The Claw

Eight

The rain came hissing toward the house as though the sea itself were breaking over the top of the cliff. As the grass of the lawn whipped back and forth, the whole of the garden seemed to be shuddering. Rain lashed the kitchen window, but Liz could see the hedge at the end of the garden all too well. The blackened hedge was tossing like an animal in pain, and she could hardly bear to look. As the black stain of a thundercloud sped towards her, engulfing the sky, she felt somehow as if a darker stain had seeped into the fabric of the house.

The mutilated animal had been so close; it might just as well have been inside the house. No wonder the house felt soiled and all at once a good deal smaller – though perhaps it felt so only to Liz. Last night Anna had sobbed for hours and insisted on sleeping with Liz, while Alan slept in the spare bedroom on the top floor, but at least that seemed to be the end of it; today she was just rainy-day restless, as far as Liz could tell, except that she refused to be on her own for any length of time.

As for Alan, the incident had made him more withdrawn. He seemed unable to work. Instead he'd been wandering about the house all day, looking for thoughts. She could hear his slow footsteps on the stairs. Anna had been helping make coffee, but now she hurried into her playroom, the only room on the ground floor that didn't overlook the back garden. Liz was staring out at the hedge again as Alan came into the kitchen.

'I wish you'd seen who did it,' she couldn't help saying.

'Don't you think I do too, for Christ's sake? It would make life a lot easier. You make it sound as if I didn't want to see.'

'It's only that you must have been so close when it happened. It just seems strange that you didn't hear anything.'

'Do you know what the most boring thing in the world is? Telling the same story twice. You heard what I told the police. Anyway, you know I like music when I'm working – or even,' he added bitterly, 'when I can't work. I don't see that there's anything terribly suspicious about that.'

The policeman who'd called yesterday had seemed to think there was. He was a large, stout, red-faced man who looked as if he ought to open a pub when he retired. It clearly disturbed him to have to interrogate a writer, because he'd made Alan repeat half his answers as if to show who was in charge. When he'd told Alan for the third time to think if he had seen anything suspicious, Liz had sensed Alan's growing fury, and it had frightened her. The policeman had left at last, promising vaguely that someone would keep an eye on things. Since then, Liz had kept feeling that the house was being watched, but she had yet to see the watcher. It wasn't in the least bit reassuring.

Nor was Alan – not while she knew that there was something he was holding back. Perhaps he sensed that; perhaps that was what was making him linger now that she had poured the coffee. He was clasping his mug and staring at the thin weaving steam. At last he said, 'Well, maybe I wasn't listening to music when it happened. It's just that I didn't want to say that to the police.'

He seemed to hope she would be satisfied with that. Of course she wasn't, but before she could question him, Anna came in. 'I don't know what to do,' she complained.

'Just a minute, Anna. I think I know something you'll like,' Liz said, and hurried to the living-room. Yes, there was a wild-life programme on television, the kind Anna loved: birds unfurling in slow motion, enormous alien close-ups of insects, worlds you could tread on without knowing they were there. She'd meant to draw the curtains unobtrusively over the patio doors, so that the sight of the hedge wouldn't remind Anna of yesterday, but the child had already followed her. Couldn't she have stayed with her father for just a few more moments? To make matters worse, as Liz drew the curtains Anna said, 'I don't want to be in here, mummy.'

'Oh, why not, darling? ^ 9

Anna pointed at the mantelpiece. 'I don't like that.'

'What, the claw?' On top of everything else, this seemed wilfully irritating. 'Why ever not?'

'I just don't. It's nasty. I don't like to go near it,' Anna said defiantly, as if Liz should understand a good deal more that she couldn't put into words.

'Well, don't worry. It won't be here much longer.' As far as Liz was concerned, that would have been the end of it. But just then Alan marched in.

'What's the matter now?' he said irritably to Anna.

'She doesn't like your claw.'

'Good God, Anna, it won't hurt you. Daddy's looking after it for someone.'

Anna trudged away to her playroom, looking lonely and vulnerable. Liz's heart suddenly went out to her. She must still need comforting. At least the rain was keeping her inside the house, out of danger. Last night Liz had imagined finding the child laid open beneath the hedge. They were all nervous. No wonder Anna found her father's irritability alarming.

Liz switched off the television, not least because its light made the claw appear to jerk. She still found it beautiful, too perfectly shaped to seem vicious, but the illusion of movement made her think of a restless severed limb. 'What were you going to tell me?' she said.

'Oh, nothing terribly significant,' he said reluctantly. 'It was only that my mother rang up yesterday afternoon, not long before you came home.'

That would have been after she came to the hotel. What did she have to say?'

'Nothing much. Anyway, it's not what she said. It's just that I might have been talking to her when what happened out there happened.'

His hand was resting on the mantelpiece, leading her gaze to the claw, and she had to look away, for the claw still appeared to be flickering. 'But what was she saying?'

'All sorts of things. Not just about you.'

Perhaps he couldn't see how tense she was growing. 'Such as?'

'Oh, that I behave as if I don't care for Anna, that kind of thing. Just words. They don't mean a thing. She's probably forgotten what she said by now. Look, I came down here for coffee, not to be distracted. I'm still trying to write this fucking book.'

