what comes after the surveillance? When do I stand trial?”
“Why should you stand trial?”
“Why?” said Charlie; had he heard correctly?
“You’re a victim-” a flicker of confusion crossed Rafferty’s face, “-aren’t you? You didn’t do it… you were done to. Somebody cut off your… hand.”
“Yes,” said Charlie. “It was me.”
Rafferty swallowed hard before saying: “Pardon?”
“I did it. I murdered my wife then I cut off my own hand.”
The poor boy couldn’t quite grasp this one. He thought about it a full half-minute before replying.
“But why?”
Charlie shrugged.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” said Rafferty. “I mean for one thing, if you did it… where’s the hand gone?”
LILLIAN stopped the car. There was something in the road a little way in front of her, but she couldn’t quite make out what it was. She was a strict vegetarian (except for Masonic dinners with Theodore) and a dedicated animal conservationist, and she thought maybe some injured animal was lying in the road just beyond the sprawl of her headlights. A fox perhaps. She’d read they were creeping back into outlying urban areas, born scavengers. But something made her uneasy; maybe the queasy predawn light, so elusive in its illumination. She wasn’t sure whether she should get out of the car or not. Theodore would have told her to drive straight on, of course, but then Theodore had left her, hadn’t he? Her fingers drummed the wheel with irritation at her own indecision. Suppose it was an injured fox. There weren’t so many in the middle of London that one could afford to pass by on the other side of the street. She had to play the Samaritan, even if she felt a Pharisee.
Cautiously she got out of the car, and of course, after all of that, there was nothing to be seen. She walked to the front of the car, just to be certain. Her palms were wet; spasms of excitement passed through her hands like small electric shocks.
Then the noise: the whisper of hundreds of tiny feet. She’d heard stories-absurd stories she’d thought-of migrant rat packs crossing the city by night and devouring to the bone any living thing that got in their way. Imagining rats, she felt more like a Pharisee than ever, and stepped back toward the car. As her long shadow, thrown forward by the headlights, shifted, it revealed the first of the pack. It was no rat.
A hand, a long-fingered hand, ambled into the yellowish light and pointed up at her. Its arrival was followed immediately by another of the impossible creatures, then a dozen more, and another dozen hard upon those, They were massed like crabs at the fishmongers, glistening backs pressed close to each other, legs flicking and clicking as they gathered in ranks. Sheer multiplication didn’t make them any more believable. But even as she rejected the sight, they began to advance upon her. She took a step back.
She felt the side of the car at her back, turned, and reached for the door. It was ajar, thank God. The spasms in her hands were worse now, but she was still mistress of them. As her fingers sought the door she let out a little cry. A fat, black fist was squatting on the handle, its open wrist a twist of dried meat.
Spontaneously, and atrociously, her hands began to applaud. She suddenly had no control over their behavior. They clapped like wild things in appreciation of this coup. It was ludicrous, what she was doing, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Stop it,” she told her hands, “stop it! stop it!” Abruptly they stopped, and turned 10 look at her. She knew they were looking at her, in their eyeless fashion; sensed too that they were weary of her unfeeling way with them. Without warning they darted for her face. Her nails, her pride and joy, found her eyes. In moments the miracle of sight was muck on her cheek. Blinded, she lost all orientation and fell backward, but there were bands aplenty to catch her. She felt herself supported by a sea of fingers.
As they tipped her outraged body into a ditch, her wig, which had cost Theodore so much in Vienna, came off. So, after the minimum of persuasion, did her hands.