Perhaps if she leaned out of the window and shouted, somebody passing on the street might hear her. Even Colin’s sister. She might bring out something to the dustbin. I could shout myself hoarse, she thought, waiting for that to happen.
Or climb out of the window? She wrenched out the handle from its notch halfway up the frame, lifted the metal bar from its peg, and pushed outwards. Nothing. Running her hand over the wood, she could see that it was swollen with damp. The window was quite big enough for her to climb out, if there was anything to hold on to. She pushed the frame with the heel of her hand, but couldn’t exert the pressure that was needed. She was afraid to push against the glass in case she went through it; Mrs. Axon certainly wouldn’t be ready to administer first aid.
She regarded the window again and sucked at her bruised hand. Thoughtfully, she took her gloves out of her pocket and put them on. She could take off her jacket and wrap it around her hand, but she felt reluctant, not only because of the liquid, intense cold, but because she felt irrationally that, with one layer less, her flesh would be vulnerable. There is no point in asking yourself what you are afraid of, she told herself, only know that you are afraid, and then take some action to remedy the situation. What was that? Some sort of rag, lying by the door. She would use that. She scooped it up. It was a pink angora cardigan with shiny white buttons. Even in this light it looked grubby. What a strange garment, she thought, for either of the Axons to possess. If I push that window enough, I’ll loosen it, by degrees I’ll unstick it, it will give. A faint odour from the cardigan caught her attention, and she lifted it to her face.
Her lips set, and suddenly she began to blush, a deep crimson blush which seemed to wash over her whole body and turn her legs to water. She wanted to sit down, and did sit down, on the bed. To be sure, she sniffed the wool again. It was unmistakable, the sour-sweet baby odour of regurgitated milk.
Then, all those months ago—when she had come to the house and seen Muriel in that peculiar smock; she could hear her own words to Colin, “For a moment I thought she might be pregnant.” So why, why on earth had she not seriously entertained that possibility? All these months, Muriel had been absent from the Day Centre. No one else had seen her since the old place was closed. And that was plenty of time. I have certainly made, she thought, a gigantic professional blunder.
But then, people do worse. She tried to comfort herself. She thought of the court hearing she had attended only the day before yesterday. Children go to school hungry and fall asleep at the back of classrooms; teachers are only grateful if they don’t scream, start fights, come at them with knives. Children fall into fires. With childish obstinacy, they ram doorknobs into their eye sockets. They fall downstairs with the thumping regularity of prisoners in South African police stations. I can’t live in your pocket, Mrs. Axon. One of my colleagues returned to its parents a child that is now dead, a snivelling and unappealing brat with impetigo, which I once visited myself.
If Muriel had a child, it would have to be removed at once. But where had she delivered the child? Which hospital? Surely any half-observant medical personnel—but perhaps it had been born here, at home. What an awful thought. It occurred to her that the house was quite silent; twenty minutes had passed; was the baby sleeping soundly?
Perhaps it is dead.
Oh Christ, she thought, if Muriel has a child, who is the father? But I’m jumping to conclusions. A smell of milk on an old cardigan. Does that add up to a baby? And Muriel’s strange clothes? Muriel’s clothes were strange at any time.
She launched herself up from the bed and flung herself at the door, hammering again with her fists. “Mrs. Axon, let me out, let me out immediately. You’re behaving in an incredibly stupid fashion. If you don’t let me out someone from my office will come to look for me, so you see it’s no use.”
Not tonight they won’t, she said to herself. And Evelyn, standing on the stairs, thought, not tonight they won’t, and tomorrow’s another day.
Isabel turned and flew back to the window. The frame shuddered, free in the middle but sticking at the top and bottom. She reached up and thumped at it. She beat at the wood with a series of sharp heavy blows, and with an involuntary sound of triumph and surprise saw the window give and swing outwards. She stuck her head out, peering into the darkness.
