“ Oh, this is where I want to go, is it?” Sibilants hissed viciously.
“ Don’t try that on with me, you bitch. Just don’t try.”
The van edged forward; she seemed hardly in control of her limbs. Her voice shook. “Well, you tell me where you want to go.”
“ Don’t try that, either. You won’t confuse me, don’t bother trying. Shall I make him scream? Will that help your driving?”
The van advanced, inexorable as her nightmare. What could she say that he wouldn’t distort, that wouldn’t madden him further? All at once he shouted “Stop here.”
He was going to finish them. The night was on his side; there was nothing but dark for miles. “Stop here,” he snarled again before, dully, she could do so.
The headlights made a milestone blaze. She felt him leaning forward. The razor was approaching. Sickened, she lowered her head to hide her throat beneath her chin. But he was staring beyond her. “There it is,” he said.
He was gloating again. What hallucination was he seeing, out there in the dark? “You thought you’d pass it when I wasn’t looking,” he muttered. “Very clever of you. But you didn’t succeed, did you? Left past the milestone. That’s where we’re going.”
At last she had to move the van. Reluctance weighted her limbs. If he had mistaken the landmark, what would he do then? If not, they were approaching the end of the journey. What had he in store?
To the left of the milestone was a road of sorts. It wound uphill. The van lurched and swayed, almost beyond her control. Where was the razor? She fought the wheel as the van plunged splashing into a flooded dip.
The road writhed unpredictably. Her surroundings were included in her nightmare now, a maze of stone and blinding darkness. Infrequent slate walls blazed spikily. Trees glinted with raindrops, as though the branches were crowded with watching birds. For a moment she saw their bodies, black and still.
She felt as though she were struggling with fever. She was suffocated by the churning of the van, its monotonous frustrated roaring, the vindictive antics of the road, the stench of petrol, the ominous silence behind her. How long was it before a grey shape loomed ahead – a slate box, a building, a cottage? “Here we are,” the man said.
Exhausted and almost resigned, her shoulders began to slump. Could this really be the destination he’d taken so much trouble to reach? Was he unable to see that the windows were empty, the door askew? Shadows peered out at the van. The cottage could not have seen a light at night for years.
She heard his indrawn breath. Oh God, he’d seen! Would he turn on her now, or force her to drive until the petrol gave out? But he sounded as though he’d had a sudden inspiration. “Just keep going until you’re told otherwise.”
The van ground uphill. The road climbed tortuously. The wheels slipped on fragments of slate, screaming. Objects plodded out of the night – a dead tree split down its middle; a small cairn, half collapsed. Now there was a notice-board, lying on its face beside the track. What did it say? Her light had scarcely touched it when he said “That’s right. Stop here. We’re going to stretch our legs.”
She tried to grasp her frantic thoughts. Once they were out of the van, could she knock him down and drive away with Peter? His limp would help her outrun him – but she must be able to make a quick getaway. “Shall I turn the van?” she said, praying that it didn’t sound like a plea.
“ Oh yes, you do that.” He sounded indifferent or secretly amused.
She had turned it only halfway – it was facing across the track, illuminating a waste of surfaces of slate – when he said “All right, stop now. Leave the key in the lock or whatever you call it. Now get out.”
She would be leaving Peter alone in the van with him. The jagged slate was harsh underfoot. The headlamps spotlighted the bare grey stage. She stood gripping the door, unable to move away. “Go on, Catherine Angela Gardner,” the man said.
How could he know her name? His voice sounded like the sentence of a judge in a nightmare. The blade stirred restlessly. Bewildered, unable to hold onto her thoughts, she backed away slowly.
“ Keep going. Get away from the van. Right away. Now stay, you bitch.”
She could see nothing within the van. The headlamps blazed at her; above them the windscreen was opaque as thick ice. The silence isolated sounds of muted scuffling. Please let him decide that he wouldn’t drag Peter, please let him come out alone. She would win somehow. Every loose chunk of rock was a potential ally.
When he emerged at last, Peter was with him. They staggered out like a seaside postcard’s parody of drunkenness. The lump on Peter’s forehead was larger, and shone purple. The line of dried blood still marked his face, like ink from an untidy child’s pen. He looked drowsy, hardly aware of his situation, perhaps concussed – and absolutely helpless. A yearning to protect him, a refusal to believe that he was going to die, seized her. She felt nauseous and dizzy.
The man propped him against the radiator grille, where he slumped a little. “Go on,” the man said to Cathy. “Walk until you’re told to stop.”
Desperation or her distance from him gave her the courage to say “No, I won’t. I’m not leaving him with you.”
“ Oh yes you are.” The razor flicked up. “Or I’ll take his face off.”
His threats were growing wilder. Mightn’t they be mere words? But the blade flashed; blood started from beside Peter’s eye. She felt like screaming or sobbing, or both: anything to express her powerlessness. Her feet did that for her as she trudged stumbling backwards, away from the light.
“ That’s right. Keep going. No need to look. I’ll tell you when you’ve gone far enough.”
She glanced behind her. At the dim edge of the light, the ground dipped. Was that her chance? Once she reached the dip, perhaps she could stay below the light and circle round behind him – if the cold didn’t make her too clumsy: her limbs felt embedded in ice. If she could take him off guard, she would do whatever was necessary to rescue Peter.
She was almost there. Oh, please let the slope beyond the light be steep enough! Please let her be able to dodge behind him quickly, without making a noise! There mustn’t be any loose stone to trip her. She must be careful yet swift.
She glanced back towards the lights, to pretend she had no plan. Peter was sagging against the radiator. The man was gazing intently at her; perhaps he would gaze for a while, to make sure she didn’t disappear. Please make him gaze. She backed to the blurred edge of the light, and stepped off.
She felt her foot plunge into nothingness.
It threw her off balance, and she fell. Her other knee crashed down on the slate. The explosion of pain dulled her thoughts. For a moment she believed there was only a slight drop beneath her, exaggerated by the return of her old phobia. It was only a dip in the ground, just a short slope – Then she heard how long it took a dislodged piece of slate to fall.
Her knee slid down the slope, scraping over rock. Both her legs dangled into the quarry. Her frozen hands scrabbled at the edge, and managed to drag her to a kneeling position. She struggled panting to her feet. The night and the headlamps shook with her pulse. She had scarcely risen when the wind seized her and flung her back.
This time her legs cleared the edge completely. There was no chance of dragging herself to her knees. There was no hold for her clutching fingers. Her nails were no match for the edges of slate, which broke them. She was sliding into the bottomless dark. She knew it had an end, which would be jagged.
Ahead of her, distant as infinity, the figures stood between the lamps. She heard the man say “ah” in appreciation of her fall. He stepped forward. Behind him Peter, no longer supported, slumped towards the ground.
The man was coming to help her fall. He was impatient to be finished. She dragged at the stone with her hands, using her palms now instead of her useless nails. Her feet, whose weight tugged her down, struggled to fasten on something, anything, to help her clamber. Below her the unseen slate was unhelpful as ice. She stared numbly at the stone on which her hands were pressing. They were paralysed there; if anything, her slippery palms were inching towards the edge.