The Claw

Forty-one

Liz stood in her darkening bedroom and gazed down at Anna. Beyond the curtains, night had already swallowed the sea. Darkness was softening the shape of the bedroom furniture, settling on Anna's face, smoothing out the frown that was like a deep scratch between her eyebrows. Incredibly, the house was silent except for the rushing of the sea. It seemed impossible that Anna was quiet at last.

Since the day before yesterday she'd been intolerable, worse than a baby, far worse. 'You said I could go to the Lakes. When can I go?' Liz had begun to feel as if these were the only words the child knew, that she'd learned them like a parrot – a parrot that could follow Liz from room to room, pestering and whining. No, nothing so intelligent as a parrot: a worn-out mechanical toy that could no longer do what it had been built to do, a toy that could only wander aimlessly about, squawking its two sentences over and over. A toy would have run down eventually, but Anna would undoubtedly start up all over again in the morning. Long before dark, Liz felt she was ready to do anything to get rid of the child.

There was nothing she could do. Even when the car was repaired – the repairman was collecting it tomorrow, they took their time hereabouts – she was damned if she'd put her parents to any further trouble. She didn't blame her father for being disgruntled when she'd cancelled Anna's visit. To have inconvenienced her parents so much for nothing, when her father was convalescing, and all because Anna had made her lose her temper – she couldn't understand why she'd felt the need to send Anna away at all. It wasn't as if she'd said anything to the child that a normal person wouldn't have said under all the circumstances. Anna was lucky that Liz had managed to confine her anger to words.

She turned away from the bed, for the sight of Anna was only making her angry. Besides, she had more important problems than Anna to deal with. As she went downstairs, the sound of her footsteps reminded her how empty the house was, how far away Alan was. She wished desperately that he would come home. Apart from anything else, she'd be able to talk to him about the claw.

She couldn't talk to Jane. She ought to have done so when she'd had the chance; she ought to have gone with Rebecca and Gail, and found an excuse to speak to Jane alone. She would have been able to but for Anna, but for being unable either to leave the child with anyone or to take her with her. Now it was too late; Gail had returned from her visit yesterday almost in tears, saying that now Jane was refusing to be visited. It wasn't only the refusal that had upset her, it was Jane's reason for refusing. Apparently she was claiming that someone she'd trusted had made her kill Georgie.

It couldn't be Alex; even Jane couldn't have trusted her. Could she have meant Anna? There was no doubt in Liz's mind that if it hadn't been for Anna and all she'd done that day, she would have been in time to prevent Jane from harming Georgie. Anna was as responsible for the baby's death as Jane was – more so, for Jane couldn't have been able to help herself.

Liz shook her head dully. It was no use brooding about it, but what else could she do? She couldn't find a pretext to visit Derek at home, because he wasn't there; he couldn't bear to stay alone in the house. Why couldn't she ask him or the police to search the house for the claw? Somehow she didn't want anyone to know how important it was to her, perhaps because it seemed shamefully trivial in the context of Jane's tragedy. Could she break into Jane's house? She couldn't imagine herself doing so. She seemed unable to think clearly on the subject of the claw.

She went downstairs – the glimpse of red in the hall was the phone, of course, though for a moment it made her feel inexplicably nervous – and sat for a while in the long room, her back to the sea. Beyond the dormant television, the last gold in the sky was tarnishing. She watched the sky turn blue, dark yet luminous. It looked infinitely deep and peaceful, but its peace couldn't reach her, even now that Anna was laid to rest. She felt helpless and frustrated, without a thought in her head.

She picked up the remote control of the television, for company. Soon she was switching channels. An audience was laughing at a joke she'd missed; a pair of politicians were arguing like talking busts; forgotten British actors of twenty years ago were trying not to make their progress through a studio jungle look too easy. Wasn't this the kind of film in which Alex had made her thirty-second debut as a child? All the more reason not to watch it. Still, the pathetic jungle had reminded her what she could watch -the one thing that might make her feel closer to Alan. She found the African videocassette and fitted it into the videorecorder.

Camels sneered and lurched to their feet, crocodiles yawned like man-traps. Here was the mosque yet again, the worshippers crowding in, and she remembered that time with Alan running the tape back and forth, and Isobel treating her as if she were mad. She was secretly hoping that by some magic coincidence, Alan might phone while she was watching the tape. Surely he must call soon – it had been so long. Surely he must realize that she was desperate to hear from him? If he called, she'd somehow persuade him to come home. That would solve her problems. She wouldn't have to deal with Anna by herself.

