across the table at Childes.
The coffin lid was smashed, splinters bursting outwards under the axe blows. Jagged segments were ripped away, the hole enlarged. The tiny body was exposed, its features unclear in the dismal light. Childes' hand tightened on the glass. The room was shifting; he could barely breathe. The invisible pressure on the nape of his neck increased, squeezing like a vice.
For a moment, the hands, seen by Childes almost as his own, paused as if the denier had sensed something, had become aware of being observed. Sensed Childes, himself. Something deep inside his mind was coldly touched. The moment passed.
Tilly Platnauer knew she should not be enjoying the tale, but Duxbury's bluff rendition was compelling. Her shoulders were already beginning to judder with mirth.
The little corpse was torn free from the silk-lined casket and now Childes could see the tiny open eyes that had no depth, no life-force. The boy was laid on the grass beside the pit, where the night breeze ruffled his hair, blowing wisps across his pale, unlined forehead, giving an illusion of vitality. His clothes were cut free and pulled aside so that the body was naked to the night, white marble in colour and stillness.
Metal glinted in the thin moonlight. Plunging downward. Entering.
Slicing.
The glass shattered, wine mixed with blood spilling on the lace tablecloth. Someone screamed. Childes had risen, knocking over his chair, was standing over them, swaying, his eyes staring towards the ceiling, a glistening wetness to his lips, a light sheen moistening his skin.
His body shook, went rigid, even his hair appeared brittle. With a desolate cry he fell forward onto the table.
9
Gloatingly, it bit into the heart of the dead child.
10
Amy clenched her fists and closed her eyes against the reflection of her father.
They were in her bedroom, she white-faced with eyes tear-puffed and red, sitting miserably at her dressing-table, Paul Sebire agitated, angrily pacing the room behind her. She could not clear from her mind the sight of Jon when he had been led away from the house by Platnauer, the conseiller helping him into his own car, refusing to allow him to drive himself home, despite his protests: Jon's face had been so taut, so stricken.
He had refused a doctor, had insisted that he -was okay, that he had just suffered a blackout, that the heat of the dining room had overcome him. They knew that the night was cool, that the house was merely warm, not too hot, but hadn't argued. He would be fine as soon as he could lie down, he had told them, as soon as he could rest; he strenuously declined Amy's and Vivienne's offer of a bed for the night, saying he just needed to be on his own for a while. His distant gaze had frightened her as much as his ashen face, but it was useless to argue.
She had held him before he left, feeling his inner trembling, wishing she could soothe it away. His cut hand had been treated and bandaged, and Amy had brought it to her lips before letting him go, kissing the fingertips, careful not to hold on too tightly. Childes hadn't allowed her to go with him.
Paul Sebire stopped pacing. 'Aimee,' he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. 'I don't want you to be angry, I just want you to listen to me and to be rational.'
He stroked her hair, then let his hand fall back onto her shoulder. 'I'd like you to end this relationship with Childes.' He waited for the outburst, which never came. Amy was merely staring coldly at his reflection in the mirror and, in a way, that was more unsettling. He went on, his tone cautious: 'I believe the man is unstable. At first I thought tonight he was suffering from an epileptic fit of some kind, but soon realised the symptoms were not the same. Aimee, I think the man is heading for a mental breakdown.'
'He's not
The coffin lid was smashed, splinters bursting outwards under the axe blows. Jagged segments were ripped away, the hole enlarged. The tiny body was exposed, its features unclear in the dismal light. Childes' hand tightened on the glass. The room was shifting; he could barely breathe. The invisible pressure on the nape of his neck increased, squeezing like a vice.
For a moment, the hands, seen by Childes almost as his own, paused as if the denier had sensed something, had become aware of being observed. Sensed Childes, himself. Something deep inside his mind was coldly touched. The moment passed.
Tilly Platnauer knew she should not be enjoying the tale, but Duxbury's bluff rendition was compelling. Her shoulders were already beginning to judder with mirth.
The little corpse was torn free from the silk-lined casket and now Childes could see the tiny open eyes that had no depth, no life-force. The boy was laid on the grass beside the pit, where the night breeze ruffled his hair, blowing wisps across his pale, unlined forehead, giving an illusion of vitality. His clothes were cut free and pulled aside so that the body was naked to the night, white marble in colour and stillness.
Metal glinted in the thin moonlight. Plunging downward. Entering.
Slicing.
The glass shattered, wine mixed with blood spilling on the lace tablecloth. Someone screamed. Childes had risen, knocking over his chair, was standing over them, swaying, his eyes staring towards the ceiling, a glistening wetness to his lips, a light sheen moistening his skin.
His body shook, went rigid, even his hair appeared brittle. With a desolate cry he fell forward onto the table.
9
Gloatingly, it bit into the heart of the dead child.
10
Amy clenched her fists and closed her eyes against the reflection of her father.
They were in her bedroom, she white-faced with eyes tear-puffed and red, sitting miserably at her dressing-table, Paul Sebire agitated, angrily pacing the room behind her. She could not clear from her mind the sight of Jon when he had been led away from the house by Platnauer, the conseiller helping him into his own car, refusing to allow him to drive himself home, despite his protests: Jon's face had been so taut, so stricken.
He had refused a doctor, had insisted that he -was okay, that he had just suffered a blackout, that the heat of the dining room had overcome him. They knew that the night was cool, that the house was merely warm, not too hot, but hadn't argued. He would be fine as soon as he could lie down, he had told them, as soon as he could rest; he strenuously declined Amy's and Vivienne's offer of a bed for the night, saying he just needed to be on his own for a while. His distant gaze had frightened her as much as his ashen face, but it was useless to argue.
She had held him before he left, feeling his inner trembling, wishing she could soothe it away. His cut hand had been treated and bandaged, and Amy had brought it to her lips before letting him go, kissing the fingertips, careful not to hold on too tightly. Childes hadn't allowed her to go with him.
Paul Sebire stopped pacing. 'Aimee,' he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. 'I don't want you to be angry, I just want you to listen to me and to be rational.'
He stroked her hair, then let his hand fall back onto her shoulder. 'I'd like you to end this relationship with Childes.' He waited for the outburst, which never came. Amy was merely staring coldly at his reflection in the mirror and, in a way, that was more unsettling. He went on, his tone cautious: 'I believe the man is unstable. At first I thought tonight he was suffering from an epileptic fit of some kind, but soon realised the symptoms were not the same. Aimee, I think the man is heading for a mental breakdown.'
'He's not
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