The Claw

Twenty-six

By lunchtime on Monday, Anna was intolerable. Sunday had been an unforecasted rainy day, and she'd hardly left Liz alone for a moment, pestering her to read her latest story every time she finished a paragraph, refusing to watch television unless Liz watched it too, constantly complaining that she had nothing to read, and asking Liz to find her things to do. The house had become overrun with her toys that had strayed out of the playroom: bears in armchairs, dolls on the carpets, even her bicycle in the hall.

Eventually Liz had lost patience. 'You know perfectly well not to ride in the house. How old are you supposed to be? I thought you were a big girl.' But then Anna had started whining – she didn't like living here any more, she had nobody to play with, when was daddy coming home – and that had been more than Liz could stand. She'd made a hasty dinner and had sent Anna to bed early, despite her protests. She'd restrained herself from going up to look until she was sure that the child was asleep. Had Anna cried herself to sleep? Liz had thought for a while that she heard snuffling upstairs.

Eventually she'd gone to check. Anna had been peacefully asleep, though her eyelids looked sticky with dried tears. Downstairs, Liz had fetched her story from the playroom to re-read; something about it was nagging her, something she'd almost noticed.

After two more readings she still couldn't define the cause of her unease, the story was just what it seemed to be, a series of harmless anecdotes about a family of goats who lived in a field. Liz had watched television to take her mind off Alan and the rumours that someone was spreading about her, only to wake up to the doodling of light after the programmes had ended. It had made her feel utterly alone, that and the sound of the sea and the snuffling of the moist wind around the house. She'd gone to bed and dreamed that she was watching goats, staring at them for hours or perhaps for days before she gave up and wandered away. She'd woken up before she knew where she was going.

On Monday she was determined to be kinder to the child. She let her make prawn cocktails for tonight's first course, and tried to conceal her growing despondency at the thought of an evening with Derek and Jane. Perhaps they could tell her who was spreading the rumours -perhaps she could rid herself of at least that problem. She'd thought that once Alan had gone away there'd be less tension around the home, but instead it was worsening. She felt very much as if she were lying in bed at four in the morning, restless and jaggedly nervous, incapable of peace.

After finishing making the prawn cocktails, Anna wandered away, but soon came back. 'I don't know what to do,' she complained.

'Why don't you take your bike out now that it's stopped raining?'

'I don't want to go out. I don't like it.'

'What don't you like?'

'Someone keeps looking at me over the cliff.'

'Now that's silly, Anna. Why would anyone do that?' Liz ignored her own leaping pulse. 'Where did you think you saw something?'

'I don't have to see him. I know he's there.' To Liz, she sounded more obstinate than nervous. 'Just out there. Beyond the hedge.'

'Well, you can see there's nothing. Here, I'll lift you up.' She did so, for as long as she could manage it; slim though she was, Anna was no lightweight. The hedge had broken out in diamonds, the parched grass looked drowned in cider. 'There couldn't have been anyone,' Liz said. 'There's nowhere they could stand.'

'I don't care. He's still there. He's hiding.'

'Oh, Anna, for heaven's sake. I'm too busy to take you out to show you there's nothing. All right – don't go out if you don't want to. Since you've got such an imagination, why don't you get on with writing your story.'

'I don't want to.'

Liz remembered her undertaking to be kinder. What was she thinking of, mocking the child's story? You'd think she was jealous of Anna for taking after her father. 'I'm sorry, darling,' she said. 'I know I wasn't very encouraging yesterday, but I read it properly after you went to bed, and I really like it. I'm anxious to find out what happens next.'

'I still don't want to. I don't like it any more.'

'Good God, Anna, is there anything you do like?' She felt helplessly frustrated, desperate to vent her rage on something. Just as she was setting out ingredients for this evening's main course she found the perfect excuse. 'Oh, skit!'

Anna started giggling at that, but stopped when she saw Liz's face. 'What's wrong?'

'I've got no sherry for the bloody marinade. Now I'll have to go into the village.'

'I'll go if you like.'

'Would you mind?' It seemed odd that she was proposing to go out now, but perhaps the village was far enough from the cliff. 'All right, I'll make the sweet while I'm waiting. Just be careful, and hurry back.'

