The Claw

Eleven

Coming home from the hotel on Tuesday, Liz stayed on the road, away from the beach, and made Anna hold her hand round the succession of blind corners. Grasshoppers buzzed like static in the untrimmed verges, cows plodded after one another through the fields; a procession of clouds passed along the horizon, so slowly that they looked pasted on the blue sky. It was the kind of day when Liz normally liked to go exploring with her family, to villages that only the locals seemed to know, or to drive through the Broads, to cruise through the changing landscape, woodland and marshes, herons and windmills and lone houses among the trees; she often wished she could bear to travel by water. But she didn't want to see Alan, nor to go home.

After leaving the pillbox, he'd spent hours trying to persuade her that she'd imagined what she'd seen. She would have been only too glad to believe that herself. She had been on edge, admittedly; after seeing the dead goat under the hedge, it was no wonder she'd been expecting something even worse. Could she really have distinguished so much in the dark? Alan had found nothing, and that was enough to make her agree not to call the police yet again. The trouble was that everything he said only succeeded in making her feel more alarmed – because he seemed to blame Anna.

She couldn't understand him. Did he blame the child for what Liz had seen in the pillbox? For the bloody face she'd seen on the window? For her nervousness? Perhaps he didn't know himself; perhaps he was trying to conceal what he felt. But that didn't make it any less unpleasant. Just now Liz felt she didn't want to know him.

At least he was likely to stay out of her way while she made cakes for tomorrow's afternoon tea. Jane was coming, Rebecca, Gail, if she could get away from the hotel – and Alex, heaven help them all. Every second Wednesday they met in a different house. Rebecca's was untidy and welcoming, no doubt just as it would have been if it were full of the children she could never have; Alex's was spotless as a show house, and as cold – no wonder her photographer husband went away so often, and for so long. Gail's cottage was like an annexe to the hotel, the phone always calling her back to the desk. And Jane's was even untidier than Rebecca's, strewn with bits of food and Georgie's nappies, a house out of control. The last tea had been at Jane's, and Jane had invited Alex, which was the only reason Liz had invited her now.

They were home now. In the sunlight, the hedge and the pillbox looked as innocent as everything else – which meant that nothing seemed innocent at all. Alan was in the long room, replaying his cassette of the Nigerian documentary. At least Anna wouldn't go pestering him, not while the claw was there – when was he going to take it to London? – and no doubt he would leave them alone, as he was busy. 'We're home,' Liz called, and ushered Anna through to the kitchen. 'Would you like to play in the back garden?' she said to the child.

'No, I don't want to. I don't like it.'

'Don't you, darling?' Liz did her best to sound casual. 'Why not?'

'There's a man out there.'

'Oh, I don't think there is.' The garden was as it should be – paths, flower borders, grass – and she could see nobody beyond the hedge. She opened the back door. 'There isn't, look. There's nobody.'

'He's lying down where you can't see him.'

Liz hoped that the child hadn't seen her clench her fists. She stared along the side of the house, then strolled carelessly to a point on the lawn from which she could see through the hedge. She could see nobody, but that was no longer reassuring. 'I can't see anyone,' she said, 'but you can stay in and help me, if you'd rather.'

For a while they made cakes. Anna chopped up fruit carefully, proud that her mother let her use the big knife. Liz smiled to herself as she watched the child, but she was also watching the garden. Everything seemed too intense: flowers bobbed and shook their heads at her, the hedge shuddered in the breeze. She wished she could see beyond the hedge.

She had just put a batch of scones in the oven when Alan came in. 'Have you nearly finished?' he said. 'I've got something to show you.'

He led her to the long room, after she'd made sure that Anna went into her playroom. 'Sit down and watch this,' Alan said. 'You'll see why in a bit.'

It was the Nigerian documentary. Theatre groups performed in dusty car parks, singers toured shops made out of corrugated metal and tried to sell their records; crowds poured into a mosque and as many gathered outside; camels lined up in a market, women balancing gourds on their heads marched by. After a while Liz had to break off watching to take out the scones, and that was a relief; the way she felt now, the film seemed a jumble of images, too much to take in, especially when she didn't know what Alan meant her to see. As she sat down again, he restarted the cassette. 'What am I supposed to be looking for?' she said.

'You'll know when you see it.' Nevertheless he was frowning. The cassette ran on – priests and card games in market-places, women with gorgon hair, hundreds of fishermen plunging into a river to net a multitude of fish – and then it was over. 'Just let me run it again,' he said.

'What exactly are you trying to find?'

'I wanted you to see without me having to tell you. Well, all right,' he said reluctantly, 'you can look for it too. I remembered I'd seen a shot of a kind of bright red man. I thought it was near the beginning, but I could have been mistaken. I'm sure he's what you thought you saw in the pillbox. You must have got the idea from the film.'