Before the tape had finished, she was dozing. Night had closed over all the windows now, wind rushed the sound of the sea past the house, a dark flood. She kept jerking awake and glimpsing the telephone, glimpsing red. She was hoping so intensely that the phone would ring that she kept hearing a single note of the bell. She'd be happy to hear from anyone, so long as it wasn't Joanna Marlowe.

What had that woman meant? Nothing that made any sense to Liz.

She turned off the cassette – no point in running it if she was going to doze – only to feel more awake, or at least on the edge of wakefulness. She couldn't tell if she was about to sleep or to awaken. The sound of the sea made her feel as if her paintings on the wall had come to life. She started the tape again. Here came the mosque, the crowds trooping in. Shouldn't that remind her of something? Perhaps it would have, except that she was nodding off, wearied by Anna, lulled by the sound of the waves.

They sounded like breathing. She was almost asleep. The breathing was in the room with her, but she didn't mind; it must be Alan. She was dozing while he watched the cassette. What was he looking for? What did he want her to see? All at once she remembered why he'd replayed that cassette, remembered what it was he thought he'd seen there. Her eyes opened wide, and then she cried out. The crowds were flocking out of the mosque, and the first to emerge into the sunlight was a thin figure covered with blood. It was coming straight toward her, baring its gory teeth in a grin.

It was only a glimpse. The next moment she'd switched off the recorder, so violently that she dropped the remote control. She was trembling, because now she thought she knew why her glimpse of red in the hall on her way downstairs had made her so nervous. Hadn't it seemed to glisten like a skinned tomato? Had she been too ready to tell herself without even looking that it was the phone?

She had to prove there was nothing, she had to look in the hall. She got up like an old woman, slowly and shakily. The moist regular sounds of the waves seemed very close to her, behind her and beyond the door as well. She was reaching for the doorknob when the telephone rang.

She froze. She didn't know what else might be in the hall. If she'd been able to take her time she could have coaxed herself out there, but the phone wasn't giving her a chance. It was counting the moments while she summoned up the courage to open the door. Five rings, six… It couldn't be much longer before the caller gave up. She threw open the door – the doorknob banged against the wall – and grabbed the phone. The hall was empty. There was nothing else that was red. 'Hello?' she cried.

The phone was full of static that sounded distant, as if one of the extensions had been lifted. As she pressed the receiver against herself, so hard that her ear ached, she made out a faint unsteady voice. 'Liz,' it said.

'Alan!' It didn't sound much like him – the bad line must be making his voice thick – but she knew that it was. Nothing else mattered, certainly not her hallucinations in front of the videorecorder or in the hall. 'I can hardly hear you. Where are you?'

His voice was intermittent, as if he had little control over it – the line must be breaking it. 'I'm still here.'

That meant Nigeria; she'd already deduced as much from the terrible line. 'You're coming home now, aren't you? You mustn't stay away any longer. I can't cope by myself. You must come back.'

It seemed a long time before his voice came drifting to her. 'I need you,' he said.

' I need you.' She was wondering how much he'd heard of her pleas. 'Can you hear me?'

'Yes.' Perhaps it was the faintness of his voice that made the word sound so despairing.

'I need you more than ever. We both do.'

'No.' All at once he sounded savage. 'She doesn't.'

Was this Anna's fault, too – that he felt rejected, cast out? Was there no end to the trouble the child could cause? Liz was suddenly afraid that he would ring off before she had persuaded him to return. There was something she had to tell him, something that would bring him back, and she couldn't recall what it was. She could have wept with frustration, except that it would have wasted time. 'Look, never mind how she behaved,' she pleaded. 'I'm desperate, Alan. I'm not exaggerating. You must come back.'

When at last he spoke, she could only assume that he hadn't heard. 'I just wanted to talk to you.'

Did that mean he'd said all he had to say? She was thinking desperately – something she must tell him, something crucial – but her ear was throbbing, making it even more difficult for her to think. 'Wait,' she cried, but now everything that had happened since he'd gone away was crowding her mind: Anna's unforgivable behaviour, Georgie's death… Of course, Jane's theft of the claw. How could she have forgotten? Thank God she'd remembered in time! 'Alan, you must come home,' she said, 'and I'll tell you why. I know where the claw is. It's safe.'

She heard him draw in his breath sharply. At last he was responding. She wanted to follow up her advantage, but it was best not to interrupt his thoughts. She had him now. She was waiting for him to admit as much when the line went dead.

She stood for a while, hoping that it was a temporary fault. The line was so silent: not even static, just a hollow silence that made her feel overheard. Eventually she replaced the receiver. The phones ringing on each floor must have awakened Anna, for she could hear bare feet padding overhead. At least she could now tell the child that daddy was coming home. Surely that was what his gasp had meant.