As Anna cycled away, Liz called, 'Remember, ask for the dryest sherry they have,' and watched until Anna was out of sight, long brown legs pumping easily, red hair streaming like inexhaustible fire. Suddenly she felt intensely proud of her. Of course she was irritating at times, but so were all children. For a moment she seemed too precious to let go, but Liz couldn't cling to her for ever.

In the kitchen she switched on the mixer and made the meringue topping, then on an impulse she went out to the cliff. Anna wouldn't be home for fifteen minutes at least, however fast she cycled on the winding road. Liz hoped she would take her time on the bends and began to wish she hadn't made so much of hurrying back.

There was hardly a breeze on the cliff-top. Fat clouds basked on the horizon, the sea glittered sleepily; her garden was almost still. Of course there was no red trail in the garden; there hadn't been on Friday evening, before the rain. Was it any wonder that she kept seeing red?

She went to the edge of the cliff and leaned over. As the sea swayed at the edge of her vision, she felt she was falling. Nevertheless she leaned as far as she could, until she was sure there was no hidden foothold. If anyone tried to climb Up here, the cliff face would simply crumble away, and there wasn't a path for another hundred yards. A family – parents, two children, a dog and a large inflatable duck – stared up at her from the beach. Let them stare. At least now she could prove to Anna that there was nothing to fear.

She strolled back to the house. Anna should be home any minute. Liz made her a lager and lime, her beer-garden treat, and put it in the refrigerator to chill. She dawdled over the marinade, wishing Anna would hurry tip. What could she do while she was waiting?

A quick call to her mother, in the hope that her father was better. She carried the phone into the long room, and sat with it on her lap, the lead stretching back into the hall. Anna should be home by now, but perhaps she'd had to queue. Suppose Liz's father was worse? She was cradling the phone as if it were a child she was trying to lull to sleep, when all at once it twitched and rang.

She almost dropped it. It was more like a bomb than a phone. She managed to grab the receiver while she kneed the extension back into her lap. 'Yes, who is it?' she demanded.

'Is that Mrs Knight?' said a woman's voice that she didn't recognize.

'Yes, yes, who's that?'

'One moment please, I have a call for you.'

Perhaps it was Alan – but the line sounded too clear for Nigeria. Could it be Hetherington, asking about the claw? Suddenly Liz wondered if it was about Anna – why wasn't she home by now? She pressed the receiver against her face as if that would force the caller to speak.

Eventually he did. 'Hi, it's Liz, isn't it? How are you?'

She knew the voice, but couldn't remember from where. 'I'm all right. Who's that?'

'It's Teddy Shaw here. Alan's editor. We met once, if you recall.'

'Of course, yes. I'm sorry, I've rather a lot on my mind.'

'I guess you must have, with Alan leaving you on your own again. I was just wondering, are you likely to be in touch with him in the next day or so?'

'I don't know.' She'd had enough of lying and pretending.

His pause was almost imperceptible. 'Well, if you happen to be in touch, could you ask him to give me a call? It's about his signing tour. Or maybe you could get his number for me to call.'

'I'll do my best.' She was willing him to go away; where was Anna? 'I can't promise.'

'Right, I know it's difficult to keep in touch with Nigeria. Has he found what he was after, do you know?'

How could she answer that when she didn't know what it was? 'I expect so,' she said.

'So things aren't looking too bad.'

'No,' she said, 'they couldn't be worse,' but her hand was over the mouthpiece. 'I suppose not,' she told him.

'Well, maybe I'll give you a call in a couple of days to see if he's been in touch.'

'All right,' she said, to get rid of him. She was already making for the hall as she replaced the receiver, and almost tripped over the lead. Why wasn't Anna home yet? Then she fought down the panic. Good God, she was only a few minutes late – no doubt she'd been sensible and had taken her time on the curves. Once Liz reached the road, she'd be able to see Anna's little red head bobbing above the hedges.

But when she opened her gate and stared across the fields, there was no sign of her.

Something had happened. The landscape was too flat to hide her. She wouldn't have dawdled or stopped to talk or play when Liz had specifically told her to hurry. Oh, why had she sent her at all? Because she'd wanted to get rid of her for a while. No wonder people said she was neglecting the child.

