But the dining-room made her more uneasy. A pan of milk stood on the polished mahogany table; the skin on the milk was greyish and pockmarked, it made her think of things that had gone bad. Next to the pan one of baby Georgie's feeding bottles had dribbled on the polish. On the mantelpiece and on a chair she saw half-eaten sandwiches. A fly buzzed past in front of her eyes, and she flinched back so violently that she almost lost her balance.
She didn't know why, but she was even more afraid now that she was in the house. She was afraid to stay where she was, afraid to go on, afraid to run out of the house. Just now she wished she could run out, for the smell of staleness was making her sick; it was closing around her, worse than the fog. There was something about it that made her think of animals, of the zoo. The sense of things hiding in the corners, or somewhere near her in the grubby dimness, was growing. If the door into the hall hadn't been ajar, she might just have stood there, too afraid to move.
She managed to slip into the hall without making a noise. If someone was here, shouldn't she want them to come to her? The smell was even thicker and more sickening in the hall. Fog and condensation crawled up the front-door panes, the living-room door stood open just beyond the foot of the stairs. On the hall table between the two doors, the telephone was perched on top of a pile of directories.
She hoped that Derek wasn't in the cottage, because the phone was more reassuring. She could call the police. They'd come and take her away – they had to when your mummy and daddy were going to harm you. She limped forward, making no noise on the crumby carpet but no longer caring if she did. She was at the foot of the stairs, a few paces from the phone, when she heard daddy opening the kitchen door.
She began to shiver so badly it seemed her legs might give way. She clung to the slippery post at the foot of the banister as her body leaned forward as if it had somewhere to go. She couldn't run, he was too close, but perhaps she could keep out of his way. She could hide upstairs, if only she could sneak up. There was a hiding place in Georgie's room.
She'd hidden there before. She'd squeezed into the cupboard full of toys and poked her head out to make baby
Georgie laugh. Daddy would never think of looking there, only mummy and Jane knew, and they weren't here to tell. Nobody was. Nobody could save her from him but herself – and she couldn't move.
Her mouth shook as she bit her lip to keep in her scream. She didn't realize she had wet herself until her scratched legs began to sting. The discomfort made her legs move before she could control them, and the movement frightened her so much that she dodged up three stairs. There she froze, terrified to go further. She had forgotten which stairs creaked.
She was clinging to the banister, shaking from head to foot because she'd realized that she shouldn't have dodged upstairs at all but out of the house to hide while she'd had the chance, when she heard a creak. It wasn't the stairs, it was below her. Perhaps he was already in the hall.
She remembered how he looked. Though she was shuddering with unvoiced sobs, she began to drag herself upstairs by the banister, clambering desperately upward before he could see her. Her wet thighs rubbed together, stinging. The discomfort and her shaking made it impossible for her to choose where she trod on the stairs.
There were fourteen stairs above her, and it seemed to take forever for her mind to count them as she climbed. The banister felt like a balloon that was leaking; the stairs were swaying, stairs in a fun house that was no fun at all. She didn't dare look down for fear that she would see daddy, his blank eyes gleaming, his nails reaching for her. The fourth stair from the top began to creak under her foot, and she heaved herself upward away from it so desperately that the banister creaked instead. Blind with terror, she dragged herself up to the landing, trying not to touch the last three stairs.
The fog and the stale fat seemed to have gathered up here; the light was yellowish, the smell that made her think of a zoo was stronger; she had to press both hands over her mouth to stop herself from coughing. Downstairs the hall floor creaked, and only the stinging of her thighs prevented her from running.
She was passing Jane's and Derek's bedroom now. It was even more of a mess than downstairs. The bedclothes looked like giant knots, the drawers of the dressing-table lay all over the floor; Jane's make-up was spilt on the carpet, smashed jars and bottles covered the floor under the grey swirling window. Jane must have made all this mess, she must have been looking for something. Anna hadn't time to wonder what that might have been, for now she'd reached the door of baby Georgie's room.
She had to go in. She couldn't stand here waiting to be found, she'd scream and never stop until daddy came up to her. The yellowish light was settling on her eyes, and she felt as if they were clouding over. She reached out one shaking hand and clutched the doorknob, but she couldn't turn it. She was sure that if she looked into the room she would see baby Georgie, who was dead.
The hall creaked. Even that couldn't make her open the door. Though she didn't know what had happened to Georgie, she knew it had been horrible from the way everyone had avoided talking about it in front of her. If she opened the door he would sit up in his cot. What would he look like now he was dead?
Something creaked below her. Perhaps daddy was on the stairs now, perhaps he had heard her up here. Her fear of him was even greater than her fear of Georgie's room. Her hand was prickly with sweat, it felt as if the doorknob was electric and she couldn't let go. When she turned the doorknob convulsively she wasn't so much opening the door as falling forward into the room.
Georgie wasn't in the cot. She saw that at once, for the cot was splintered against one wall. His toys were scattered everywhere, but he wasn't in the room. She could see now why it was so foggy upstairs; his bedroom window was open a few inches at the bottom. She'd reached her hiding place; there was nothing to be frightened of in the room -and yet she was.
It wasn't just the dimness of the room, which was the fault of the fog. It wasn't the smell, though the room smelled more like a zoo than the rest of the house – a zoo at feeding time, she thought, without knowing why. It was the feeling that what had happened here was still here, even if she couldn't see it: baby Georgie's death.
She spun round, almost falling, thinking she'd seen red. It couldn't have been at the window: how could a red face have looked in up here? It hadn't been the mobile of six silver birds, still turning in the air above where the cot had stood; it hadn't been any of the Fisher-Price toys, rattles and music-boxes and an activity centre, though there was red in some of those. She mustn't waste time looking, she had to get into the cupboard before daddy came upstairs. She was stooping to the cupboard when she caught sight of the patch of red above the cot.
She stared at it, and then she shuddered away. She didn't want to know what it was. It wasn't really red, it was more brownish – a splash of reddish-brown as wide as her chest, high up on the wail. It looked as if a large egg had been smashed there, an egg full of-… She didn't want to know, she hadn't time to think. She got down on her hands and knees, all her limbs threatening to give way, and pulled open the cupboard doors.
Derek had built the cupboard into one corner of the room, with doors full of slats like wooden Venetian blinds. It reached to the ceiling and opened to reveal several shelves, strips of wood resting on wooden brackets screwed into the walls, several strips to a shelf. Toys were piled on all the shelves – so many toys for just a baby: Anna had heard mummy say once that Jane kept buying toys to try and keep him quiet. There was just room beneath the bottom shelf for her to squeeze in; at least, there had been a few months ago.