Spider Light(60)
‘That’s the fireplace,’ said Donna’s mother after a moment, and Donna tensed her muscles. In another two seconds she would move. ‘It’s quite big, isn’t it? And there’s the chimney breast going upwards.’
‘The drying floor must be directly over that chimney,’ said Donna’s father, sounding interested despite himself. ‘They’d spread the damp grain over it, and the heat of the fire would have dried it before it was milled.’
‘I don’t remember seeing that.’
‘I noticed it last time we were here,’ said Donna’s father. ‘On the side of the mill. It looked as if it had been concreted over, though. That’s probably why the air’s so stale down here.’
‘I don’t see the stone Donna talked about, do you? Unless it’s set into that wall—’
The unsuitable heels clattered across the floor, and there was a sigh of exasperation from Donna’s father–the enclosed rooms picked the sigh up quite clearly and sent it hissing back to where Donna was standing. Was this the moment? She tiptoed a couple of steps further along, hardly daring to breathe, placing her feet down slowly and carefully so that there would be no sound. If either of her parents heard her–if they turned round and saw her there–the plan would fail.
But they did not turn round and they did not hear her. They were examining the walls flanking the ancient kiln, shining the torch with ridiculous solemnity. Donna could have laughed aloud to see how pedantic they were being, trying to find a stupid, non-existent memorial stone.
She waited until they were at the furthest point from the door, and then set her own torch on the ground, making sure it would not roll away. OK, now for it.
Taking a deep breath, she ran forward, grabbed the edges of the thick steel door with both hands and threw her whole weight behind it. For the space of three heartbeats she thought it was not going to budge and panic threatened to engulf her, but then the massive door gave a teeth-scraping moan of protest, and moved away from the wall, gathering momentum as it did so.
The two people inside the room swung round at the sound, the torch fell from Maria Robards’ hands and rolled into a corner. Incredibly it did not shatter, and its triangle of brilliance lit up the scene like a stage set. Donna had a final sight of her parents’ faces, white with shock, their eyes suddenly huge with horror, their mouths forming round Os of fear. They both cried out, and then the door slammed home, cutting off all sound.
For several minutes Donna shook so badly she could not move. She knew she must get away from this place, but she sank to the floor, hugging her knees, her heart pounding as if she had been running hard.
After a while she managed to shine her torch onto her wristwatch. She felt as if she had lived through several hours, but incredibly it was only just on half past two. She must drive back to Charity Cottage, hoping not to be seen, and slip up to her bedroom. She had no exact idea how long it would take her mother and father to die, but if the room was airtight they could not last very long. Say two days. That meant she would have to delay the inevitable police search for at least that time. Could she lay false trails by saying they might have driven over to the other side of Amberwood? Yes, she could.
The shaking had stopped, and she stood up and placed the flat of her hands against the steel doors, pressing her ear to the surface. The doors remained immoveable, and there was no sound whatsoever from beyond them. I’m not sorry for what I’ve just done, said Donna silently to the two people imprisoned in the kiln room. You deserved this for trying to separate me from Don.
She picked up the torch and retraced her steps along the underground rooms and back up the stone steps. It was still only twenty minutes to three. By three o’clock she was back at the cottage, careful to park the car exactly where it had been parked all morning so it did not look as if it had been driven anywhere. She looked out of the kitchen window, and saw that Don was in the same place, sprawled on the grass, either listening to the Walkman, or asleep. Donna went into her bedroom; the curtains were drawn against the afternoon sunshine. She rumpled the bed so it would look as if she had been lying down with her headache.
At quarter past four she went downstairs, and saw it was clouding over. By half past it was starting to rain, and Don came in from the garden. They had a cup of tea, and by five o’clock they began to wonder what had happened to their parents, and what they had better do about looking for them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘Was it just for that–for a bizarre f*ck–that I did what I did that day at Twygrist?’
In the enclosed confines of the car parked outside the night club, Donna’s angry words lay on the air like acid, and the car seemed to seethe with violent emotions.
‘Was it just for a bizarre f*ck…’ ‘Don’t pretend. You know perfectly well what I did…What I did…WHAT I DID…’ The words seemed to burn into the darkness, and the echoes sizzled and spun around Donna’s head, along with the knowledge that he had not known, that if only she had not said that…
But horrified comprehension flared in Don’s eyes, in a voice of such loathing that Donna flinched, he said, ‘Oh Christ, Donna, you killed them, didn’t you? You shut them into that room. You’re a murderess.’
He turned away from her, slumping down in the passenger seat, not looking at anything, and after a moment Donna switched on the car’s ignition.