42
KATE
Her heart thuds in her chest, fluttering like a trapped moth.
He can’t have found her. It isn’t possible. Unless—
The email.
Her phone lights up with messages, one after the other.
I’ll see you soon.
Very soon.
For a while, she is still: a black hole yawns inside her, swallowing her ability to move, to think … then she feels the baby kick.
Everything becomes hyperreal: the sun setting on the snow outside, staining the garden red; the screams of the crows in the sycamore. Her blood, rushing through her veins. All of her senses engaged, heightened.
Quickly, she draws the curtains, bolts the doors, frantically trying to think what to do next. Curtains and locks won’t be much use, she knows. Simon will just break a window. If only she had the car. Without it, she’s trapped – an insect, quivering and exposed in a spider’s web.
She can call the police; call Emily. Ask if she can come and get her. But she might not make it in time … it’s Sunday, meaning Emily’s at home, at her farm an hour’s drive away …
The attic. She’ll need to hide. She presses a hand to her forehead as she tries to work out what to take with her. She grabs a bottle of water and some fruit and shoves them into her handbag. Her phone, too, so she can call the police. Candles and matches, so she doesn’t run the phone battery down using it as a light.
She unlocks the back door again to get the ladder, from where it leans against the back of the house, covered in snow. She tries to lift it, sweat breaking out at her temples as she staggers under its weight.
She heaves the ladder onto its side, dragging it into the house. It is heavy and cobwebbed; a spider trembles on one rusted rung. Grunting, she positions it under the trapdoor and climbs up as quickly as she can, her palms slipping on the rungs.
Once she’s at the top, she stares into the dark abyss of the attic. The trapdoor is so small – she hasn’t been up here for months. Will she even fit, with her pregnant belly?
Doubt twinges in her gut. She has to try. There’s nowhere else she can hide.
At first, she tries to climb into the attic the same way she did before, but her arms aren’t strong enough to lift her swollen body through the gap. She shifts position, tries climbing in backwards. The ladder rattles beneath her, and for a moment she fears it will clatter to the floor. She heaves herself in, gasping at a sharp pain in the palm of her hand.
She’s cut herself. But she’s done it, she’s inside the attic.
Kate’s heart begins to slow again. But then: the crunch of car tyres on gravel outside. She freezes, heart galloping, hands growing slippery with blood and sweat. There’s a knock on the door.
God, she should have just called Emily first. Or gone to stay with her in the first place. Simon would never have found her there.
‘Kate?’ At the sound of his voice, her heart drops into her stomach. ‘I know you’re in there. I just want to talk. Please, let me in.’ The doorknob rattles, and she hears the creak of old wood as Simon throws his weight against the front door.
The door. She forgot to lock the back door after getting the ladder.
She has to stay hidden. But – fuck, the ladder. He’ll see it as soon as he gets in, smack bang in the hallway, like an arrow pointing up to her hiding spot. Why didn’t she think of this? Idiot. The panic fizzes in her chest, threatening to overwhelm her. She closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe in and out, slowly …
Think. Think. She opens her eyes. He’s knocking again, harder this time, punctuated by the thud of his bodyweight against the door. She’ll have to pull the ladder up inside the attic. It’s the only option. She switches on the torch of her phone. The old bureau is behind her. She hooks one leg around it to anchor herself, praying that Simon won’t hear, then shifts onto her side, before lowering her upper body through the trapdoor.
The blood rushes to her head, pounding like the sea. She grabs the ladder and pulls, wincing at the pain in her hand. Come on, Kate. Come on. Half the ladder is inside the attic now. Thank God there’s so much room in here. She scoots as far back into the attic as she can, tugging hard on the ladder. She can hear Simon pacing outside, occasionally pausing. She imagines him peering through the windows, looking for her.
Kate wonders how many seconds she has until he makes his way to the back of the house and tries the door. Five; ten if she’s lucky. Her arms burn, and there’s a scraping sound as she finally pulls the rest of the ladder inside. She yanks the trapdoor shut just in time to hear the back door swing open.
43
VIOLET
Violet was in the beech tree, looking down at the valley. Far below, the beck glinted like a golden thread. She could see the wood, a bruise on the land. Then air rushed at her. She was flying – away, far away.
The dream faded, and Violet swam up to consciousness. Outside, the wind had died down to a low whistle. The blankets were sodden with blood.
I began to dream of her, grown into a dark-haired beauty, but alone and bleeding in our cottage.
This was the fate her mother had foreseen. The fate her mother had done everything – had laid down her life – to alter. All in vain.
The candle was still burning, the flame quivering blue. Violet was cold, so very cold.
She lifted the candle and pushed back the covers.
It had worked.
There was nothing of Frederick inside her anymore. She was free.
It took her a long time to stand up. Her legs felt weak, and the room kept slipping in and out of focus. She was so tired. Perhaps she should lie back down and sleep, she thought. Close her eyes and return to the beech tree, feel the sun and wind on her face. But the thing, the thing that had come from Frederick – she had to get rid of it.
She felt her way into the other room, gripping the cool stone of the wall. She needed water, food. Her fingers shook as she cupped water from the bucket and drank. It took an age to open one of the tins of Spam. Her hand slipped and the metal sliced into her palm, the blood welling up in bright drops. Her head buzzed and she sat down at the table heavily. The blood on her nightdress was beginning to crust and darken into brown peaks and swirls, like a map.
The Spam gleamed pale and wet in the tin. It made her think of the spore. She pushed it away. The wind had picked up again and she sat for a while, listening. The wind had a peculiar high pitch to it, almost like a human voice. Violet, it seemed to say. Violet.
44
KATE
Kate puts her hand to her mouth, tasting blood.
Below her, the floorboards creak as Simon stalks through the cottage.
‘Kate?’ he calls. ‘I know you’re in here. Come on, Kate, you can’t hide from me.’
She can hear him opening cupboards then slamming them shut again. There is the crash of porcelain on wood from the kitchen. He swears loudly.
She listens to the click of the back door opening. He’s looking for her in the garden again. Kate takes the opportunity to light some candles, fingers trembling. The shapes of the attic emerge under the orange glow of the guttering flames. The bureau. The shelves, with their glass jars of insects. Being surrounded by Aunt Violet’s things makes her feel a little bit stronger.
She needs the police. She pulls her phone from her pocket and dials 999, listening for the sound of him coming back into the house. The reception in the attic is patchy and the connection drops out after the first ring.