He leapt from his chair and staggered away. The point tore his coat. What she needed to tell him fused into a mass and would not be said. There was nothing to say any more. If he wanted so crucially to lead anyone, let him lead that remnant of himself which might yet redeem him as the good person he could well be in some unreachable part of himself. He saw clearly what she demanded from him, but he would not do it. She lifted the knife again.
He stared at the razorsharp blade in the hope perhaps that she would stare back long enough to be hypnotized into losing her determination. His lips were about to say something. He would try to argue, but if she replied with words it would weaken her stance. Words were finished. When in his presence they seared her too painfully.
He darted, speedy as a cat, to grab her arm. She stood aside and brought the knife against his hand. He squealed. It was real. He went back to the door, afraid to turn and open it in case the knife burned into his back. He held his wrist high, and blood came from an opening cut. The insanity was in her own eyes, and she prayed he would leave. But she would neither ask nor order. He had to go without words. Words were finished.
She flexed her body. He saw the movement. His cry suffused him with shame at having to plead, but it was a shame which gave him courage to stay where he was. He would fight for his life. He shifted as if to come forward, but it was hopeless because he could no longer take her by surprise. He noted her knuckles whiten at the grip, and her left hand come out as if to give a firm balance.
His smile was a sign of wanting to placate her, almost of surrender, and stopped her hand lifting for its final drive. His features, bunched like a baby’s about to weep at some primal disappointment, caused her to brace herself for a sly attack. His life was saved. She lowered the knife, but lifted it not quite so high. She hadn’t lived with him twenty years for nothing. No sudden attack was possible, because the gleam of the blade was sharper than any eye.
There was a rattle at the door. Inside or out, she didn’t know. His unwounded hand clutched the knob. He didn’t want to go, needed to speak, to plead, to get the knife clear and batter her to death. She watched the flicker of his eyelids when he tried to look directly at her. He wasn’t able to, as if he would go blind should he succeed. His hand motioned for peace, while his head was fixed at an angle that only allowed him to see the floor.
Her terror was in abeyance while she waited. However abject, he could leap like a tiger, but the cold air kept her alert, and if he ran she would kill. He wouldn’t force her. She would force him. The rattling of the door knob was to distract her. His eyes looked up, and she swung the knife.
The sleeve of his suit was soaked. The twitch of his face and the sway of her knife came out of the same impulse. An ache pained him. His eyes pleaded for her to speak. Any words from her would have been balm, but she couldn’t trust him. Trust also was finished. It was an all-or-nothing game, and she hoped to die rather than have it go on by his rules.
She knew what he wanted. Her whole being told her to soothe him with a few words so that he would go away as a human being and not some animal set on revenge for his humiliation. That too was another of his tricks, and she wouldn’t let it take her over. He would lead her no more. Everything that would be to his advantage contained disaster for her. She must stand where she was and stay alert, eyes never ceasing to look in his direction no matter what the effort.
He made croaking sounds, held up his arm and patted the patch where it was wet. She stepped towards the window-sill till the wall was close. She found it hard to prevent her hands laying down the knife, or letting it fall out of the window, or rushing at him in an unstoppable fury and thrusting the blade again and again into his body till she crumbled under a final desertion of strength. Either course seemed overwhelmingly desirable. It was harder to stay silent and ready. The uncertainty of each second was impossible to bear.
The unexpected touch of the sill at her back was a signal. All air seemed ripped out, either as if she would faint, or as if she had infinitely more strength than she knew what to do with. She advanced towards him with unmistakable intention.
He opened the door and ran.
She shouted at the top of the stairs for him never to come back. The front door slammed, shaking the balustrade.
She gripped with both hands. The knife, hurled after him, had clattered on to the landing below. She went down to pick it up, thinking to run on to the street and shriek so that he would know he had reduced her to the lowest common factor of his imagination as far as women were concerned. This couldn’t be the end. Wanting to kill, she was still part of him, and so needed more than ever to destroy him.
After picking up the knife, she stopped. If she maimed or murdered she would be part of him for ever. She felt only humiliation and sickness. If she killed him she would not be part of him. It was a lie.
9
With trembling hands she laid the knife in the drawer. Looking in the mirror, there was nothing new in her face except fear. She leaned against the glass and cooled her forehead. She forced a smile, but tears were falling. The grimace mocked her. Setting the clock upright, she saw that only twenty minutes had gone by since her dream had been riven by his banging at the door. She wiped the tears angrily, and felt jubilant.
But she curbed her exultation. It was unworthy, a madness too similar to his. There was much still to be considered. The fight was only half done. It would never be done. She didn’t know where they were.
His car was still in the parking bay. She closed the window. Why hadn’t he gone? A middle-aged woman walked with a dog along the street. Low clouds were about to spill rain from a darkening sky. A man in the distance already wore his umbrella, and a car went by with small lights on and wipers going. They’ll have a rough trip home. She cursed the motorway that put them only two hours from London. It used to take at least double, coming through all towns en route. Maybe he wouldn’t be so ready another time. He would bandage his cut by using the first-aid kit in the car, nursing the ache every mile north. One of the others would no doubt drive, if he was conscientious about earning his fee. What year did they imagine they were living in, to think they would get her back with them? Their Neanderthal bellies still thrived on the Wars of the Roses. In this day and age you had to fight with a knife to beat them off. She could hardly believe what had happened.
The door would not lock, but she closed it to begin packing. The sooner she fled the better. She should get properly dressed, go out, and walk back and forth by the police station. But even that might not do any good. She had to live without safety. At least in Clara’s flat there was the obstacle of London to deter them from a quick foray. She washed her tears at the sink, unwilling to let them turn her into the animal they wanted her to be. There was no need to despair, she said, looking into her long mirror.
The window tempted her again, but she was afraid of being seen. She looked, and saw their car had gone. Conscious of victory, she felt proud of having got rid of them by herself. Tom would be back, but there’d be no need to mention her struggle, since both she and he would soon be in a place where such struggles would not occur.
She packed shoes and dresses, folded skirts, blouses and underwear into her case. How many more times would she do it? The oftener the better. It didn’t take long. Say goodbye to Judy, wedge their things into the car, then go to the estate agent’s to settle the rent. The picture was clean and beautiful. They would drive away. Let the rain come. There would be occasional sunshine from now on. Didn’t expect it. Didn’t care. A thunderous noise sounded on the stairs.