Imago (17 page)

Kate began to climb the stairs, thinking hard. Something about Margaret that rang another faint bell. What was it? For a moment, Kate feared she had actually gone mad, the fear and strain of the past few hours taking their toll. Was she being paranoid? She climbed further, treading softly, the old polished wood of the banister sliding smoothly under her palm.

Kate reached the top of the stairs. Through a half-open door to the right, she could see the edge of a bath, a sink, a tiled floor. That was the bathroom, but it looked empty. Where was Margaret? Had she actually come upstairs?

Kate shifted from foot to foot, standing at the top of the stairs. The old floorboards creaked under her feet. That sense of uneasiness was growing – in fact, it was almost fear. What was there to be afraid of? Was it the silent house, the disappearance of her hostess – or something else?

Beyond the bathroom door was another door. Kate tiptoed towards it and pushed it gently open. It opened into what was obviously the master bedroom. Kate hesitated in the doorway, unsure of what she was doing or what she would find. The room was empty, the double bed made neatly with a pink candlewick bedspread tucked across it. At the far wall was a small, wooden dressing table with an adjustable mirror on the top. On the surface of the dressing table, on a white lace doily, was a small, wooden jewellery box.

As soon as Kate saw it, she knew what she’d been thinking of.
Brooches
. Margaret’s rhinestone brooch. Without stopping to think, Kate strode forward until she reached the dressing table and lifted the lid of the jewellery box.

A part of her had been expecting what she saw, but still she heard herself gasp. Again, she had that feeling of freefall, something heavy moving downwards through her body, leaving her weak and trembling. The dark interior of the jewellery box could not quite dim the blue shine of the butterfly brooch within it. Kate stared at it, seeing again the bruise on Ingrid Davislova’s skin. She could hear the roar of her heartbeat in her ears, pounding like a bass drum, but even beyond that, she was suddenly aware of something, some other sound just on the edge of hearing: a whisper of a footstep in the corridor outside, the faint hiss of an indrawn breath.

Time stood still for a moment. Kate’s horrified gaze rose slowly, from the jewellery box to the mirror. There was a flicker in the glass and a dark shape rushed at her from behind, growing larger with terrifying speed.

Already pumped full of adrenaline, Kate’s body reacted before her mind did. She darted sideways just as the figure crashed into the dressing table, making the mirror rock back against the wall. As she turned to run, Kate caught sight of her attacker, dressed in an old-fashioned men’s suit and hat that shadowed the face.

Despite her shock, Kate was thinking it must be an unknown relative of Margaret’s: a son, a brother. Seconds later, the hat fell off as the person rushed forward, and Kate saw the face; it was Margaret’s face but it had been distorted, teeth bared, eyes glaring. She was so shocked that she almost didn’t register the knife before it came down in a sweeping rush that Kate, feinting right, barely escaped.

Sobbing with fear, Kate turned, scrambling for the door before slamming it shut in Margaret’s maniacal face. Kate ran for her life, slipping a little at the turn of the corridor, stumbling down the stairs. Everything had happened so quickly that she was barely aware of anything else besides the overwhelming desire to run. She fell the last three steps, turning her ankle but hardly registering the flash of pain. Above her, she could hear the bedroom door thud back against the wall and Margaret’s hissing breath as she ran after Kate. In three bounds, Kate reached the front door, scrabbled for the lock and handle, pulled.

The door was locked.

Kate had time to think about running for the back door, a second’s vision of making her escape that way. Then the blow came, a hard punch to the base of her ribs, which drove the breath from her body for an instant. Margaret’s body pressed up against hers from behind, pinning her to the door. There was an excruciating moment of pain as the knife went in, a shockingly intimate penetration, and then a dragging heaviness and a blooming dull heat.

Kate thought confusedly, 
I’m okay, I’m okay, I’ve got my stab vest on
, but of course she wasn’t on patrol anymore, was she? She wasn’t wearing a vest. Margaret was panting loudly in her ear. Kate felt the knife pull back, leaving her body, and she thought, 
She’s going to stab me again
. Without thinking, she gasped for air and pushed herself backwards, bringing her head back sharply.

