Spider Light(65)

There was something wrong with the front door, something different. The glass panel, was it? Oh God, the glass panel had been smashed–that was why there was glass all over the ground–which could only mean someone had broken in. Her mind went instantly to the silent watcher, and there was a moment when she thought–Don? And then the thought was crowded out in the desperate concern for Richard.

She could never afterwards recall if she had shouted Richard’s name as she stepped into the hall. She went straight to the music room–Richard’s beloved sanctum sanctorum where he worked and planned and dreamed–and she knew she had not cared whether the burglars might still be in there.

There was a sliver of light in the room, because the street lamp outside shone in through the big uncurtained windows. It illuminated the overturned furniture, smashed ornaments and rucked-up Chinese rug near the fire. There was a puddle of red wine on the edge of the rug: Richard sometimes had a glass of wine around half past seven. He must have done so tonight.

Then she saw him. He was lying on the floor, near the glossily dark piano–the baby grand that had been lover and child and parent to him for as long as Antonia could remember–and it was not red wine on the carpet after all, it was blood…Someone had stabbed him, using a kitchen knife, driving it into his neck–she could see the dreadful gaping wound. She could see where blood had sprayed onto the wall, and she could see the knife lying on the floor. Richard’s hands were covered in blood, and Antonia had a swift, dreadful image of him struggling to pull the knife free, and trying to stop the spurting blood. But he would have been dead inside a couple of minutes. Even so she bent over the still form, feeling for a pulse, praying to find one. Nothing. Of course there was not. Even a cursory glance showed that his killer had stabbed straight into the carotid artery.

His killer. There was a movement from the deep bay window, and a dark figure stepped from the shadows. Antonia gasped and instinctively stepped back to the door, one hand going to her mouth. Whoever broke in, whoever killed Richard was still there. She sent a quick glance towards the half-open door. If she was quick, could she get down the hall and be out into the garden before he reached her?

The figure moved again, and Antonia saw who it was. Don Robards.

Fury rose up in her so overwhelmingly that she forgot about her own danger, forgot Don was a patient, a recovering suicide, and forgot Jonathan’s belief that he was on the verge of delusional behaviour. She went across the room, grabbed his arms and shook him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘You evil bastard!’ shouted Antonia. ‘You’ve killed him! You’ve killed Richard!’

‘I didn’t kill him,’ said Don, but even in the dimness Antonia could see he was staring at Richard’s body. ‘I didn’t,’ he said again, more loudly this time. His hands curled around Antonia’s wrists, frighteningly strong. ‘I don’t understand what happened–I came in here–I had to see you, Antonia. And then I realized he was lying on the floor—’

‘You killed him!’ cried Antonia. ‘Of course you did. You’re blacking it out.’

‘I came to see you,’ he said, and even in the dim room the vivid eyes were hurt and puzzled. ‘I thought you had abandoned me. You stopped seeing me–I couldn’t bear it. You made me go to that man at your clinic. Dr Saxon.’

He pulled her against him; Antonia fought like a wildcat, but his hands were like steel clamps. ‘Let me go!’ she said.

‘I thought at first you’d done it deliberately,’ he said, as if she had not spoken. ‘So I wouldn’t be your patient any longer. So we could be together.’

‘We’d never have been together! You’ve been fantasizing about me–you’ve been following me—’

‘But then I realized we couldn’t be together while you lived with someone,’ he said, as if she had not spoken. ‘I thought you lived on your own, and then last week I saw that man. I was watching from the road. The lights were switched on because it was getting dark, and he was sitting at the piano. I watched him for ages–he was playing, but he kept breaking off to write something on the music. And then I saw you come into the room, and he smiled at you, and I saw he wasn’t just a friend.’ A note of almost childlike hurt came into his voice. ‘How could you do that to me, Antonia?’ he said, and began to drag her across the room. For a nightmare moment Antonia thought they were going to trip over Richard’s body, lying in its own blood.

‘But it’s all right now,’ Don was saying, ‘because he’s dead. He is dead, isn’t he?’ He stopped and looked down at Richard’s sprawled body. ‘I don’t think,’ he said, in a conversational tone, ‘he put up much of a fight. Bit of a weakling, really. How could you be in love with a weakling, Antonia?’

Antonia, her mind still spinning with agony, cried, ‘He’s not a weakling! He’s a cripple! For the love of God, that’s his wheelchair lying on the ground! He hasn’t been able to walk since he was eight years old!’

Tears were pouring down her face, but Don seemed unaware of it. He began to pull her from the room. His face was flushed and his eyes were brilliant with madness. Antonia fought him off furiously, kicking him and trying to claw his face with her nails.

Through the blazing hatred and the bitter anger that were almost overwhelming her, she was aware of falling back against the piano–Richard’s piano–and then of being pushed onto the ground. Don’s hands were tearing at her jacket, and pushing beneath the thin sweater she was wearing under it. He was breathing excitedly, and lying half on top of her–his breath smelt of whisky and Antonia felt the hot hardness of his excitement against her legs. Sick revulsion swept over her.