Hold My Hand (36 page)

Epilogue

He is so large that he knocks the breath from her when he lands, leaves her pinned beneath the dead weight of him, bare shoulders pressed into rough floorboards. She struggles, gasps: wide eyes rolling in panic as she realises that she is trapped.

He is snoring. Slobbery nose-breathing into the crook of her neck. Wet, viscous, disgusting.

I have to get out, she thinks. Get out before he wakes up. He'll do for me, when he remembers what I've done. Those hands – I'll never be able to keep them off me, now he'll be angry.

She feels the length of him pressed against her, made heavier by unconsciousness. He snuffles, and a string of drool works its way out of his mouth, into her hair.

She feels animal noises forming in her head. Can't let them out. Can't. They'll wake him, bring him back here, and he'll carry on. Carry –

Lily heaves. He flops like a scarecrow on top of her, lolling head and idiot eyes. His tongue drops from between flabby lips and he lets out a sigh.

Panic makes her strong. I have to – have to… I must, must, must…

And she is out from under him, clawing her way across the floor, scrambling to her knees, her feet, tripping on her hem, landing near the door, turning back to look.

Hugh begins to move. A hand, stubby sausage fingers, sweeps the floor, comes to a standstill at shoulder-level.

He's waking up.

Instinct drives her forward, out. The memory of those hands, the feel of them delving, grabbing, at her deep dark places. She knows very little, sees as though she's in a tunnel, but knows she has to get out. Get away. Get gone. The hands. The breath. He's coming after me…

Thank God, thank God. He didn't lock the door behind him.

Dark. It's dark. He's behind me. Behind me in the dark.

And so is she. Somewhere. In this house, in the dark places.

Lily picks up her skirts and runs.

The clap of the front door jerks Felicity Blakemore from her dream on the sofa. Night has fallen while she's been dozing, and her body temperature, after two hours unmoving and uncovered, has plummeted. She has difficulty remembering which room she went to after lunch; only dimly makes out that she is in the library by the half-light filtering through the window. She reaches out to turn on the lamp on the sofa-table, remembers the blackout and feels her way to the window.

It's snowing again. Huge feathery flakes whirl past the glass, settle on the privets. Visibility doesn't extend much further than five feet out; cloud obscures the moon and the fall is thick, speedy.

I need a brandy, she thinks. Warm me up. Pulls the blind and the curtain, and stumbles back through the darkness.

The house feels – vulnerable tonight. As though someone's outside, watching. Waiting to get in. Funny, she thinks, as she empties the last of the decanter on the dining-room drinks tray. Usually, when Hughie's home, I feel so much safer. I suppose it's because he's only just got back. We're still settling in with each other again. It's inevitable that he should have changed a bit. School does that to a boy. A few days, a nice Christmas, even if it is just the two of us, and he'll be my boy again.

Just the two of us. The image of the cuckoo in the attic flashes across her mind. Well, perhaps, she thinks. Hughie seems to have some sort of control over her. Always has had. She seems to do what he says in a way she simply won't contemplate with other people.

Glass in hand, she begins the nightly ritual of closing down the house. No reason to go outside, now. With the snow, we won't be getting any unexpected visitors. Not that we get any, really, anyway. This damned war. We were all happy before the war. Will we ever be happy again? Where is Hughie, anyway? I'm surprised he hasn't been down demanding tea by now. There are some scones in the pantry. He can have those, when he appears. So dull, this wartime diet. Boredom will kill us long before the Hun do. Cabbage and spuds for supper again. At least I managed to get my hands on some pork, to celebrate his first night back.

Felicity makes her way from room to room, pulling blackout blinds, drawing curtains, turning on single lamps once the night is shut out. Never glances through a window. Pauses from time to time, to sip at her drink.

So damn cold. No-one to do the grounds any more, and the log-pile's practically exhausted. There must be plenty of timber in the woods after the summer. While he's here, we can put in a couple of days' collecting and sawing together. It'll be fun. Just the two of us. Like old times.

She drinks, smiles at the imagined scene, turns the key in the west kitchen door.

Christmas, she thinks. Only a few days now. I can get a couple of chickens from the home farm, I'm sure. He can have Patrick's hunter watch. He's old enough, now, and he'll enjoy it. It's not as if Patrick's going to have any use for it, now. We'll lay up the dining room. I'll open the last of Daddy's claret and he can have a glass. And you never know. Fortnum's might still come up with a stilton, even at this late stage.

The scullery is biting cold. She hurries through, forgets the blackout as she rushes to lock the door. Light plays over the intensifying snow, illuminates its hazy meanders.

Damn, she thinks. Damn, damn. Lucky there wasn't a bomber going over. Not that they'll be flying tonight. I wouldn't leave a
dog
out there tonight.

It'll be cold in the attic, she thinks. Perhaps I shouldn't leave her up there any longer. Hughie can keep her under control, anyway, and they'll be company for each other. That was where he said he was going, come to think of it. He's obviously got a soft spot. He must have been up there hours now.

Yes, she thinks. She's probably learned her lesson. And besides, even
she
wouldn't try to make a run for it in this.

She pauses in the hall, drains her glass.

Yes, she thinks. She's done her time. I'll leave her up there for one more night, so I can get to know my son again, and then I'll let her out.

Felicy Blakemore bends at the waist and shoots the great bolt on the front door. It is stiff, as though it hasn't been used in a very long time.

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