She couldn’t see much to help her. There was a drainpipe, but it wasn’t within reach. She leaned out further, trying to estimate distances. If she had been locked into the room next door, her fall would have been broken by the roof of the lean-to, but from here there was nothing between her and the flagstones below. If there were a fire, I suppose I’d jump, she thought. But it’s suicidal. I could break my back. And if by some mischance there was a baby, and if by some mischance it’s dead; who knows? Who knows, besides me?
She picked up the pink cardigan from the bed and looked at it carefully, turning it inside out. Nothing more, no smell of urine. Quickly, she rolled it up and pushed it into her big bag, averting her face as she did so, as if she did not want to see what she was doing. She placed her newspaper on top of it, and Muriel’s file. Would the neighbours know? Possibly, and possibly not; perhaps Evelyn was in the habit of locking Muriel up. If I have the only knowledge, she thought, I may also have the only evidence. She could not picture Muriel surrounded by terry squares and baby bouncers, and little bibs from Mothercare.
She tried to think back over the weeks. When was it, that Muriel had appeared in the smock? The file would tell her the date of her last visit. But no, never mind that; the important thing was to get out of here. Suppose she had made an error, why should she suffer? Why should I? she demanded of the clammy air. They wouldn’t let me in, they didn’t want me, they rejected my help. I had no reason to expect this, none.
She returned to the window. What can I shout? She felt foolish. Just then, the dim glow strengthened perceptibly; someone had switched on an outside light, not here at the Axon house but at the house next door. She could see a little paved area outside the house, with dim shapes that must be flower tubs. From ground level, she thought, the shrubs and bushes would completely conceal one garden from the next, but from here she could see a long path leading down the lawn between empty flowerbeds. Now a torch beam struck across the path.
She did not shout at once, but held her breath. Someone was definitely coming out into the garden, and she wanted them to spot her, recognise the problem, and get her out with the minimum of fuss. Screams and shouts would only create panic. Just a ladder, that’s all she needed, and somebody to hold the base steady. After that, she would be able to find out what the neighbours knew or suspected; they would come out with it without any prompting, once they knew she was from Social Services. Heights did not worry her; she could manage to scramble out backwards, and would be on the ground before she had time to think twice.
A woman, broad and shapeless, was stumping down the path. Halfway, she stopped and turned back to the house. That must be Colin’s sister, surely? It would be more reassuring to call to her by name. Explanations for that could come later. As she leaned out, another torch beam crossed the first. Colin came down the path and joined his sister.
I can hardly believe my luck, or lack of it, Isabel thought. The pair below shone their torches up at the roof. What were they doing? From Florence she caught the words, “Guttering looks dubious too.”
From Colin, “Better in daylight, Saturday.”
And from Florence, “But a loose slate might—”
“Help me,” she yelled. She hung out of the window. “I’m locked in here. I’m locked in, help me get out.”
Startled, their heads jerked up. The torch beams swept over the trees and fences till they rested on her face.
“Good God!” Colin said. More loudly, “What are you doing?”
“What?” Florence said. “Who is it? Do you know her?”
“I’m a social worker, Miss Sidney. These mad women have locked me in.”
“I’ll be right there,”
Colin shouted. He approached the fence. “Hang on, I’ll be right there.”
“No, go round. Fetch a ladder and come round the drive.”
His face was in shadow. “Florence, have we got a ladder? We haven’t got a ladder,” he yelled back. “Hang on. I’ll be there in two minutes.”
“It’s no use, they won’t let you in.” Too late. Colin scrambled and heaved himself over the fence, crunching wood under his feet. “You stay there, Florence,” he called. “I’ll sort this out.” His arms flailing, he crashed through the Axons’ shrubbery and was lost to view around the side of the house. Isabel heard him banging on the back door.
“Stay in sight, please,” she called to Florence. “Please stay where I can see you. I’m sure they won’t let him in.”
Florence’s voice was piercing in the gloom. “Ought I to call the police?”
“No. No, don’t do that. Please keep your torch on me.” She admitted it, the words sticking in her throat; again a brush at her hand, a twitch at her skirt. “I’m afraid. I’m frightened. Please don’t go.”
