HF - 05 - Sunset (46 page)

And what
of
Cleave? She had been sixteen, he had been older. He would now, perhaps, be forty. He would have

changed, and not only in appearance. Besides, as he had never come to her at the river, why should she even suppose he still wished her, would be prepared to help her?

Why should she even suppose he still remembered her? That night in the mountains might have been the most dramatic, the most important of her life. It could have been no more than an episode in his, and it had been nineteen years ago.

But Cleave, and Jack, had said
come back when you know you want to.
Come back, they had meant, when you know there is no one else to whom you can turn. And now there was no one else to whom she could turn.

But there was the dream again. Snap her fingers, and find herself in the mountains. She listened to Lilian snoring, sitting in the chair by the window; she and Madge took turns. But there was little difference between them. Meg rolled over violently, causing the bed to creak, and instantly the nodding head came upright. Escape could be nothing more than a dream while Madge and Lilian shared her room.

She rolled on her back, gazed at the white gauze mosquito netting with which the bed was surrounded; another innovation of Oriole's, because it had become fashionable - and it certainly afforded protection from the insects which swarmed to the glow of the lamp. She was going to dream no longer. How could she, if she would ever regain her freedom, regain Hilltop, regain Alan? And he was there. He had come out to see her, only a week ago. He still loved her. He would help her.

So why should she be afraid of a black woman? They did not both sleep in here. They were here one at a time. She was at least as big, and surely as s
trong. Was she so afraid of vio
lence? They were authorized to use violence to
her.

So then, think, but think carefully and accurately, and above all, honestly. The maid could be dealt with, if she had the strength, at least of mind as well as body. And if it turned out that she did not, well then, what had she lost? She would no doubt be given a sleeping potion and put back to bed. That had happened often enough in the past.

Then what of afterwards ? Hilltop Great House was never locked. Leaving the house would be simple enough. But the surround and the garden were patrolled all night by a watchman. Only a watchman. How one's sins came home to roost. Oriole did not like dogs, would not have one near the house. Only a watchman.

More violence ? Against a man ? Or stealth. Or subterfuge. That too could only be tested at the time. But afterwards. They would suppose she had made for town, which would be to her advantage. But there was her weakness for self deception, for dreaming, once again threatening to bring her down. Oriole would know where she had gone. Oriole would know there was only one place she could have gone.

But would Oriole dare to follow? Would Billy? They would turn out the police, and the police would follow. But by then a good twenty-four hours would have elapsed. By then she would know whether Cleave would help her or not. Once again, failure could only be followed by a sedative, a confirmation of what everyone already knew, that she was mad. There was nothing to lose, there.

But supposing Oriole followed, right away. How long would she have? Be honest, she shouted at herself in her mind, be realistic. One hour? Surely more. She did not propose to kill her watchdog. So, stunned
...
an hour. No more. She could not expect more than an hour. Then they would be behind her, and Washington would track her down. Washington could track anything. Well, then, was there anything which could prevent Washington tracking?

Rain. Torrential Jamaican rain. There it was. The wet season was only a month away. A month was no time at all, when one has been imprisoned, in various cells, for eight years. A month would merely give her time to build her strength, and plan. She wanted to smile. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to shout for joy. As in the past, the solution to her problem was so simple she was amazed she had not thought of it before. It required only patience. And determination.

It required her to say, perhaps for the last time, I am Meg Hilton.

She lay on her back, and listened to the rain. Driven by the wind from the mountains, it
struck her jalousies like hand
fuls of pebbles thrown by a gang of roistering giants. And the wind was high, too; the gusts almost seemed to shake the old house. It was a good night to be in bed.

But it was the third such in a row. The weather had broken, and the mountain trails would be hardly recognizable. Not even Washington would be able to track up those. Supposing she ever left this warm bed. Supposing she dared.

Because, having made the decision, this last month had been comparatively easy. She had even smiled at Oriole. She had a secret. And the secret would take her back to where she belonged, and send Oriole back to where
she
belonged.

But it was so easy to say 'tomorrow', and lie here, in the warmth and the comfort. Suddenly, when it came to the point, it no longer mattered whether or not she was Margaret Hilton, whether or not she was Mistress of Hilltop. Suddenly it no longer mattered who she was, or what. But what a dangerous thought. No doubt it was how ninety per cent of the people in the world felt. So long as they were fed, and clothed, and housed, they were perfectly willing to exist, moving from one simple pleasure to the next, allowing others to make their decisions for them.

But they were not Hiltons. It had to be now, now, or it would never be at all.

She rolled over restlessly, and Madge's head jerked. 'I am so thirsty,' she said.

Madge signed, and got up, and rescued the pitcher of water from its cooling position in the windowsill, poured a glassful, still sighing, and waddled across the room. Meg had already lifted the mosquito netting, was waiting for her. She drank, greedily; she
was
thirsty. Her throat was parched with fear of the coming moments.

'Now you go to sleep,' Madge said. Just as if she were fifteen again, she thought, and Prudence was scolding her. It helped to make her ang
r
y, to reinforce the decision.

'I must go to the toilet.'

'Eh-eh? But you just drink the water,' Madge commented. But she raised the net higher, and waited. Meg got out of bed; the lamp on her bedside table had burned right down, and there was only the faintest glow of light in the room, but she had rehearsed in her mind so often what she must do that she had no doubt she could have carried out her plan in utter darkness. For Madge now stooped to tuck the mosquito netting under the mattress, to make sure no insects could get into the untended bed.

