Part 10 (1/2)

”What? Speak up,” a man said angrily. ”Why do you always whisper? Who from Glenview?”

”The lunatic . . . Carol Blandish . . . the one they're looking for . . . go down and talk to her . . . I'll call the Sheriff,” the woman said. ”And hurry.”

”But she's dangerous,” the man said, a whine in his voice. ”You talk to her. I'm too old. I don't want anything to do with her.”

”Go down!” the woman said angrily. ”You know you can't use the telephone. There's five thousand dollars reward for her capture. Don't you want that, you old fool?”

There was a long pause, then the man said: ”Yes, I'd forgotten that. Perhaps I'd better go down.”

Carol closed her eyes. She must be dreaming this, she thought. It must be another of those terrifying dreams that came so mysteriously: only this time more vivid than ever before. Perhaps Steve hadn't been hurt; perhaps the two men in black were also part of the dream and she would suddenly wake up in her bed in the cabin, her heart pounding, frightened but safe.

The lunatic . . . Carol Blandish . . . the one they're looking for . . .

She s.h.i.+vered, willed herself to wake up and slowly opened her eyes, praying that she would find herself in bed, safe, but the shabby little room was still there and looked too real to be a dream figment, and she backed across the room, staring with horror at the door, listening to the slow shuffling steps on the stairs.

Somewhere at the back of the house she heard a sharp ting! of a bell: a telephone-bell.

Go down and talk to her . . . I'll call the Sheriff . . . . There's five thousand dollars reward for her capture. . . .

Whether or not this was a nightmare she must get away from this house. These people meant her harm. They wouldn't help Steve. They would try to keep her here, away from Steve, and he would die.

But she was now so frightened that she could not move, and crouched in a corner, her heart hammering against her side, a nerve jumping and twitching at the side of her mouth.

The door was slowly pushed open, and a vast old man came into the room: a bald-headed, tired, sagging figure with a great hooked nose and a drooping tobacco-stained moustache. But it was his eyes that filled her with unspeakable terror: at least his right eye, which was like a dirty yellow clay marble: like a phlegm-clot, blind, but she felt somehow it probed right into her mind.

The old man was wearing a blanket dressing-gown; food stains encrusted the lapels and above the opening she could see heavy underwear: layers of old, overwashed wool.

”Go away I” she screamed to herself. ”Let me wake up! Don't come near me!”

The old man closed the door, set his great bulk against it. He took a handkerchief from his dressing-gown pocket and mopped his left eye, which watered. The yellow clot over his right eye continued to stare at her, hypnotizing her.

”You're in trouble I hear,” he said in a shaky, whining voice. ”What do you want me to do?”

Carol squeezed herself further into the corner.

”Are you the doctor?”

”Yes,” the old man said. ”I'm Dr. Fleming.” He touched his temples with the handkerchief. Little beads of moisture ran down his face.

He was horrible, Carol thought. She couldn't take him to Steve. She couldn't trust him.

”I've made a mistake,” she said quickly. ”I don't want you. I shouldn't have come here.”

Fleming cringed. She realized that he was very frightened, and his fear increased her own terror.

”Now don't be hasty,” he implored. ”I'm old, but I'm a good doctor. Does my eye worry you? It's nothing: a clot. I'm always promising myself to have it removed, but I never have the time.” His wrinkled hands fluttered up and down the lapels of the dressing-gown; they looked like big bleached spiders. The harsh electric light picked out the black hairs on his fingers.

”But it doesn't interfere with my work. My other eye- But won't you sit down? You must tell me what's wrong . . . .”

Carol shook her head.

”No!” she said. ”I'm going. I shouldn't have disturbed you. Thank you for seeing me . . .” Her voice broke, rose a note. ”There's nothing you can do.”

Very slowly she pushed herself from the wall, took a hesitant step towards him.

”You'd better stay,” Fleming said. ”We want you to stay,” and he spread his bulk across the door, his face grimacing at her in his fear. ”Have some coffee. My wife . . . coffee will do you good.” He waved the bleached spiders at her imploring her to be quiet, not to frighten him anymore.

Carol ceased to breathe, then suddenly she screamed, feeling her lungs emptying long after all the air was expelled and her diaphragm labouring long after her chest was empty. The scream was very thin and soft: like the scream of a trapped rabbit.

”No, please,” Fleming said. ”It's all right. Nothing is going to happen. We're good people . . . we only want you to be safe from harm. . . .”

A soft scratching sound came on the door, and the old man suddenly relaxed, his face white as chalk. He stood away from the door and his wife came in.

”What is it?” she asked, looked at Carol. ”Why aren't you sitting down ? Has my husband . . .” Her eyes went to the old man. ”Won't you go with her? Someone is ill.”

”Yes, yes,” Fleming said, sat abruptly on one of the hard chairs. ”She's changed her mind.” He put fingers to his throat. ”This has upset me, Martha,” he went on. ”I shouldn't have come down. A little brandy, I think ”

”Be quiet,” the woman said sharply. ”Don't think so much of yourself.”

”I must go,” Carol said. She was by the table now, her mouth fixed in a cringing grimace. ”I shouldn't have disturbed you.”

”But the doctor's going up to dress now,” the woman said quickly. ”He won't be a minute. Your friend's ill, isn't he? Someone you love?”

Carol's heart lurched.

”Oh, yes,” she said. ”I don't know what I'm thinking of.” She touched her temple with her fingers. ”Yes . . . he's bleeding. But why does the doctor sit there? Why doesn't he do something?”

”Go on,” the woman said to Fleming. ”Get dressed. I'll make the young lady a cup of coffee.”

Fleming still sat slumped in the chair. His breathing was heavy.

”Let her go,” he said suddenly. ”I don't want the money. I want peace. I'm old. Let her go before something happens. Look what she did to the truck-driver . . . .”

”Get upstairs, you old fool,” the woman said angrily. ”You don't know what you're saying.”

”Don't disturb him,” Carol said. ”I'm going . . . I really must go,” and she walked across the room very slowly, but determinedly.

Fleming hid his big floppy face in his hands. The woman hesitated, gave ground, backed against the wall, her hard eyes alight with rage and fear.

”You'd better stay,” she said. ”We know who you are. You'd better not make a fuss. You can't get away.”

Carol opened the door.

”I don't know what you mean,” she said, turning so that she could face them. ”I thought you would help me.” She turned quickly, ran to the front door, but it was locked. She whirled round to find the woman standing in the doorway of the waiting-room, watching her.

”Open this door,” Carol said, her face like a small lead-coloured mask.

”It's all right,” the woman said. ”Why don't you come in and sit down? I'll make you a cup of coffee . . . .”