The back of her skull connected violently with Margaret’s nose. There was a crunch and a muffled scream and then the pressure on Kate was relieved.

Margaret fell backwards, her nose gouting scarlet. Kate turned, feeling a great wash of blood from the wound in her back go flooding through her shirt, warm and wet. She staggered past Margaret, who was scrabbling to get up from the hallway floor, and limped into the first room off the hallway, the living room, before her legs gave way and she thumped down onto the carpet in front of the fire.

I’m going to die here, I’m going to die
 was the only thought going through her mind. Kate managed to turn over and face the doorway just in time to see Margaret, face streaked with blood, up on her feet and waving the knife. She saw Kate helpless and spread-eagled on the carpet and screamed triumphantly, running forward with the knife, ready to swoop down in the final, fatal blow.

It was Kate’s legs that saved her. Strengthened and toned from weeks of training, they kicked not out, but up, catching Margaret on the run and pushing her towards the ceiling so that the momentum of her movement carried her up through the air, above Kate, to crash into the marble mantelpiece. The movement was too quick for her to cry out. Her head hit the mantelpiece, and she dropped like a stone, almost on top of Kate, who managed to roll away a little, screaming herself at the pain in her abdomen as the knife wound opened and the blood flowed.

Gasping, Kate propelled herself backwards on her elbows, pure adrenaline moving her muscles. Margaret lay, crumpled and silent, by the hearth. Kate reached the sofa, tried to pull herself up to a standing position. Was Margaret dead? Where was the knife?

Kate felt for her mobile phone in the back pocket. Every movement exploded with pain and brought with it a fresh flow of blood from the wound. She could feel her vision fogging; greyness began to creep into her line of sight. She managed to grasp the phone, brought it out, dropped it as it slithered through her bloody fingers. Breathing was becoming difficult now. Kate groaned, feeling the blood flowing like a river down her back, down her legs. Her shirt was sodden.

She took every last bit of energy, stood up and staggered to the mantlepiece. Her shaking fingers reached out to grasp the heaviest thing she could reach, a gold-framed black and white photograph. Kate gasped like a fish, took in what little breath she could and hurled the picture as hard as her fading strength would allow at the living room window.

Dimly she heard the crash of falling glass, but before the musical tinkle of the shards landing on the ground outside had faded, Kate felt herself slide forward, sinking to the blood-wet carpet as everything went black.

J’s Diary

The butterfly brooch is by my hand while I write. My eye keeps being drawn to it; this small piece of cheap, enamelled metal. I keep seeing portents in everything; the most random things become meaningful. Is this madness? There are those who would say that what I do is madness, but I don’t 
feel
mad. Quite the opposite. The more I kill, the more I feel in control. The cooler and calmer I get.

Perhaps that’s what it’s all about after all. Control.

Mother was always the one in control. There was only one time I saw her fearful. That was the day of my first transformation. The butterfly brooch had a part to play there as well; perhaps that’s what reminded me.

It was last summer. For some reason, I had gone into Mother’s bedroom, and the butterfly brooch was lying in the middle of her dressing table, quite alone. I stood there for several minutes, staring at it. I couldn’t have said why.

There was a flicker in the glass of the dressing table mirror, and I looked up and into it to see the reflection of Mother standing in the doorway to her room, staring at me.

There was a moment’s silence, oddly loaded. Our gazes met in the mirror. After a few seconds, she dropped her eyes to look at what I’d been staring at.

“Your father bought me that,” she said, indicating the brooch with a nod of her white head. “On the day I found out I was pregnant with you and your brother.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. John. It was the first time she’d ever acknowledged his existence to me. I was flummoxed, not only by the subject matter, but also by her tone. It was the first time in weeks she’d directed a normal, almost friendly word my way.

She walked up behind me, growing larger in the reflection. Seen side by side, our faces looked very similar despite the difference in our age. I had the strangest impression that she knew that I knew about John, about how he’d died. That she knew that I’d found the story out long before but she’d never mentioned it because she wanted me kept in suspense, in horror at what I’d done. She wanted me to be punished.

She leaned forward, smiling nastily.