“Of course you are,” Florence boomed. “They frighten me too. We’ll soon have you out, don’t you worry.”
Getting no reply from the back, Colin ran around the house and rang at the front door. He put his thumb on the bell and held it there, and hammered on the door with his other hand. Quite obviously they were not going to let him in. The back door would be the easier option; never mind what’s happened, he thought, she must be got out first.
He twisted the knob of the back door, rattled it to no avail. In a frenzy, he rammed his shoulder into it; he withdrew, gasping with pain and rubbing his bruised arm. He stepped back, preparing a great kick that would splinter the wood or break the lock; heard a bolt slide, and presented the sole of his shoe to Muriel Axon’s grinning face.
“Miss Axon, I have to come in.” With difficulty, he steadied himself. Muriel stood in the doorway, a strange gaunt figure, her eyes vacant, her large feet thrust into fluffy bedroom slippers.
“Muriel,” a voice called from inside. “Muriel, don’t unfasten that back door, don’t you dare.”
Something like a mad excitement came into Muriel’s eyes. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, extracted something from it, and dropped it at Colin’s feet. He bent down for it.
“This the key?”
She nodded, and dropped back to let him pass. He hustled through the kitchen and into the hall. The layout of the house was not hard to imagine. As he reached the foot of the stairs, a figure appeared from the back room, an old woman with a face like clay. He stopped short. She looked harmless and feeble. She smelled, he thought. They both smelled, of must and poor nutrition and neglect. In a second he took in the desolation around him, the peeling wallpaper, the caked mud on the parquet floor.
“I told you, Muriel,” Mrs. Axon said. “You always do the opposite of what I tell you, don’t you?”
“Mrs. Axon, what are you up to?” Alarmed as he was, he tried to moderate his tone. “Why have you locked Miss Field in the bedroom?”
“Oh, you know her, do you?” the woman said, with a hard sneer. As if to back her up, Muriel sniggered loudly. Colin started towards the stairs, Evelyn following him and pulling at his arm.
“I’ve got the key,” he said, trying to shake her off. “It’s no use, I’ll have to go up, I’m afraid.”
She hung on grimly, her hand scrabbling at his collar, her weight holding him back. Dragging her with him, he mounted four steps into the darkness.
“You’ll let them out,” she gasped. “Don’t for heaven’s sake let them out.”
“What?” He twisted round, trying to hold her off. “Who else have you got locked up?”
She reached up and fastened her hand over his face, jabbing him in the eye with her forefinger. He swore. “Let me go, you silly bitch, you nearly had my eye out. I’m coming, hold on,” he yelled up the stairs. With an effort he shook Evelyn off and gave her a push. She lost her footing and slid halfway down the stairs, her breath jolted out of her in a cry. At the top he turned and saw her ready to come after him, her hand on the banister ready to haul herself up, her jaw set like someone facing the Matterhorn. Suddenly a hand shot out and wrenched her savagely sideways, slamming her face into the wall. She did not make a sound. Her hand knotted into her mother’s clothes like someone controlling a puppet, Muriel hauled her upright again and let her go. Evelyn’s mouth opened for air. Her face, so far as he could see, wore an expression of amazement; but it was dark, he could not see very much. She put one hand to her chest, buckled at the knees, and slid down the last half-dozen steps to the hall floor, where she lay untidily on her side, one arm flung out.
Colin leapt down the stairs three at a time and hunched himself over the body. He knew, quite certainly and without investigation, that she was dead. Without touching, he stared at her for a moment, then jumped up and ran back up the stairs. “I’m coming,” he called. He pounded along the landing and turned the key in the lock of the room at the end. Isabel stumbled out, straight into his arms, almost knocking him down. He held her gingerly, and then forced her away from him, gripping her by the upper arms.
“You don’t know me,” he hissed. “You don’t know my name.”
Drunkenly, she nodded. She pressed her fingers, which were stiff and blue with cold, across her mouth. “I’m going to be sick.”
