Spider Light(109)
The hands of her watch crawled around to two, and Donna cautiously pushed the rug aside, sat up, and checked that she had everything she would need. She had fixed on two as the best time to make her move. The police were unlikely to be around at that hour–they had had five or six hours to pursue their investigations and they would hardly be searching the grounds in the pitch dark. The only real risk facing Donna was getting Antonia out of the cottage and into her car, but the car was parked close to the front door and she did not think the risk was so very great. It would mean driving down the narrow access road and onto Quire’s main carriageway but she thought she could do that without switching on the car’s lights and the cottage was far enough from the main house for the engine not to be heard.
She half-crawled, half-slid across to the trapdoor, and working with infinite patience, lifted it out and set it down on one side of the opening. It made the barest scrape of sound–nothing that could possibly be heard below. She secured the hooks of the rope-ladder to the edges of the opening, and climbed down. This was not an entirely silent manoeuvre but she prayed Weston would be asleep. Once on the stairs she took the sandbag from her anorak pocket. Now for it, you murderous bitch!
It was briefly disconcerting to discover the bedroom was empty. Donna stared at the unoccupied bed. Had Weston gone back to Quire House to sleep, and Donna had not heard her go? No, she was still here, Donna had heard her making tea and moving around. And she could feel her presence in the cottage now. She began to steal down the stairs.
As soon as she saw the spill of light from the sitting-room she understood that the creature had remained downstairs for the night in case of a break in. Very clever, Dr Weston, but not quite clever enough. This is it, Donna. This is what you’ve waited five years to do. Her heart racing with a mixture of nervous tension and pulsating excitement, Donna pushed the door wide and went into the room.
There was a deep satisfaction in seeing Weston’s terror as she started up from the sofa, and there was an even deeper one in bringing the sandbag smashing down on Weston’s skull.
She went down as easily as Greg Foster had done, and an emotion so overwhelming and so vast gripped Donna that for a moment she was quite unable to move. She stared down at the unconscious figure. She had never seen Antonia Weston close to; she was smaller than Donna remembered from the trial, and she was thinner. Older. But even though Donna knew she must move quickly, she could not stop looking at the woman who had killed Don. She had not known she would feel like this–exalted and excited–and she had not known that she would hiss those last words to Weston. ‘All this is for Don,’ she had said, because it suddenly seemed vital that Weston understood why she was being punished. Had that been a touch foolhardy? Not really. Antonia would not be able to tell anyone; she would not speak to anyone ever again.
Donna sprinted back up to the landing, and climbing onto the bathroom stool again, dislodged the rope-ladder and slid the trapdoor back into place. She returned the stool to its rightful place, and coiled the rope ladder around her waist; it could easily be burned or flung into the Amber River later on.
She opened the front door, and glancing round to make sure no one was about, unlocked the door of Antonia’s car. Then she hooked her hands under Antonia’s arms, and dragged her out, tumbling her onto the back seat. She fell in a twisted huddle that looked painfully uncomfortable. Good. Donna went back into the cottage and looked round. Had she left anything that might provide a clue? No. She closed the cottage door, hearing the lock click home.
Her own car was parked about half a mile from Quire, well off the road and hidden by trees. She would have preferred to be driving it now for this difficult, risky journey, but it might be seen and recognized, or traced afterwards. It did not matter very much if Antonia’s car was seen although it must not be seen before she was clear of Quire’s gates. Hardly daring to breathe, Donna fired the ignition and steered slowly through the darkness onto Quire’s main carriageway. Nothing stirred anywhere and she went through the gates without mishap. Then she switched on the headlights and drove towards the road that led to Twygrist.
At first Antonia was not sure where she was.
She thought, to begin with, that she had fallen asleep on the sofa of Charity Cottage. There had been a clock ticking. Then she thought she was back in prison, huddled onto the thin bed in her cell, dreading the morning.
But as consciousness returned, she realized she was in neither of these places. She seemed to be lying not on a bed or a couch, but on a hard cold surface. The smells were all wrong for prison or the cottage, wherever this was, it was filled with a stifling sourness, like the soot from a very old chimney.
She opened her eyes to nothing. The pitchest of pitch blacks. Panic swept in instantly. I’m blind, she thought. No, I can’t be. But surely nowhere could be as thickly dark as this. She brought her hand up in front of her eyes, and could not see it. Panic clutched her all over again. I am blind. I’ve been ill or I’ve been in an accident–a road smash–and my head must have been injured because it’s aching dreadfully. I don’t know where I am, but I don’t think there’s anyone here with me.
Her mouth felt dry, but she called out, ‘Hello? Is someone here?’ and heard her words whispered eerily back to her. Someone here…S-s-someone here…here…HERE… And then they died away, and there was only a feeling of emptiness. Then I really am on my own. Oh God, where is this?