The Claw

Sixteen

Alan didn't dare believe it. It seemed too good to be true. The police had already been, Liz said – the stout policeman yet again, with an expression that suggested the joke was beginning to wear thin – but he hadn't searched the house. Alan began searching at once: first the long room, in case the claw had only fallen after all, and then the rest of the ground floor, in case Georgie might have dragged it somewhere. Suppose the thieves had kept Jane's money and thrown away the claw? Suppose it was still close to the house? He went out to look.

The sky was clearing. Twilight would take its time after all. The gardens, the hedges, the house – everything looked calm and clear, as if it were giving back some of the light of the day. He searched the gardens, then he paced back and forth along the road, a leaden strip between the glowing verges. Once he caught sight of a glimmer among the roots of a hedge, but it was only an empty bottle. If there was anything to find, in this light he should see it at once.

Eventually he went down to the beach. Above the sea the sky resembled smoked glass. Foam spread across the dying colours of pebbles and sand. Along the cliff the Britannia Hotel was lit up, and he could hear music: Gail's and Ned's party had begun. He searched until it was too dark to see, by which time he was well away from the house. Why was he still behaving as if the thieves had thrown the claw away? Whoever had stolen it must have it now, and as far as Alan was concerned, they deserved whatever it brought them.

He climbed the path toward the pillbox, and as he came in sight of home he felt like a climber who'd reached the last slope to the peak. It was an immense relief to be rid of the claw at last. It had gone as unexpectedly as it had come and, thank God, Anna was safe after all. Whoever had stolen the claw had also taken away Alan's aggressive feelings towards the child. He felt grateful to the thieves. Now he needn't admit any of those feelings about the child to Liz, and that was even more of a relief.

By the time Alan returned from his search, Liz had put Anna to bed and was sitting in the long room, trying to read a Stephen King novel. 'It looks as if it's gone for good,' Alan said happily.

She must have thought his tone was meant to cheer her up. 'I'm sorry,' she said.

'Don't worry, Liz. It wasn't your fault, and anyway it really doesn't matter.'

'Well, I don't think it was my fault myself. It was that Amis bitch, treating everything as if it's hers. Doesn't even bother closing other people's doors. All the same, I do feel responsible.'

'There's no need.' He wanted her to share his feeling of relief. 'I've told you, it doesn't matter.'

'If it doesn't matter, why did you spend so long searching?'

'Just to make sure.' She was undermining his sense that everything was all right now. 'Honestly, I'm glad it's gone. I should never have brought it home in the first place.'

'But what about the people you were supposed to give it to?'

'I'll phone them in the morning. I don't think they'll care much either. They didn't seem to think it was particularly valuable.' If Hetherington made a fuss, too bad; he could go and look for it himself, and suffer the consequences. 'Look,' Alan said, suddenly inspired, 'I tell you what. All this has been a strain on you, and no wonder. I'll stay with Anna while you go to Gail's party.'

'Oh, it's too late. I'd never be ready in time.'

'Of course you will. It won't take you long to get ready. Goon.'

'I'd rather go with you.'

'I know, but we'd never get a sitter now. You go, it'll be just what you need.'

After a while she stood up and kissed him, then she went upstairs to change, though not without a doubtful backward glance. He leafed through the television schedules: nothing worth watching. Maybe he'd play a video-cassette.

She was downstairs again surprisingly quickly, wearing a glittery stole over her backless ankle-length dress. 'I'm sure it would do me just as much good to stay with you,' she said. 'We could have our own party. I bet it would be sexier than Gail's.'

'Well, I'm pretty tired. I wouldn't be good company.' He felt impatient for her to leave – tiredness, no doubt, a desire to stop talking, to be alone to enjoy his sense of relief. 'Never mind,' he said, seeing her look of disappointment. 'There'll be other nights.'

He stood at the front door and watched as she drove away, her headlights picking out the curve of the hedges beside the road. Then, almost at once, the night had swallowed her up and he couldn't even distinguish the outline of the hedges from the rest of the dark. For a moment he wanted to call her back, but why should he want to do that? It was about time he spent some time alone with Anna. Now the sound of Liz's car had merged with the roar of the sea. He closed the door.

At the foot of the stairs he halted, listening. There was no sound from Anna; the breathing was the sound of waves. All at once he was glad that Liz had gone; he felt somehow freer, less constrained. Perhaps he'd felt that she no longer trusted him enough to leave him alone with Anna. Why ever not? It wasn't as if he had actually done anything to the child, or ever would. No point in speculating about Liz's feelings; he might grow angry with her if he thought about it for too long. He tiptoed upstairs.