But when Liz looked into the bedroom, Anna appeared to be asleep. Her side of the double bed was tousled, and she was lying in the tangle like a china figure in tissue-paper wrapping. Why was she pretending? Perhaps she thought Liz would be angry with her for trying to overhear. 'Who do you think that was on the phone?' Liz said.

The child didn't speak or move. That annoyed Liz, who went forward. Her own shadow on the bed made her falter momentarily: it looked as if she were carrying the claw, until she realized that it was only her hand with its long nails. 'Anna, I know you're awake. Don't you want to know who that was?'

Still the child didn't stir. Did she think that Liz hadn't heard her padding about? Liz bent to shake her out of her pretence; if her nails touched the child, that ought to make her stop pretending… But then she faltered. Was she really sure enough of Alan to say that he was coming home? She didn't want to raise yet more false hopes. Perhaps Anna's pretence had become reality by now. In any case, she could lie there while Liz tried to call Alan back. It was a long shot, but he might have been calling from his usual hotel in Lagos. The number was somewhere in his workroom.

When she reached the top floor she glimpsed the sea, a huge dim restlessness. Alan's room smelled musty with disuse; a pile of letters for him had toppled toward the edge of the desk, a cobweb bellied from a corner of the ceiling. The room felt as if it had reverted to being an attic. Eventually she found his address book underneath the typewriter. She knew the hotel was listed there, but she couldn't recall its name. Was Anna roaming downstairs again? As soon as she'd made this call, Liz would find out why she was padding around.

She recognized the hotel and its number at last, scribbled beneath Teddy Shaw's name, presumably because it was Teddy who saw to the reservations. The wind made the window shudder as she picked up the receiver and whispered a brief almost wordless prayer. She hardly noticed how sticky the receiver was, for as she put it to her ear she heard an unmistakable sound. One of the extensions had been lifted.

It must have been Anna all the time. 'Anna, if you don't put that down at once I'll come downstairs to you, and you won't like it one little bit if I do.'

After a moment she heard what might have been a response, but in that brief interval she'd also noticed something else: there was no dialling tone – there was no telephonic sound at all. It wasn't only Alan's call that had been cut off; the phone was dead. There was no sound except the breathing on the extension. Her hand tightened convulsively on the receiver, the earpiece jerked against her face. It wasn't Anna's breathing.

She had thought it was, several times before. She'd thought it was Anna, snuffling in her sleep or from grief. She couldn't make that mistake now, not with the moist thick snuffling pressed up against her face. It was as if she'd gone blind, unable to see what had overpowered her. She flung the receiver away from her as though it were rotten, and backed toward the door.

She couldn't go out there. The intruder was on one of the lower floors. It had her trapped. It had been up here too, listening to her and Alan; that was clear from the mark the receiver had left on her hand – a smear of brownish blood. She wiped it frantically on a piece of waste paper, and threw the crumpled paper as far away as she could.

She had to go down. She couldn't phone for help. And it was pointless screaming for help from the open window, nobody lived close enough to hear. She couldn't simply take a chance that someone might be passing – the delay would give the intruder time to come up to her. At least it was still by the extension, whichever extension it was; she could still hear the snuffling over the phone. It sounded hungry. She had to steal out of the house before it started prowling again.

As soon as she reached the open door, she smelled blood. The stench, and the prospect of all those stairs to be crept down, made her faint. It wasn't even as if she'd be able to sneak away – not with Anna. She'd almost forgotten that the child was down there, closer to the intruder than she was. However could she wake Anna without being overheard? But she couldn't leave Anna, however tempting the notion was, however just it seemed. If only she had the claw! She'd have been able to take care of herself then, she knew she would.

She crept down toward the stink of blood. Two steps, and the staircase seemed to melt like jelly; she had to grip the banister with both hands. The house smelled just like the pillbox, that day she'd gone in. She knew what was waiting downstairs for her; she'd known as soon as she'd heard the snuffling and seen the smear of blood.

The banister was growing soft now, squirming beneath her hands as if she'd grabbed hold of an enormous maggot. Her senses were receding. In a moment she'd lose consciousness. If she fell downstairs, at least she would be unaware of what happened then.

She was dangling there near the top of the stairs, held up only by her hands – the banister felt more like water now, she was about to lose her grip – when she heard the intruder. How could she have mistaken that' padding for Anna's? It was too deliberate, and certainly too large. Clearly it no longer mattered that she could hear, since she was trapped. The intruder was coming up to her.

