A Dark Dividing (41 page)

Isobel was deeply thankful that the operation was over, and that it seemed to have gone all right. Mel said the surgeons thought Sonia might have a more pronounced limp than Simone, and Simone had more scarring on her left side than they would have liked, but as Mel said, this could be lived with and in time there could be other treatments. Skin grafts for Simone; physiotherapy and orthopaedic treatments for Sonia. The important thing was that the twins could start living ordinary lives; before much longer they could do ordinary things.

‘They’ll be able to do pretty well everything,’ Mel had said. ‘Sonia’s spine isn’t absolutely straight and her right hip’s a bit askew, so she’ll need special exercises. They think swimming will be particularly good, and also cycling. And they don’t think it’ll be too noticeable if it’s looked after early enough. She might not be able to dance, though.’

‘That’ll be a pity when she’s older,’ Isobel had said. ‘But after all this I shouldn’t think you care if she never dances a step.’

‘No, I don’t. They’re separate people. That’s the best feeling in the world.’

Isobel went back up the stairs to her flat, her mind moving ahead to what she would give Sonia for supper. You got a whole new perspective on things when you suddenly had a small baby to feed. Instead of thinking on the lines of pasta or salad, you found yourself wondering whether to serve puréed vegetables or minced chicken, with rice pudding for afterwards.

She dumped the food shopping in the kitchen, set the kettle to boil for a cup of tea, and poured out a beaker of orange juice for Sonia. While she gave it to her, she told Sonia about the idea for a supper party. ‘Because your mum’s a very classy lady, and your pa was a slimy toad, so it’s a good thing that he’s out of the way. And I think it’d be great if we got her together with Martin Brannan, don’t you?’

The house
did
feel peculiar tonight. Probably it was because she was still mentally in Switzerland, or perhaps it was because Sonia was here. But it might be mice she was hearing, or even—horrid thought!—rats. She shook this thought off, and leaving Sonia in the kitchen went through to the bedroom to change into jeans and a sweater. Her purchases, laid out on the bed, looked just as good as they had done in the shop. She was taking a pair of old jeans out of the dressing-table drawer when she heard what sounded like a furtive creak quite close by. She looked round at the door at once, but there was only the little hall, and beyond it the big sitting-room, softly lit by table lamps. Imagination. Even so, she checked on Sonia again, and then went out to the hall to make sure she had locked the door. Yes, of course she had. And it was a good, stout door, so that even if someone was prowling around outside—

Of course there was no one prowling around outside. For one thing no one could get in through the outer door downstairs, at least not without a great deal of smashing and bashing, which Isobel would certainly have heard. This was just a vague attack of nerves. Probably something to do with the unfamiliar responsibility of having a tiny baby here. Yes, that would be it. She stepped out of the skirt she had been wearing, dropped it into the linen basket, and pulled on the jeans. She went back to the kitchen, and she was just setting out Sonia’s little dish of carrot purée when she heard something that made her heart leap. She turned her head towards the bedroom, listening. It was almost certainly her imagination again, but it had sounded exactly like the wardrobe door in her bedroom being slowly opened. Or was it? Yes, that was exactly the slow hissing creak the hinges made.

Isobel hesitated and then, glancing at Sonia, went back across the hall to stand in the bedroom doorway, her eyes on the wardrobe. Whoever had planned this flat had made quite good use of space: the wardrobe and a dressing-table unit had been neatly tucked beneath the steeply sloping eaves on this side of the house. The dressing-table was narrow, but the wardrobe was directly under the roof and it was deep and wide. It was more than deep enough for someone to hide inside.

There could not actually be anyone in there, of course. The flat had been locked all day, and the main door had been locked as well. What she had heard—what she thought she had heard—was probably a draught causing the door to move. Or she had not closed the door properly when she went out earlier in the day. But as she stood there, staring at the wardrobe, the sound came again and this time, unmistakably, a rim of darkness started to appear around the door, as if it was slowly being pushed open from inside.

Isobel began to back away, tensing her muscles for a quick sprint to the door. But she would have to snatch Sonia up on the way. And then she would have to unlock two doors—the door to this flat and the main door downstairs. Her handbag, with the keys inside it was on the kitchen table. Would there be time to grab the keys and get Sonia as well? There would have to be. There was an intruder in here—some sinister prowler who had somehow got into the flat while she was out, and who had hidden himself in the wardrobe. Illogically she remembered getting partly undressed in here a short while ago. Had he watched that?

Her mind was working at full pelt. Should she make a run for it, snatching up Sonia and the keys, and trust to luck that she would get outside before the intruder caught her? Or would it be better to walk slowly and unconcernedly, hoping that he would not know she had seen him? If she had been on her own she would have made a dash for it, but there was Sonia to think about. The slow, nonchalant stroll, then. But before she could move the wardrobe door suddenly swung wide and banged hard against the wall on one side.

For a blessed moment Isobel thought she had been wrong, because after all there was nothing inside the wardrobe except her own skirts and jackets and shirts on their hangers, and after all it must have been a freak draught of air that had dislodged the door-catch, or maybe Isobel had not closed the door properly when she went out, or maybe even somebody’s cat had got in—

And then the dark folds of a long winter coat stirred, and a figure appeared and stepped out into the bedroom. Roz Raffan. Isobel recognized her at once from visiting Mel in St Luke’s and from all those babysitting sessions. Her heart lurched in panic, because despite all their care—despite all the subterfuges and plots—Roz had tracked her here and somehow got into the flat. She was after Sonia, of course, the poor mad thing—Mel had been right about her being unbalanced; you had only to take one look at her eyes to know it.

