Spider Light(80)
Next to the chopping board was a long sharp-bladed knife and the next piece of the puzzle slid neatly into place. She had intended to use the paperweight for the next stage of the plan but the knife would be far, far better. In three paces she was across the tiled floor and had picked it up. Even through the cotton gloves the thin blade felt strong and as if it was sizzling with its own energy.
She went stealthily back to the hall. Had the musician heard anything? No, he was still playing. Very good; now for the light. It was necessary to switch that light off. She dare not risk being seen in case things went wrong and the man was able to identify her later on.
Nothing would go wrong, but Donna preferred complete darkness, which meant either switching the light off in the room itself–which was clearly impossible–or finding the mains switch.
There was often a cupboard under the stairs for electric meters and switches, or even a cellar, but there were no stairs here, and the bungalow looked a bit modern for a cellar. How about a pantry in the kitchen? Or a cloakroom out here in the hall? As the thought formed, she saw the door midway along the hall, on the other side to the music room, and saw that it was the kind that had slats in it–louvres, weren’t they called? A cloakroom? A meter cupboard?
She moved silently forward, and inched the door open, every nerve stretched in case it made a noise. But it did not, and she breathed more freely. Inside, were several coats hanging up–the kind of semi-battered jackets most people kept handy for dashing out to post a letter in the rain or collecting the Sunday papers–together with a couple of umbrellas and wellingtons. It was all a bit higgledly-piggedly. Bit of a slut when it comes to housework, are you, Doctor Weston? I suppose you’d say you hadn’t time for housework, what with your patients, what with your musician, what with your toy boys…
But there, behind the door, was a row of switches with modern trip-switches, and if the cupboard itself was a bit untidy, the switches were all marked. Heating. Lighting. Cooker. Power. Mains. Mains. A smile curved Donna’s lips and, keeping a firm hold of the knife with her right hand, with her left she reached up to the mains switch and depressed it.
There was a soft click, and the bungalow fell into thick cloying darkness.
But it did not fall into silence. The piano-playing–the jeering prancing music that had whispered its jibes into Donna’s mind–continued.
For a moment this almost completely unnerved her. For several panic-filled moments she had absolutely no idea what to do. She had no idea why the man was continuing to play. Surely anyone, suddenly plunged into what would appear to be a power cut, would display some form of exasperation, break off whatever he or she had been doing, and go in search of candles and matches? But the pianist did none of these things; he simply went on playing, and the more she listened, the more Donna could hear a frightening madness within the music. Things jeering, things mocking…We know what you’re going to do, Donna…
There was a moment when it suddenly occurred to her that the man might be blind–you often heard about blind people being musicians. Then she remembered the first time she had seen him he had broken off his playing to scribble notes. Not blind then. But there’s a madness in here–I can feel there is, and I can feel that it’s very close to me indeed.
Had the man heard her break in after all? Was he ignoring her in the hope that she would go away? Was he so arrogant he had assumed she was just a common house-breaker who would go away if ignored, or was he simply a coward?
It did not much matter what he was, because he was about to die. He was about to die so that Antonia Weston should suffer. Her hatred of Antonia enveloped Donna’s whole being, sending her courage and resolve sky high. She was ten feet high, she was a giant–a giantess!–she was unstoppable and invincible and she could do this and walk away scot-free, exactly as she had done at Twygrist that day.
As she pushed the door wide, no longer worried about being heard, the voices of the music demons were all around her, laughing and jabbing into her mind, urging her on, saying, Go on, Donna, go on…Let’s do it, Donna, let’s do it…
The man reacted at last. As the door crashed back against the wall, he stopped playing and turned his head. Donna could see him outlined against the uncurtained bay window. Incredibly he was still seated at the piano, not even bothering to stand up: simply sitting there, waiting and watching her.
He said, quite coolly, ‘I suppose you’re after money. The desk’s by the window, and there’s plenty of cash in the drawer. Take it and get out.’
The sound of that cool, unafraid voice in the dark room sent bitter fury boiling up. Out of the scalding waves of pain and anger, came a voice that screamed at this smooth-voiced pianist, that it was not money she was here for, it was justice and punishment.
The sound of this shrill voice filled the room. The man stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment and then said, ‘Oh God, you’re high on drugs or something, aren’t you?’ and the pity in his voice slammed into Donna’s mind like a blow. The voice screamed again, shouting that she was not high, she was not some squalid drug addict. But somewhere under the screaming was another voice, saying don’t lose your cool, Donna, stay with the plan.
The plan. Donna snatched at the word and held onto it like a talisman, and the out-of-control voice shut off. In two bounds she was across the room, the knife lifted high above her head. It came down in a sizzling arc, printing a razor-line of brilliance on the dark room, and it came down on the man’s neck exactly as she had planned. He half fell back against the piano with a cry of pain and shock. Aha! you weren’t expecting that! Blood spurted from his neck, coming at Donna like a fountain warm and thick. Disgusting! You hadn’t allowed for the blood, had you, Donna? You forgot it would shoot out like that. You’ll have to burn every stitch of clothing you’re wearing, and bath and wash your hair a dozen times tonight to get rid of the smell and the feel—Stop that! Never mind about the blood, you need to find out if he’s dead, that’s what you need to find out now.