And then, somewhere beneath these swaying, laden branches, a figure moved. A woman with burning eyes lifted her broken head in Carys’ direction. Her presence brought the nausea back. Carys felt faint. This wasn’t the time to lose consciousness. Not with the blossom still bursting and the woman beneath the tree moving out of hiding toward her. She had been beautiful, this one: and used to admiration. But chance had intervened. The body had been cruelly maimed, the beauty spoiled. When, finally, she emerged from hiding, Carys knew her as her own.
“Mama.”
Evangeline Whitehead opened her arms, and offered her daughter an embrace she had never offered while alive. In death, had she discovered the capacity to love as well as be loved? No. Never. The open arms were a trap, Carys knew it. If she fell into them the tree, and its Maker, would have her, forever.
Her head thundering, she forced herself to look away. Her limbs were like jelly; she wondered if she had the strength to move. Unsteadily, she craned her head toward the door. To her shock she saw that it was wide open. The bolt had been wrenched off as the door was beaten open.
“Marty?” she said.
“No.”
She turned again, this time to her left, and the dog-killer was standing no more than two yards from her. He had washed his hands and face of bloodstains, and he smelled strongly of perfume.
“You’re safe with me,” he said.
She glanced back at the tree. It was dissolving, its illusory life dispersed by the brute’s interruption. Carys’ mother, arms still outstretched, was growing thin and wretched. At the last instant before she disappeared she opened her mouth and vomited a stream of black blood toward her daughter. Then the tree and its horrors were gone. There was only the steam, and the tiles, and a man with dog’s blood under his fingernails standing beside her. She’d heard nothing of his forced entry: the reverie at the tree had muted the outside world.
“You shouted,” he explained. “I heard you shout.”
She didn’t remember doing so. “I want Marty,” she told him.
“No,” he replied politely.
“Where is he?” she demanded, and made a move, albeit weakly, toward the open door.
“I said no!” He stepped in her path. He didn’t need to touch her. His very proximity was sufficient to halt her. She contemplated trying to slip by him, and out into the hallway, but how far could she get before he caught her? There were two basic rules when dealing with mad dogs and psychotics. The first: don’t run. The second: show no fear. When he reached out toward her she tried not to recoil.
“I won’t let anybody hurt you,” he said. He ran the ball of his thumb across the back of her hand, finding a speck of sweat there, and brushing it away. His stroke was feather-light; and ice-cold.
“Will you let me look after you, pretty?” he asked.
She said nothing; his touch appalled her. Not for the first time tonight she wished she weren’t a sensitive: she’d never felt such distress at another human’s touch.
“I would like to make you comfortable,” he was saying. “Share . . .” He stopped, as though the words escaped him. “. . . your secrets.”
She looked up into his face. The muscles of his jaw fluttered as he made his proposals, nervous as an adolescent.
“And in return,” he proposed, “I’ll show you my secrets. You want to see?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His hand had plunged into the pocket of his stained jacket and was taking out a clutch of razors. Their edges glinted. It was too absurd: like a fairground sideshow, but played without the razzmatazz. This clown, smelling of sandalwood, was about to eat razors to win her love. He put out his dry tongue and laid the first blade on it. She didn’t like this one bit; razors made her nervous, and always had.
“Don’t,” she said.
“It’s all right,” he told her, swallowing hard. “I’m the last of the tribe. See?” He opened his mouth and put out his tongue. “All gone.”