Now other objects around the room, spun beyond the tolerance of their structures, were exploding like the tree. The television blew up, sending a lethal wave of glass across the room, much of which buried itself in the opposite wall. Fragments of the television’s innards, so hot they singed the skin, fell on Jack, as he elbowed himself towards the door like a soldier under bombardment.
The room was so thick with a barrage of shards it was like a fog. The cushions had lent their down to the scene, snowing on the carpet. Porcelain pieces: a beautifully-glazed arm, a courtesan’s head, bounced on the floor in front of his nose.
Gina was crouching at the door, urging him to hurry, her eyes narrowed against the hail. As Jack reached the door, and felt her arms around him, he swore he could
hear laughter from the lounge. Tangible, audible laughter, rich and satisfied.
Amanda was standing in the hall, her hair full of pine-needles, staring down at him. He pulled his legs through the doorway and Gina slammed the door shut on the demolition.
‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘Poltergeist? Ghost? Mother’s ghost?’
The thought of his dead wife being responsible for such wholesale destruction struck Jack as funny.
Amanda was half smiling. Good, he thought, she’s coming out of it. Then he met the vacant look in her eyes and the truth dawned. She’d broken, her sanity had taken refuge where this fantastique couldn’t get at it.
‘What’s in there?’ Gina was asking, her grip on his arm so strong it stopped the blood.
‘I don’t know,’ he lied. ‘Amanda?’
Amanda’s smile didn’t decay. She just stared on at him, through him.
‘You do know.’
‘No.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I think…’
He picked himself off the floor, brushing the pieces of porcelain, the feathers, the glass, off his shirt and trousers.
‘I think . . . I shall go for a walk.’
Behind him, in the lounge, the last vestiges of whining had stopped. The air in the hallway was electric with unseen presences. It was very close to him, invisible as ever, but so close. This was the most dangerous time. He mustn’t lose his nerve now. He must stand up as though nothing had happened; he must leave Amanda be, leave explanations and recriminations until it was all over and done with.
‘Walk?’ Gina said, disbelievingly. ‘Yes… walk… I need some fresh air.’ ‘You can’t leave us here.’
‘I’ll find somebody to help us clear up.’ ‘But Mandy.’
‘She’ll get over it. Leave her be.’
That was hard. That was almost unforgivable. But it was said now.
He walked unsteadily towards the front door, feeling nauseous after so much spinning. At his back Gina was raging.
‘You can’t just leave! Are you out of your mind?’
‘I need the air,’ he said, as casually as his thumping heart and his parched throat would permit. ‘So I’ll just go out for a moment.’
No, the Yattering said. No, no, no.
It was behind him, Polo could feel it. So angry now, so ready to twist off his head. Except that it wasn’t allowed, ever to touch him. But he could feel its resentment like a physical presence.
He took another step towards the front door.
It was with him still, dogging his every step. His shadow, his fetch; unshakeable. Gina shrieked at him, ‘You son-of-a-bitch, look at Mandy! She’s lost her mind!’
No, he mustn’t look at Mandy. If he looked at Mandy he might weep, he might break down as the thing wanted him to, then everything would be lost.
‘She’ll be all right,’ he said, barely above a whisper. He reached for the front door handle. The demon bolted the door, quickly, loudly. No temper left for pretence now.
Jack, keeping his movements as even as possible, unbolted the door, top and bottom. It bolted again.
It was thrilling, this game; it was also terrifying. If he pushed too far surely the demon’s frustration would override its lessons?
Gently, smoothly, he unbolted the door again. Just as gently, just as smoothly, the Yattering bolted it.
Jack wondered how long he could keep this up for. Somehow he had to get outside: he had to coax it over the threshold. One step was all that the law required, according to his researches.