struggling up out of the sick-feeling darkness, and for a moment had no idea where she was. And then memory rushed painfully in – yes, of course, she was in the old Ashwood studios, and some maniac had hit her on the head, and it must have knocked her out.
She was aware of a banging headache, but she was also aware of bitter fury because she had been so easily attacked – she, who had so often boasted that it ought to be child’s play to foil an assailant or a mugger! A swift kick in the balls and most men were disabled, that was what she had always said.
She sat up carefully, aware now that the light had been switched on again. Did that mean he had gone? Dare she hope that he had got his horrid kicks by knocking her out, and had simply scuttled out into the night? Was she going to be able to get away? Her senses were still spinning from the blow and she had a three-aspirinheadache, but that would not matter if she could just get back to her car. Car keys? Ah, in her bag, and there it was, lying on the ground barely four feet away. She was just reaching out for it when several of the dust-sheets stirred slightly as if someone had walked past them.
She had not heard his footsteps this time, but he was already standing on the edge of the pool of light cast by the single overhead bulb, and for the first time Trixie saw that he was wearing one of those woollen helmets, like you saw on members of the IRA. His eyes glittered through the slits – it was extraordinarily eerie to just see someone’s eyes. Did she know him? Was there something familiar about him after all?
But then she forgot about who he might be, because in one hand he held something that glinted sharply, and the sight of it brought the panic rushing in all over again. A knife, was it? No, much thinner than a knife. She tried to get to her feet but she was still dizzy and uncertain from the blow, and even before she was halfway to standing up he was bending over her, one gloved hand curling around her throat, forcing her back down on to the floor. There was a smell of mildew and dirt from the hard floor, and he was raising his free hand high above her head, and whatever he was holding had flashed evilly in the overhead light…
There was a split-second – barely the space of a heartbeat – when Edmund felt the throbbing excitement falter.
But the childish whisper came in at once. Go on, Edmund! This is right! This is what you have to do! So do it, Edmund, do it NOW! And I will help you , said Alraune’s voice.
Incredibly there was the feeling of a small firm hand curling around the stiletto, and of Alraune’s hand guiding the glinting point downwards.
Down and down and down…Yes, thought Edmund, breathing fast, as if he had been running hard for miles. I can do this and I will do this. I am a giant, a titan, and I am invincible.
As Trixie began to scream and struggle, the person that most people knew – the polite, slightly pedantic Mr Fane – seemed to shrink into a tiny insignificance, and the other Edmund, the secret Edmund, the one whom only Crispin had ever known, surged uppermost. When the stiletto’s point punctured Trixie’s eye, this Edmund did not feel repulsed or disgusted, and when viscous eye-fluid spilled out over his gloved fingers he only felt the bursting strength urging him on.
He straightened up at last, looking down at Trixie. She was no longer screaming, but she was still moving which he had not expected. Could you survive with a steel point thrust into your brain? You could not tell with these things.
But dead or not-quite-dead, there was something not quite right about what he had done to her. What was it? Edmund studied her carefully. The right side of her face was grotesque; it was slicked in blood and not-quitecolourless fluid, and the eye socket was a wet dark wound…But the left side – Ah yes, of course, that was it. The left side of her face was untouched, unbloodied, and it was the lack of symmetry that
She was aware of a banging headache, but she was also aware of bitter fury because she had been so easily attacked – she, who had so often boasted that it ought to be child’s play to foil an assailant or a mugger! A swift kick in the balls and most men were disabled, that was what she had always said.
She sat up carefully, aware now that the light had been switched on again. Did that mean he had gone? Dare she hope that he had got his horrid kicks by knocking her out, and had simply scuttled out into the night? Was she going to be able to get away? Her senses were still spinning from the blow and she had a three-aspirinheadache, but that would not matter if she could just get back to her car. Car keys? Ah, in her bag, and there it was, lying on the ground barely four feet away. She was just reaching out for it when several of the dust-sheets stirred slightly as if someone had walked past them.
She had not heard his footsteps this time, but he was already standing on the edge of the pool of light cast by the single overhead bulb, and for the first time Trixie saw that he was wearing one of those woollen helmets, like you saw on members of the IRA. His eyes glittered through the slits – it was extraordinarily eerie to just see someone’s eyes. Did she know him? Was there something familiar about him after all?
But then she forgot about who he might be, because in one hand he held something that glinted sharply, and the sight of it brought the panic rushing in all over again. A knife, was it? No, much thinner than a knife. She tried to get to her feet but she was still dizzy and uncertain from the blow, and even before she was halfway to standing up he was bending over her, one gloved hand curling around her throat, forcing her back down on to the floor. There was a smell of mildew and dirt from the hard floor, and he was raising his free hand high above her head, and whatever he was holding had flashed evilly in the overhead light…
There was a split-second – barely the space of a heartbeat – when Edmund felt the throbbing excitement falter.
But the childish whisper came in at once. Go on, Edmund! This is right! This is what you have to do! So do it, Edmund, do it NOW! And I will help you , said Alraune’s voice.
Incredibly there was the feeling of a small firm hand curling around the stiletto, and of Alraune’s hand guiding the glinting point downwards.
Down and down and down…Yes, thought Edmund, breathing fast, as if he had been running hard for miles. I can do this and I will do this. I am a giant, a titan, and I am invincible.
As Trixie began to scream and struggle, the person that most people knew – the polite, slightly pedantic Mr Fane – seemed to shrink into a tiny insignificance, and the other Edmund, the secret Edmund, the one whom only Crispin had ever known, surged uppermost. When the stiletto’s point punctured Trixie’s eye, this Edmund did not feel repulsed or disgusted, and when viscous eye-fluid spilled out over his gloved fingers he only felt the bursting strength urging him on.
He straightened up at last, looking down at Trixie. She was no longer screaming, but she was still moving which he had not expected. Could you survive with a steel point thrust into your brain? You could not tell with these things.
But dead or not-quite-dead, there was something not quite right about what he had done to her. What was it? Edmund studied her carefully. The right side of her face was grotesque; it was slicked in blood and not-quitecolourless fluid, and the eye socket was a wet dark wound…But the left side – Ah yes, of course, that was it. The left side of her face was untouched, unbloodied, and it was the lack of symmetry that
Similar Books