“The bathroom’s there.” He released her and started down the stairs, hearing her retching and shivering behind him. Florence had come in. Solid and square, wearing her gardening coat, she blocked the hallway. Muriel peeped over her shoulder at Evelyn’s body.
“Colin?”
“Yes. I’m here. Coming down now.”
“There’s no light in here. What’s happened?”
“Mrs. Axon’s collapsed. It’s all right, Florence, here I am.”
“Is the young lady all right?”
“She’s fine, she’s behind me now.”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“I think so.”
Isabel appeared on the stairs, her handkerchief dabbing her mouth. “Call an ambulance,” she said. She began to come down, tottering like an invalid. Colin was afraid to touch her. She squatted by Evelyn and picked up her wrist.
“Do you think we could give her artificial respiration?” Florence said. “We could massage her heart. My brother here, Mr. Sidney, once took a first-aid course.”
“You can try if you like,” Isabel said.
“Turn her over,” Colin grunted. “Straighten her legs out, Florence. That’s it, now I need to raise her shoulders a bit.” He stripped off his jacket, wadded it up, and pushed it under Evelyn so that her head dropped back. He fished in her open mouth, trying to bring her tongue forward.
“Unblock the airway,” he said to himself. “Remove any dentures.”
“I always knew something dreadful would happen in this house,” Florence said. “I’ve always hated this house since I was a child.”
“Never mind that now. Ring for the ambulance,” Colin said. He leaned forward and sealed his mouth over Evelyn’s. By the front door Muriel watched him, her legs planted apart and her face absorbed.
“Now, Muriel,” Florence said. She spoke distinctly, as if to a foreigner. “Now Muriel, your mother’s had a bit of an accident. I’m going to call an ambulance. I’ll go out the front,” she said to Colin, “it’s quicker.” For a moment Muriel stood blocking her path. “Now, Muriel,” Florence said again. Her eyes focusing, as if she had only just seen her, Muriel stepped aside. The front door clicked shut after Florence.
Isabel looked down, frowning. “I think you’re wasting your time.”
“There’s no heartbeat,” Colin said. He bunched his fist and brought it down on Evelyn’s breastbone. “It’s no go,” he said. “Nothing.”
“Get up then.”
Colin levered himself up to a kneeling position. Gently he removed his jacket from under Evelyn’s shoulders, steadying the he
ad reverently till it rested on the hall floor.
“What happened?” Isabel’s tone was dull, as if she could barely be troubled to frame the question.
“She was coming after me. Trying to drag me back. I must have pushed her. It wasn’t intended. Not hard. She just slipped back a few steps, she wasn’t hurt, she was coming up after me again.”
“She didn’t die of being pushed. She’s had a heart attack.”
“Muriel banged her against the wall. It must have been quite a knock.”
“Did she now? Yes, well, you can see that. She’s got a bump on the head too.”
“She’ll have done that when she fell.” Colin rubbed his back. He put his jacket on. “Ought we to cover her face?” He was surprised at how little he felt; no shock, no revulsion, just a kind of numb practicality.
“If you like. I imagine there’ll be an inquest. You’ll have to give evidence.”
“Will it come out, about the file? I mean, all those months—”
“No, I’ll say they refused to let me in. I had no reason to make them a priority. I have a full caseload. Of course they’ll criticise the Social Services. It’s the rule these days. Never mind. Personally, I’ve had enough.”
Colin nodded warningly in Muriel’s direction.
“Oh, Muriel doesn’t know what day of the week it is. Do you, Muriel?”
Muriel gaped at her. Isabel took her eyes from Muriel’s face. “What on earth are you doing in that overcoat, Muriel?” she said sharply. “Where did you get that?”
“She had it on when she let me in,” Colin said.
“Take it off,” Isabel said. “Let me have a look at you.”
Obediently, Muriel unfastened the coat, a dark flapping garment of old-fashioned shape and cut. She slipped out of it, held it in one hand, looked around her, and finally hung it tidily on the hallstand. Isabel ran her eyes over the girl’s body; bare-legged, thick-waisted, her breasts shapeless inside an old stained pinafore.