Meg sucked air into her lungs, turned down the wick, and in the same instant picked up the lamp and swung it against the back of Madge's head. The Negress gave a gasp and fell forward, hands flapping out to grasp the netting, and with her weight tear it from its wires and bring it down in a cloud of white gauze. She struck the bed, and lay still.

Meg found herself gasping. Had she meant to hit quite that viciously? She bent over the woman, heart pounding so hard she could hear nothing else for a moment. Then Madge breathed stertorously. But she did not move. And there was no time to be lost. Again it had all been rehearsed, time and time again, in her mind. She dropped her nightgown on the floor, scooped up her pale green day gown from the chair where she had placed it last night. She needed nothing else. She was going to Cleave.

She opened the door, stood there for a moment. There was no lantern in the gallery, and the house was utterly dark. Nor could she hear a sound above the pounding of the rain on the skylights, and the booming of the wind as it got under the eaves. She closed the door behind her, tiptoed to the stairs, hurried down them. Perhaps they creaked, but if the rain drowned them to her ears, then it drowned them to all other ears.

At the foot she hesitated again, looking through the gloom towards the portraits, towards herself, hanging there smiling at her. Jeremy Spender had apparently been instructed by Billy to finish the painting, when she had been supposed dead. And it was a fine likeness. Margaret Hilton. The Hilton. It smiled at her, saying to her with those confident lips, 'Come back to me, Meg. Come back to yourself.'

She pulled the front door open, and a gust of wind got inside and whistled up the stairs. Oh, my God, she thought; that would certainly wake them. She stepped outside, closed the door again, thought she had banged
it
but could not be sure, flattened herself against the wall while she got her breathing back under control, looked out at the garden and the pasture beyond. All utterly black. There could not be a better night for escaping, supposing she did not lose her way.

She ran across the verandah, reaching the top of the stairs, and heard feet, squelching in the wet ground. She dropped to her hands and knees, then lay flat on the floor, body pulled in against the verandah rails. But the watchman was not really worrying with anything that might be happening, save the rain. He huddled beneath a waterproof cape, head bowed, as he walked round the house. He was required to do this at least once in every hour. Nothing more. Within seconds he would have found himself some shelter under the verandah.

She got up again, went down the steps. Now she had only to guard against losing her way. But her eyes, growing accustomed to the darkness, could make out the tower of the chimney. As long as she kept the bulk of the House over her right shoulder, and the chimney over her left, then she was going north, going the right way.

The front stairs faced south, and while descending them she was almost sheltered from the rain. But at the foot it struck at her with all its force, pounding on her hair, plastering it to her scalp, thudding right through the thin cotton of her gown, while her feet were immediately soaked to the ankle. And equally, she was cold, chilled to the marrow, flesh rising in goose pimples, great shudders hurrying through her muscles.

I am Meg Hilton, she told herself. There could be no stopping now. She went round the building, began her trek across the pasture. She was aware only of the discomfort, the cold, the slashing of the rain into her flesh, the terror which constantly welled up into her throat, and her repeated exhortations to herself:
I
am Meg Hilton.

She stumbled up the pasture, occasionally stepping into a hole and falling, rising again immediately. To stop for even a second would be to remain there for ever, or until they found her. She walked into the midst of a herd of sheep, huddled close against the storm. They bayed plaintively at the violent arrival of this alien, but she pushed them aside and attempted to stumble through them, tripping and falling in their midst, and regaining her feet in a flurry of mud and streaming water.

On the far side, where the pasture began its dip to the banana trees, she looked back, and nearly choked with fear as she saw lights flickering in the windows of the Great House. She had gained not a mile, and they were already awake and preparing to follow her.

She gathered her skirt around her waist and ran for the trees, arriving beneath their shelter quite out of breath. She sank to her knees and panted for some seconds, before getting up again and driving herself onwards. Now she had some slight protection from the teeming rain, but at the same time she was surrounded by noise as the branches swung to and fro, every so often catching her searing blows across the head. She panted, and fell, and got up again, and ran again, and fell again, and knew she had torn her gown.

How big the plantation was. She had never been farther than the Grandstand, except on horseback. Now it seemed to last for ever, so that she was sure she was running round and round in circles, although that was impossible, because the groves were numbered and signposted, and she could keep a track of her progress. But the noise of the rain and the swaying of the branches obliterated all other sound, and she could not tell how close her pursuers might be, until she suddenly heard the report of a rifle, booming through the night. Were they calling to each other, saying they had found her trail ? Or were they calling to her?

But the report had been distant. A moment later the banana groves ended, and she gazed at the slope which led up to the cluster of cedars which marked the river.

She wondered what time it was. It had been just after midnight when she had made her escape from tie house. She seemed to have been stumbling onwards for ever. Her head hurt and her back hurt and her belly hurt and her legs felt like lumps of lead; she dared not think of her feet - it seemed every pebble and every thorn on the plantation had attacked her insteps. And however dark it was, it could not now be far off dawn. And her pursuers were close behind.

She climbed the slope on her hands and knees, looked down on the river, and felt her heart give a great lurch of dismay. Three days' rain had been sufficient to turn the always fast-running stream into a tumbling, foaming torrent. And it would have increased the depth as well. She forced herself to her feet, half ran and half fell down the slope, once again sank to
her knees as she gazed at the ru
shing water. She was so tired. To attempt to cross here would be to commit suicide. And why not, she wondered. Could there be a better place to die than here, where she had known so much happiness? And was there really any point in continuing to live?