She could have glimpsed it on Sunday, while she was trying to read. It was the kind of peripheral glimpse her imagination might have seized upon and produced when she was searching the pillbox. She wanted to believe that, she wanted to be reassured, but as he ran the tape back and forth, muttering to himself, she was simply becoming more nervous. Crowds scampered into the mosque then scurried out backwards, fishermen were flung out of the river as though the fish were fighting back. On the mantelpiece the metal claw jerked as the light caught it. Why couldn't he find what he'd seen? What if it wasn't on the tape after all? She was peering desperately at the screen, wanting to plead with him to stop the parade of images, when the doorbell rang.

Before Liz could get up, Anna had run to the door. 'Hello, Anna,' Liz heard. 'Is your father in?'

It was Isobel. Today she wore a tailor-made mauve suit: jacket, blouse and slacks. She strode into the long room and nodded briefly to Liz, then she saw that Alan was running the cassette. 'I hope I haven't interrupted you at work,' she said.

He turned off the sound. 'No, not really. Don't worry.'

'I was on my way home from Hemsby, so I thought I might drop in. I didn't phone in case that disturbed you. You're searching for something, are you? Is it to do with your work?'

'No, nothing like that. It's something we thought Liz saw.'

'I see.' In two words Isobel managed to imply that if he felt obliged to waste his time, he was too old for her to stop him. 'Something on the television?' she said.

'Well, no, not exactly. Out on the cliff. She thought she saw a man hiding in the pillbox.'

'But in fact he was on the television?' She turned to Liz. 'I suppose you were overtired.'

'We've both been a bit on edge,' Alan said defensively. 'Someone killed a goat on the cliff the other day.'

For God's sake, Liz cried silently, don't tell her that! Some hangover from his childhood always made him blurt out the truth to his mother, whatever the consequences. 'What do you mean, killed it?' Isobel demanded. 'Ran it over?'

'Nastier than that,' Alan said, while Liz cringed inwardly. 'It looked as if they used a knife.'

'But good heavens, you shouldn't let the child stay here while that kind of thing is going on. I'll take her, by all means. I'm sure Elizabeth would welcome a rest.'

'Thank you very much, Isobel, but I'm sure I can cope.' Liz's mouth was growing unwieldy with resentment. 'Anna's a sensible girl. She knows to stay with me. She's in no danger.'

'Well, I can't force you. Or the child, if she prefers not to come.'

Perhaps hearing that they were talking about her, Anna wandered in from the playroom. 'Would you like to come and stay with me for a while and give your mother a rest?' Isobel said.

Anna must have felt accused, for she looked at Liz for reassurance. 'I want to stay with mummy,' she said, almost pleading.

'Oh well, that's that. There's obviously nothing I can do.' She turned her back on both of them. 'I came to invite you all to dinner next week,' she said to Alan, making it sound like a challenge.

'We'd love to come. Wouldn't we, Liz?'

'Of course we would.' She found it easier to be dishonest while Isobel had her back to her. 'Would you like a cup of tea, Isobel?'

'I don't think so, thank you. I think it'll be best if I go.' Halfway down the path she turned and gazed at Liz. 'My offer is still open if you should change your mind.'

As soon as she had driven away, Alan said, 'I wish you wouldn't resent her so much. She's only trying to help.'

'Yes, at my expense.'

'Oh, that's nonsense. Why do you say that? If she's difficult sometimes, it's only because she'd like to see more of her grandchild.'

'She sees as much of her as my parents do.'

'Well, it isn't my mother's fault if your parents live so far away, is it? It isn't her fault your father has a weak heart and won't drive.'

She stared at him. 'I can't talk to you at all,' she said, and went into the house, half-blind with nerves and anger. In the long room the cassette was still running; great crude masks were dancing. She made for the kitchen, trying to think, through the jumble of her emotions, if there was anything she'd forgotten to do.

She had barely reached the kitchen when Anna came trailing after her. 'Anna, will you please go out and play or find something to do so you don't get under my feet,' she cried.

'I don't want to go out. The man's there.'

'Don't be so childish.' Often the little girl behaved as if she was older than six; right now, for some reason, she was acting as if she was considerably younger. Liz strode into the garden to show her there was nothing there. A breeze tousled her hair, flowers stooped like ballerinas, the hedge shook. Amid the roaring of the sea she heard children shouting and an unpleasant high-pitched sound she couldn't place. She was almost at the point where she could see through the hedge when she faltered. Anna had been right. There was a man beyond the hedge.

The next moment Liz relaxed. It was only Joseph; she would have known that grubby raincoat anywhere, especially on a hot day like this. He was bending over something in the grass, and he had his back to her. His raincoat blocked her view. But she could still hear that high-pitched sound, and it made her apprehensive. Joseph's right arm was rising and falling, the torn sleeve of his coat was flapping. Liz hurried to the hedge to see what he had found.

But she stumbled away before she reached the hedge, one hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying out. That might bring Anna, and the child mustn't see. Liz hadn't seen a great deal herself: only far too much – only the sharp stone in Joseph's right hand, which came up redder every time it rose into the air. Now she knew what the high-pitched noise was. There couldn't be much left of what lay at his feet, but whatever was left was screaming.