The Boat House

FORTY-NINE

Shock and pain ran through Diane's nervous system like two trains running head-to-head on the same line; she was being pulled downward as they hit, and their explosion doused her in white heat and fire. A body was coming half up out of the water, raising itself on the nailed grip that it was exerting on Diane's tortured flesh.

She hung onto the ring. It was all that she could think to do. Her good leg slipped from the quay, and swung down.

Her foot connected with something solid.

The grip was released.

Spray drenched her as she saw Alina make a messy, uncontrolled backward landing in the dock. The water seemed to part and enfold her, and then she was gone. Diane swung herself up onto the quay, and started to run. She's actually made it almost to the stairway when her body remembered that it was already hurt, and seemed to pull the plugs on her; she went sprawling, and landed hard on the planks.

She rolled over and looked back. Alina was rising from the dock, dripping, gleaming in the underlight. Behind her was the dark Princess, cabin lights ablaze, a sinister looking beacon that cast her long shadow across the quay. Her hair lay sleek and wet and her thin cotton dress had plastered itself to her body. She was pure hostility, looking to do harm.

Diane started to push herself back. With the upper level door locked from the inside, she was safe from nothing other than rescue. She had to get to it, but all that she could do now was to crawl. She kept on pushing herself back before this slight, dangerous figure that was advancing on her from the zone where the nightmares played.

The stairs were at her back. She could go no further.

"What did they do with my book?" Alina said quietly.

"I don't… I don't know what you mean," Diane heard herself say.

"My pictures. Did they move them? Did they hide them? I really have to know."

The photographs? Was she kidding? Diane's mind raced, looking for an angle, any angle, that she could exploit. She'd had two shotgun shells in her pocket; but she seemed to have lost even these in the scramble and, besides, the shotgun itself was still on the far side of the quay.

She'd have to improvise.

"I think they burned it," she said.

Alina stopped.

"You're lying," she said.

"Why would I lie? All that's left is this." Propping herself on one elbow, Diane reached inside her jacket. She pulled out a single sheet of stiff coloured paper, made awkward by the photographs that had been glued onto either side. It was the loose page with the photograph of Pavel that Aldridge, hardly concentrating, had told her to keep as evidence. The way that he'd said it, Diane had been able to tell that precise details of procedure weren't uppermost in his mind. She'd had to fold it to put it away, and it had taken more creases since. As a last surviving remnant, it looked pretty convincing.

"Please," Alina said. She was staring at the page like a junkie in the presence of the world's last fix.

"Why do you need this?"

"It's my last dream of home," Alina said bleakly.

Diane wondered how she saw herself. Did she hold up her own hand and see scales, claws? Did she see the souls of her victims as she released them to stand in that dark country beyond death itself? Diane wondered how profound a belief had to be before others were drawn in and persuaded by it. An easy trap to fall into; Diane had already begun to think of Alina and the Rusalka as two separate entities, each intertwining with the other like a body and its disease.

But which was she talking to now?

"Give me the photographs," Alina said carefully, as if each word was a test, "and I'll let you leave."

"Can you really promise that?"

There was a struggle for a while.

And then Alina admitted, "No. I don't have that much control."

"Over what you do?"

"Over what I've turned into."

"Looks like we've got a stalemate, then," Diane said, and she wished that she could make herself sound more convinced; because it was a pretty unequal balance with only one crumpled sheet of paper on her side against the Rusalka's track record on the other. All that she could do would be to start tearing the photographs up, and it wouldn't take much to stop her from doing even this. Alina was holding back, but she was under patient assault from within. It couldn't last.

Even she seemed to know it, and after a tense silence she was the first one to speak.

"I'll do what I can," she said. "Go up the stairs, let yourself out of the door. Leave the photographs inside, and lock yourself out. I'll try to hold back. But do one thing for me, please."

"What?"

"Whatever happens, try to remember me as I was. Don't hate me for what I became."

And then, as Diane hesitated in her uncertainty as to whether or not this was a ruse, she added, "Go!" with such urgency that Diane struggled to stand and turned to face the stairway, the page clutched tightly in her hand.

There was at least one moment when the Rusalka could have flown at her unseen.

But she didn't.

It was a long haul, one step at a time. She had to hold the folded page in her teeth in order to free both hands for the climb. Having her back toward Alina was the hardest part, but nothing happened. Except that, from behind and below her, there came a sound like that of quiet, frustrated weeping.

Diane's shadow was long across the ceiling as she hobbled toward the door, reaching for her pocket as she went.

"Why have you stopped?" Alina shouted to her a few moments later. There was a new harshness in her voice that set Diane on her guard, but she had no choice but to reply.

"I must have lost the key when I fell," she said, hearing her own voice as if it was coming from somebody else. "Will you throw it to me?" And please, she thought, don't let it have fallen into the dock or else the whole thing ends right here.

No weeping noises now, but a sound like a nest of snakes coiling around one another. The pattern of water-reflected shadows on the high roof changed as Alina moved, unseen beyond the edge of the platform. Was she doing as Diane had asked?

Or was she coming for her?

The tension buzzed in Diane's ears.

The key came spinning through the air, and it landed on the boards close to the top of the stairs. Diane crouched awkwardly and, still holding the paper that had bought her some safety, she reached for it.

As her hand made contact, there was a low, rattling rasp… she looked over the topmost stair, and saw the Rusalka almost flying toward her with its eyes blazing like green lasers.

Diane threw the paper into the air. It flipped open like a kite, slowed, and began to flutter downward. Alina switched direction and followed it like a leaping fish, away from the stairs and out over the dock; it seemed an impossibility but she caught the page in midair, grabbing it to her as she fell in a headfirst dive toward the open water. One of the photographs had come loose, and it followed her down like a spiralling leaf.

She hit the surface just as the world exploded.

A big motor cruiser came rearing in through the bursting doors on a high bow wave, its nose barely damaged by an impact that had torn through slatted wood like so much paper. The huge white dart of the GRP hull came running in like a spear, ramming the Princess off-centre and causing her mass to ride up in the dock as she was slammed back into the wharf timbers. Diane had a brief glimpse of Alina being swept up and tumbled under as the cruiser's bow fell, but then there was so much heaving water and so much spray that she couldn't see any more as she screwed her eyes up against the welcome daylight.

Down below, the newly arrived boat's engines were still idling. She saw Pete scrambling out of the deck cabin and onto the coachroof.