“The wrong twin died,” she said, almost whispering. I could feel her eyes on my face, greedy for my reaction to her words.

My face reflected nothing. After a moment, bored, she turned away and walked out of the room.

The strangest thing happened. It was as if someone else were standing behind me, as close as Mother had been. As if they stepped forward, into me. My vision blurred. All I could see before me was the hard, bright blue of the butterfly brooch. Rage flooded through me like a welcome fire.

I turned quickly and followed Mother, who was just taking a step downwards at the top of the stairs. My hands went out, but were they my hands, or John’s hands? They connected with the small of Mother’s back and pushed, just a quick little shove. I can still remember the feel of her birdlike ribcage under my palms for the brief second before she fell. It was the first time I’d touched her in years. She tumbled down, giving one short, sharp cry before she hit the hallway floor in a tangle of withered limbs.

I remained for a moment on the top step. Exhilaration swept through my bloodstream like a drug; I felt drunk with power. I had killed Mother.

That wasn’t quite true. She was still alive when I reached the hallway floor and bent over her. Her face was twisted awkwardly, her mouth opening and shutting like a baby bird’s. One grey eye blinked at me.

I leant over, watching her pupil contract. Then I smiled slowly. I backed away towards the front door, step by slow step. She made a small sound of protest, something that wasn’t quite a word. Was she trying to say my name? I hadn’t heard the word 
Margaret
 cross her lips in months. I smiled again, smiled and waved a casual goodbye. Then I went outside and locked the front door behind me.

Walking away down the quiet street, I felt my soul grow wings. I knew then that I was able to transform, to become someone different. All it took was the courage to hold death in your hands and reach out and kill. I was trembling with the realisation that
that
was the secret I had looked for for so long.

Chapter Eighteen

There were voices right on the edge of hearing, but no discernible words. Just the hum and babble of human speech, heard from some distance away. Then other sounds became recognisable: the rattle of curtain rings, the clank of something metallic, the ringing of a telephone. Kate heard them all without being able to think much about them, and after a time, the noises faded and darkness came back.

When she could hear the sounds again, they were louder and more intrusive. At the same time, she became aware of something else – a warm feeling of pressure on her right hand. She struggled for a moment to open her eyes, and after a few seconds, the blurry image of a ceiling and the top of a green curtain came into view. Kate blinked and her gaze dropped to see the welcome face of Olbeck smiling down at her. It was he who was holding her hand, she realised after another moment.

“Hi,” croaked Kate.

“Hello, you.” Olbeck leant forward a little, squeezing her hand. “How are you feeling?”

Kate considered.

“Crap.”

Olbeck smiled.

“Geez, Kate, I knew you wanted to get out of running the half marathon, but you didn’t have to go 
this
 far.”

Kate laughed weakly and then gasped as pain shot through her. She looked down at herself, fearful of what she would see. A mass of bandages was just visible under the hospital gown she was wearing.

“What happened?”

“Don’t you remember?”

Kate blinked and the face of Margaret Paling swam back into view. The gleam of the knife as it came down, the warmth of the blood as it gushed out of her. Kate swallowed.

“I remember.”

“That knife missed your lung by an 
inch
, Kate. Someone was obviously looking out for you. You lost a lot of blood, but you’ll be okay. You just need to rest and get better.”

Kate felt the sudden hot surge of tears underneath her eyelids and blinked them away.

“I’ll be okay?” she managed.

“You should be. You won’t be running any marathons, half or otherwise, for a while.”

“Silver lining,” Kate said, trying to grin through her tears.

“Jay and Courtney have been here, but they had to go. I thought I’d sit with you for a while.”

“Glad – glad you did.” Kate was sorry she’d missed her brother and sister. She wanted to ask whether her mother had visited her but decided against it.

“What happened – afterwards?” she asked.

“After the attack?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I got your text. I was in the middle of interviewing poor Karen’s Brennan’s mother, so I couldn’t get back to you, and I couldn’t leave immediately. I stopped the interview as soon as I decently could, and Anderton and I headed on over to Jerry’s place. Of course, we couldn’t find you anywhere, and we were starting to get a bit worried when this bloody great shower of glass explodes just down the street.”