That moment of hopeless terror gave her strength. Since she was trapped, it no longer mattered what she did. All at once she was descending the stairs, swiftly and silently. She reached the middle landing and thought for an instant of carrying on down and out of the house, while the intruder was still on this floor. But the next moment she'd dodged into her room, switching on the light and closing the door, leaving it less than an inch ajar.

The light woke Anna. She sat up violently, snatching the edges of sheets from beneath the mattress. Her eyes were bulging, her mouth was opening; she was about to scream. Liz ran forward and clapped one hand over the child's mouth, 'Listen, Anna. Be quiet and listen. We have to get out of the house. Now, without any noise.'

Anna was struggling, though she was awake. Her lips were writhing under Liz's hand, which she was trying to pull away from her mouth. People weren't supposed to behave like that – they never did in films. It took Liz a while to realize that the child was gazing terrified at her other long-nailed hand, which was hovering defensively. 'Don't start being stupid, Anna. That isn't for you. Not this time.'

Why had she added that? Because she was distracted? Because she was wasting time when the intruder was on the prowl? Was the stench of blood approaching? If she took her hand away from Anna's mouth the child would scream; Liz could see it in her eyes. By God, she ought to leave her here. It would solve everything. But she no longer knew quite what she meant by that; the moment when she'd known was past. She turned her free hand palm upward, and felt utterly defenceless. 'I hope you're satisfied. Now get out of bed and don't you dare make a sound. One sound, and you won't make another, I promise you.'

When Liz took her hand away from Anna's mouth – the hand hovering a couple of inches away, more like a claw than the other had been – the child made no sound. Liz dragged her out of bed and stood over her while she got dressed. Anna followed her like a sleepwalker, her arm limp in Liz's grasp. They were at the door when Liz realized that she could no longer hear the sound of padding.

She'd lost track of it while she was dealing with Anna. Perhaps the intruder was outside the door now, grinning bloodily. She threw the door open, catching it before it could strike the wall. The landing was deserted, but the stench of blood was as strong as ever.

The intruder might be waiting downstairs to pounce. Wasn't the stench even stronger down there? And it wasn't just blood, it was the fetor of a beast, or something worse. She was trying to tiptoe down and at the same time keep hold of Anna, who seemed determined to stumble. By God, if Anna could make a situation worse in any way, she would.

Liz stepped over the bottom stair, which always creaked. She grimaced for Anna to step over it too, but the child trod on it before Liz could wrench her arm. To think she'd once been delighted to have such a big house, such a long hall! The doors were closed, but did that mean the rooms were empty? Wasn't there a dark smear on the doorknob of the long room? Liz ran, dragging Anna, their footsteps thundering; stealth would take too long. The lock of the front door was stiff, and she heard padding behind her -she couldn't tell how far off, or even if it was real. She heaved the door open and almost fell out of the house.

She slammed the door at once, even though it cut off the light from the hall, and ran into the dark, still hauling Anna behind her. Because she knew where the road was, she could just make it out; a strip of fractionally lighter darkness, blurred at its verges. Beyond that, she could see nothing. She mustn't think that the thing in her house was necessarily better at seeing in the dark than she was, or swifter. She could only run past Seaview and the turn-off to the village, running faster when Anna tried to lag behind, dragging the child until she had no option but to keep up. Anna was sobbing with fear, but somehow Liz felt less afraid now. She knew where she was going, if she could only think. She wasn't fleeing to the hotel, she was going somewhere that would keep her safe.

She managed to hold her breath as she ran. 'Shut up, Anna,' she hissed. Couldn't the child stop her row for even a moment? How could she have enough breath to sob and to run? Liz could hear no sound of pursuit, but those bare feet would make little noise out here. If only she had time to reach where she was going – but she hadn't even had time to think what use Jane's house might be, when a car rounded a bend ahead and trapped her and Anna in its headlights.

She stood there while it drew to a halt. She knew the puzzled frowning face that leaned out of the driver's window, if only she could think. 'A bit late to be out walking,' he said. 'Can I give you a lift somewhere?'

Of course, he was staying at the Hotel Britannia. There was his wife, staring dubiously at Liz through the windscreen, then rearranging her features hastily into a smile. The hotel was all that Liz could think of now. 'Yes, thank you, to the hotel,' she said, shoving Anna into the back of the car and giving her arm a warning squeeze as she climbed in beside her. God help the child if she made these people think worse of Liz. She was already regretting having accepted the lift. Going to the hotel wouldn't solve anything, but she was afraid to think what would.