Isobel was very frightened indeed, but she was damned if she was going to let Roz know. She had no idea how best to deal with this, but she summoned all her resolve, and in a sharp voice, she said, ‘Roz? How dare you sneak in here like this! Get out at once!’

But Roz was already lunging forward, her face twisted with such blazing intensity that for a moment she looked barely human. Isobel flinched and instinctively threw up a hand in defence, half falling back into the hallway. She looked wildly about her for some kind of weapon, but Roz was already upon her, and before she could defend herself, she was knocked to the ground. Fingers that felt like steel bands were closing around her throat, forcing her head back. Isobel gasped and struggled, striking out almost at random but although her fist connected with soft flesh, the pressure on her neck did not lessen. Through the panic she heard Sonia start to cry, a thin, frightened cry, and she fought to get free. But Roz’s hands were like a vice around her throat, and she was lying half on top of Isobel. It was disgusting and repellent to feel Roz’s body pressing down on her, and to smell Roz’s body-scents. Isobel renewed her struggles, but by this time jagged lights were starting to zig-zag across her vision, and a tight band was closing agonizingly and inexorably around her head. If she could just get one breath of air into her lungs, she could put up a real fight against this creature, this baby-stealer, just one breath, that was all she needed—

A crimson mist flooded her entire vision, and she was sucked down and down into a whirling black nothingness…

Roz would have liked to kill Isobel by smashing something down on her head—she had not overmuch cared for the physical contact that strangling had necessitated, and she knew the vulnerable places in a skull. The temples, or possibly the base of the neck, were the places to go for. But she could not risk it; any splintering of the skull might later be regarded as suspicious, and this was a death that absolutely must be put down to a sad accident.

She checked Isobel’s vital signs meticulously as she had been taught in her training. Yes, Isobel was definitely dead. Very good, everything was going according to the plan.

She picked up the baby, who was crying with fright and bewilderment, and spent a few minutes calming her down. She sponged the tears away, and because she still did not know which of the twins this was she unfastened the little jacket, and saw that there was a large surgical dressing on the right-hand side, covering most of the ribcage and shoulder. Then this was Sonia. Would she keep that name for her? She thought she would; the child might already be recognizing it, and Roz rather liked it.

Don’t cry, Sonia; from now on you’re going to be mine. You’re going to live with me—we’re going away together tomorrow morning—the world’s our oyster, really—and I’ll look after you, and you’ll be such a privileged little girl. We can deal with that surgical dressing on our own; I can take out stitches so that they don’t hurt a bit, and I can look after you. And when you’re older I’ll tell you all the stories about my family, and sing you the songs my aunt taught me, and you’ll get to know the people in the stories so well they’ll be like your real family.

She found Isobel’s keys, which were in a handbag in the kitchen, and then she wrapped Sonia up as warmly as possible, and picked her up, remembering to be careful of the dressing over the operation wound. But as she carried Sonia down to the big main hall it felt almost unbearably good to be holding this living child: Roz was wearing the thin surgical gloves she had put on before entering the house just in case the plan misfired, but she wanted to rip them off so that she could feel Sonia’s soft plump little body properly. Sonia had stopped crying, and she was warm and rosy and wholly unafraid. Roz thought she was even curious about what was happening and where she was being taken. There was a clean, baby-powder and soap smell about her, and Roz had to struggle not to hug her too hard for fear of hurting her.

She put Sonia on a cushion just inside the downstairs flat, and collected what had to be collected. The cat-basket and what lay curled up inside it, and the shopping bag with the other things. The cat-basket was not particularly heavy but it was large and awkward to manoeuvre, and several times she banged it against the stair wall. Sorry, JDF, and sorry about what’s ahead of you as well, but you’ve been dead for several days and you won’t care what happens to your body.

She put JDF down in Sonia’s carry-cot, and covered him with a blanket. Should she actually dress him in some of Sonia’s things? No, it was not necessary. She unscrewed the small can of lawn-mower petrol she had tucked into the cat-basket, and sprinkled the contents over the carpet and curtains, careful not to get any on herself. Enough? No, perhaps a few drops should be used in the kitchen. Fires in houses nearly always started in kitchens.

She left the door of the flat open, and carefully unrolled a ball of thick string, tying the end around the door knob, and then winding the rest down the staircase, wiping the last dregs of the petrol over sections of the string as she went. It was important to be sparing with the petrol at this stage but it was also important to make sure that the string caught fire strongly enough. On the half-landing she left a little bundle of rags and newspapers.

Sonia was where Roz had left her. Roz waved to her, and it seemed that Sonia waved a little hand back, a bit uncertainly. She picked Sonia up, and with her free hand felt in her jacket pocket for the small disposable cigarette lighter she had bought. Holding Sonia firmly against her left shoulder, she used her right hand to light one of the firelight tapers from the shopping bag. It glowed steadily and Roz bent carefully down to set it to the string’s edge. It was very thick fibrous string, thicker than parcel-string, in fact it was very nearly rope thickness, and once it caught light, it would burn steadily. There was a heart-stopping moment when she thought it was not going to catch, but then a bright flame crackled up the stairway. When it reached the bundle of rags and newspapers it flared up very strongly.