But then nonchalance fills her, and a touch of mischief. Let the vicar come upon them. What is it to her? She is half curious to see what will happen – to see how Albert Canning will react, and how the theosophist will try to argue out of it. A tiny smile touches her lips, and onwards she goes, not wild like before, but walking steadily. Long strides, pointing her toes. She keeps her arms wide or held back behind her, fingers stretched out. She turns in slow circles, her face to the sky; just fast enough for the dress to swirl, to lift away from her legs, following the movement. And soon she is caught up in it again, this dance of hers; steady and hypnotic this time. Her mind empties and the rhythm captures her, and the sun lights the sky a little more as the seconds tick by, and she forgets about the vicar and the theosophist, and notices only that she is alive. And soon to be free; so soon. Clear lungs, clear head, the clear, resolute beat of her heart.
The vicar stands up from the grass to the west of the willow tree. He has slowly come close to them, low to the ground, concealed by barley, foxgloves and wild irises. Now he stands, right in front of her, so that she stops with a gasp, and lets her arms drop. The theosophist is behind her, lying on the ground. Will he photograph this? she wonders. The expression on the vicar’s face. For it is quite a picture – pale skin, pale blue eyes so wide they might drop out of his head. His jaw hangs slack, tongue pressing softly behind his teeth. There is spittle on his bottom lip, tiny traces at the corners of his mouth, a little of it shining on his chin. Cat smiles, can’t help herself. She wonders whether to make him a bow, to end her performance thus, but something about him stops her. He recognises her, this she sees. And changes are working, behind the shifting muscles and lines of his face. Tiny twitches as the last of thought vanishes from his eyes and leaves nothing behind. An emptiness that suddenly scares her. Cat stops smiling, stands still. Only for a heartbeat, two heartbeats or three. She should move; her muscles begin to tighten. She should step aside, run to meet George and let the two men work this out between themselves; make order of their lies and beliefs and strategies, if they may. In the glare of the vicar’s vacant eyes, Cat is suddenly desperate to urinate, and the air seems to trickle from her lungs. But it is too late. The vicar’s arm comes up into the air. His binoculars, heavy and black, tremble in the hand at the end of that arm. Cat sees them, high above her head. An odd, unnatural outline against the far sky. Then they fall.
In darkness, Cat can hear voices. They waver and lurch, distorted out of all sense and meaning. In her head is a blinding pain, and even when she thinks she has opened her eyes, still she sees nothing. Her throat is wet, full of a warm liquid; what little air she can snatch must come past this, bubbling slowly, using all of her strength. She tries again to open her eyes, to see. Light fills her head like an explosion; the pain is excruciating. She shuts them again, holds them fast. The ground is swelling underneath her, shifting like water, rising and falling. The sea? she thinks, at once happy and uneasy. She can make no sense of it. The voices start again, high and then low, fast and then slow. Hush, she thinks. Too loud. Gradually, the voices even out, become just one voice, high with fear and disbelief.
‘Oh, God – what have you done? What have you done!’ She knows that voice, struggles to place it. A beautiful face, cruel too; laughing eyes. Robin. She tries to ask him what has happened, where she is. Why her head hurts and her eyes are blind and her mouth is full of blood – salty, tinged with iron. ‘Albert! You’ve killed her! You’ve … you’ve killed her! Albert!’ More words. Their meaning sifts slowly down to her, through layers of pain and confusion. She is puzzled. Who is killed? I am not killed! she says, but the words remain inside her head. She can’t make her mouth move, can’t make her tongue shape the words. Their disobedience enrages her. She tries to take a deep breath, to steel herself for the effort of moving, of sitting up, but her throat clogs and everything is too heavy, too painful. Her head is made of stone, and slowly crushing itself.
For a while, the voices fall silent. It could be seconds, minutes, years. Cat cannot tell. She drifts, rising and falling. The sun touches her face and she thinks it is the fire she built, to keep her mother warm as she died. The silence booms inside her head, thumping like a vast, vast drum, over and over. It’s her heartbeat – the pressure of it in her ears. ‘They … she … she must not be found, Albert. We must say nothing of this! Everything will be ruined … Take these, take the dress – Albert! Listen to me! Everything will be destroyed … all our work … Albert!’ The voice starts up again, fast and manic now, full of fear and trembling and wild desperation. Rough hands move her, manhandle her. Hands that jerk with panic. She is jolted about, her hair is pulled. She wants to protest at this, wants to be left alone. Each movement is torture, puts spikes of pain through her skull, worse even than the Holloway feeding tube, forced into her swollen and bloody nose for the tenth day running. She must get to George. He will chase them all away, he will protect her from these hands, these voices; he will help her to sit, to cough and clear her throat. ‘Albert! Take these. Oh, sweet Jesus … her face … Albert. Take these – take these! Go back to the house and say nothing. Do you hear me? Albert? Say nothing!’