Liz ran for her key and slammed the front door, then hurried towards the turn-off for the village. Now she couldn't see beyond the first curve, and she began to run. The hedges and the tarmac seemed to drift by as if they had all the time in the world. Her sandals stuck to the road, the burning tarmac dragging at her feet. Was that Anna beyond the next curve? No, the glimpse had been too red for Anna's hair.

She was running in the middle of the road now, praying that she'd hear any cars, though the chirring of grasshoppers seemed almost deafening and seemed to be tangled among her nerves. Every curve was another reason to hope, another disappointment when she arrived there, panting. The heat was like a great weight on her shoulders, slowing her down. The red glimpses were of a scarecrow, a red figure standing in one of the fields – she couldn't quite see which.

Her chest was hurting, her legs ached. These days she was driving too much and walking too little, but her discomfort didn't matter so long as she found Anna, so long as nothing had happened to the child. She must be safe – what could possibly happen to her in a place like this? It was only the glimpses of the scarecrow that were making Liz nervous. It must be the heat-haze that made it seem to glisten – an unpleasant effect, given that it was dressed, or painted, from head to foot in red. She hadn't time to locate it and look at it directly. It might scare crows, but it seemed unable to scare the animals out of its field; from its direction she could hear snuffling.

When she came abreast of a stile, she clambered onto the top bar and perched there as long as she could, supporting herself with trembling wrists. Fields surrounded her, blocks of yellow in green frames. She could see almost to the village. There was no sign of a red scarecrow, and no sign of Anna.

She had to go back, she must call the police. The thought of calling the police yet again was no longer a bad joke; it made the situation real. There was no more room for hope. She should have known the child was in danger – whatever the danger was. She jumped down from the stile, jarring her ankles, and ran for home.

She came in sight of the house at last, and saw her car. Panic had wiped it from her mind as she'd started toward the village. No doubt Alan's car was still parked in Norwich, or would they have towed it away by now? She couldn't believe how long it took her to cross the road, open the gate, stumble down the path as her ankles throbbed, unlock the front door, grope along the hall while her eyes adjusted. At the back of her mind was a desperate hope that Anna would be waiting for her – but Anna had no key.

She grabbed the phone and carried it into the long room, where there was more light. As she fell into the nearest chair, she was already dialling. Shouldn't she check with the wine shop before she called the police? But it was too late. Though she could hardly see what she was dialling -a blotch on her vision made it seem that someone was looming outside the back window – she had reached the police. 'Police station,' said a voice she knew by now. She turned toward the window to dispel the illusion of a figure, but as she did so, the figure began to knock on the glass. It was Anna.

'Wrong number,' Liz said, cursing herself for not hanging up at once; they must be able to recognize her voice. She threw the phone on the chair and ran to unbolt the back door. 'Where on earth have you been?' she cried.

'They wouldn't serve me in the wine shop.' Anna looked nervous and resentful. 'They said I was too young. I had to go to Jimmy at the hotel.'

How could Liz have forgotten that the child was under age? It was Alan's fault that she was so confused. No doubt now there'd be gossip about her sending Anna to buy alcohol – Liz, the alcoholic mother. She ought to feel sympathetic to Anna, but for the moment she felt nothing but helpless rage.

'They all looked at me in the wine shop as if I'd done something wrong,' Anna said tearfully. 'And Jimmy looked as if he didn't want to serve me either. And then I came home and you weren't here, and I came round the back to see if you were there, and you know I don't like it at the back. Why couldn't you know what was going to happen?'

Liz didn't hit her very hard, but she had to do something before her rage became uncontrollable. She slapped Anna's bare arm. She'd forgotten how long her nails had grown. In the moment before Anna fled sobbing into the house, Liz saw the scratches she'd made on the small tanned arm.

She stared after her. Beside the house the sherry bottle shone like amber, a parody of worth. She must go to Anna, say she was sorry, calm her down – but she was a little afraid to go after her. As her nails had scratched the child, she'd had the strangest feeling, so strange that she couldn't define it. And she didn't like it at all.