mirror’s smoky depths, looking out at him. Speaking to Edmund inside his mind.

I’ll always be with you, said Crispin’s voice, just as it had done when Edmund was very small. Remember that, Edmund…You won’t need anyone else, because whatever you do and wherever you go, I’ll always be there to help you…



After a long, long time Edmund remembered that there was still a world beyond the house, and things that must be done, and somehow he got to the phone to dial the GP’s night service. An impersonal voice answered and Edmund said, in a perfectly calm tone, that his father had just died, and that he was on his own and he had no idea what he should do but he thought he had better start with his father’s doctor.

Yes, he was quite sure that life was extinct, he said. No, there was no possibility of survival whatsoever. So could the doctor – or one of his partners – come out as quickly as possible? Yes, he understood that it might take a little time to locate whoever was on call. No, of course he would not leave the house in the meantime. He wondered if the owner of the voice suspected him of preparing to zap off into the night to whoop it up somewhere while rigor mortis set in on his father’s corpse.

But he listened to the explanation about calling 999, and then said coldly that in view of the fact that his father was undoubtedly dead there did not seem much point in summoning the emergency services who might be better employed elsewhere, to say nothing of waking the entire neighbourhood with sirens and flashing lights. What he needed, he said, was a doctor and an undertaker, and he did not mind in which order. The voice appeared to find this an inappropriate remark, and said primly that an on-call doctor would be there as soon as possible.