Anna was lying on her right side, her right hand nestling beneath her red hair. As he eased the door open, the light from the hall touched her face and her sleeping eyes flickered, her left hand opened and closed on the quilt. He froze, afraid to wake her. He wished he hadn't come to look, for the sight of her was making him uneasy. No wonder: the memories of how he'd felt about her were uncomfortably vivid, even though the cause of his feelings had now been taken away.

Suddenly, he was aware of how hungry he felt – he was ravenous. He closed the bedroom door as quickly as he could without making a noise, and crept downstairs to the kitchen.

He found cold meats and some of Liz's home-made rolls in the fridge, but the meat tasted oddly unsatisfying, no doubt because he was tired; it had been an exhausting day. He finished chewing at last, then, when he'd washed the dishes, he went into the long room to pour himself a large Jack Daniels and find something to watch.

There was nothing that could hold him. Even when he played a cassette of a Hitchcock film he felt restless, more aware of the flickering of the image than of the film itself. It felt as if a storm were building up behind the film, with distant flickers of lightning. He couldn't read either. He found that he was suffering from a neurosis he'd experienced when he had begun writing books: if he tried to read someone else's fiction, he was so aware of the effort behind every sentence that there was no flow at all to his reading. Eventually he put the book aside and put on a record of a Brahms quartet. Perhaps that would calm his nerves, still jangling after the stress and strain of the last couple of weeks.

Soon he dozed. Traces of old dreams troubled him: Anna running, the claw reaching out to fasten on her, drag her back… Couldn't he have dreamed that because he'd already known about the Leopard Men? He'd known something of them before he met Hetherington, but now it seemed impossible to recall how much. He nodded, started awake with an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He didn't want to sleep just yet, because there was something that needed explaining. In his moment of dozing he'd forgotten it again. The Brahms was twining and unravelling its complicated melodies. He turned off the sound and stood by the hi-fi, trying to remember.

His head was empty, and felt hollow with the sound of the sea; never before had it seemed so loud. He paced up and down the long room, glancing now and then at the mantelpiece. Whatever the answer was, it wasn't there. Moonlit waves were frozen in Liz's painting on the wall, while the sea roared outside in the dark. He licked his lips – the unpleasant taste was still there – and tried to retrace his thoughts. Leopard Men, Hetherington, Leopard Men… cups of tea, the sound of clippers on a lawn… He felt as if he had no control over his thoughts. Hetherington, Hetherington…

And then he thought of Marlowe. At once he knew. Why had Marlowe killed himself when he'd already got rid of the claw?

Alan hardly noticed he was still pacing back and forth as if the room were a cage. Surely he needn't worry about Marlowe? No doubt Hetherington had been right – Marlowe must have been put under intolerable strain by his research into the Leopard cult… But Alan was remembering what Marlowe had said on the way to the airport: how he shouldn't have brought his daughter to Nigeria, how he had to get her away before it was too late. How much had Marlowe hinted that he hadn't dared admit openly? Had it already been too late?

All at once Alan was afraid for Anna. Surely he needn't feel that way – and yet he had to see her. He took a last gulp of Jack Daniels in an attempt to drown the lingering taste – could it just be the taste of sleep and stale drink? -then he headed for the stairs. He hadn't reached them when he felt an inexplicable compulsion not to go up – not until he'd called Liz home from the hotel. Christ, hadn't he the courage to go upstairs by himself? Besides, whatever would Liz think? She was already suspicious of him.

He crept upstairs. He felt pleased by how silent he could be; after all, he didn't want to wake Anna, did he? Outside the window, the darkness was breathing long, slow, moist breaths. At the end of the back garden the hedge looked wet with dimness; beyond that, the darkness was solid as tar.

He tiptoed along the hall to Anna's room and inched the door open. Her face-was still toward him, but her posture was contorted, as if she were trying to fight off an unpleasant dream. Without warning, and for no reason he could grasp, he found himself thinking: thank God, she was asleep – he mustn't wake her, mustn't let her see him. Why not, for God's sake? He backed out of the room, afraid as much of his own feelings as of waking her. Slowly he eased the door closed, so slowly that it seemed it would never meet the frame. It had inches to go when it gave a faint creak, and she woke.