'That's all you care about, isn't it? Nothing matters but your work. As long as that's all right, everyone else can go to hell.'

'It's a good job I do feel like that, or we'd soon be bloody starving. Aside from which, I've just told you that it isn't all right. Try listening for a change. You certainly aren't helping, or that wretched child.'

That seemed so unfair – good God, their entire life was built around his work schedule! For a moment she was too furious to speak.

'Christ, I'm sorry,' he said at once and taking hold of her shoulders, tried to pull her to him. But she was too stiff with fury to respond, even if she'd wanted to.

'I'm sorry,' he said again. 'I didn't mean what I said. I hardly know what I'm saying. All this business has got me down too, you know. I suppose I just try to keep my feelings to myself.'

'Then you should either try harder or not try at all.' Still, she was softening toward him; presumably, he'd been trying to seem strong for her sake. 'You shouldn't try to hide things from me. I always know when you do.'

'There's no point in worrying you when you can't help, is there?' He must be talking about his work – she couldn't think of anything else that would make him sound so savage. 'Anyway, there is something we ought to talk about, since you insist, and that's my mother.'

'Well, she certainly has enough to say about me.'

'Liz, you're being paranoid. Whatever makes you say that?'

'Because you know damn well she called you up yesterday to talk about me. Don't tell me she accused you of not caring for Anna. She thinks the sun shines out of your arse.'

'Well, does it matter what she says? We know you're a hell of a mother. She only says these things because she feels left out. Maybe we should involve her more in Anna's upbringing. After all, she is my mother.'

'Alan – I've tried to involve her. But do you really want her telling Anna the opposite of everything we say?'

'Well, if it'll keep the peace-'

'I won't have Anna confused or worse, even to keep the peace.'

'Well, it's up to you,' he said irritably. 'Anyway, I've wasted enough time down here. Not that I think I'll be able to work after all this.'

Was that another dig? As he let go of the mantelpiece his hand brushed the metal claw, which rose for a moment, scratching at the air. 'By the way,' Liz said, 'weren't you supposed to be taking that to London?'

'Yes, I will be.' He seemed to want to change the subject. 'No point in making a special journey. Anyway, I thought you liked it;'

'Yes, I do, but Anna doesn't seem to. I don't want her disturbed for no reason, especially now.'

'I've told you, I'll take it next time I go.'

With that, he left her and tramped upstairs.

She stayed for a while in the long room, feeling dissatisfied. By now it was so dark outside the drenched windows that it looked as if the black sky were drowning the house. She had a vague feeling that Alan had deliberately used the argument to avoid explaining something to her. If there was no urgency about delivering the claw to London, why had he needed to bring it from Nigeria? But she found she couldn't think for any length of time about the claw; her thoughts grew blurred and repetitive, frustrating her.

Anyway, she didn't feel that was the explanation she was seeking.

Eventually she tiptoed out and peeked into the playroom. Anna was writing a story, gnawing her pencil and glancing up nervously when the rain tapped at the window. Liz withdrew quietly so as not to disturb her, and went up to her workroom on the floor above, next to Anna's bedroom. Here she could be alone when she wanted to be, with her large old desk, her sewing machine, her shelves of well-thumbed paperbacks, some of them dating back to her childhood. More important, from up here she could satisfy herself that the cliff-top and the beach were deserted. Somehow, though, that wasn't as reassuring as she'd hoped. Perhaps speaking to her parents would be.

It was no use. At first all she got was, 'All lines to Carlisle are engaged, please try later,' and then, when at last the robotic voice vacated the line, her parents weren't answering. She only hoped they were still coming to stay, now that she had put off Barbara Mason. She would have loved to see Barbara again, jolly optimistic Barbara and her ancient capacious shoulder-bag that she refused to part with. She must call her parents later. If for any reason they weren't coming, perhaps she could still invite Barbara.

Suddenly she craned across the desk. The garden had been out of sight while she was on the phone and Anna had been alone downstairs. The garden looked half-drowned, the sky blackened everything. She shoved herself back from the window and hurried downstairs.

Anna was still writing. Nothing else moved on the ground floor except faint blurred shadows of rain, and even those vanished once Liz switched on the lights in the long room. All at once she was irritated by her fears; would even a maniac who disembowelled animals venture out on a day like this? Yet the curtains hiding the patio doors made her feel irrationally afraid. Keeping them closed in the daytime shrank the room. She strode forward and opened them wide with a tug on the cord.

Then she stumbled backward, choking on a cry. A crimson face was pressed against the glass, peering in at her.

The next moment she saw what it really was: the glistening movements in the empty sockets were of rain, not eyes – but that only made it worse. She ran up to Alan's room, almost falling, and dragged him down to look. She would have screamed for him, except that screaming would have brought Anna as well. By the time she got him downstairs, she was sobbing as much with frustration as with fear, because the face had gone; the rain had scoured it away. But she knew what she had seen: the imprint of a face that had been pressed against the window, trying to peer through the crack between the curtains – a face that must have been covered with blood.