When the doorbell rang, she got up from her bed, taking a last look at her room in case she never saw it again, and then went downstairs. Two tall dark figures loomed behind the glass. She opened the door. A man and a woman in uniform stood on the step; both of them were so well-groomed and attractive, they looked more like actors from a television crime drama than real-life police. She told herself that she must be polite and cooperate with them entirely.
She waited for them to do something, to grab her and put her in handcuffs, or even push past her to search the cellar for evidence, but instead they just stood there, with sympathetic smiles on their young unblemished faces.
“Would you like to come inside?” suggested Marion.
“That’s not necessary,” said the female police officer. “We just wanted to inquire if you had seen the man who lives opposite lately.”
“Mr. Weinberg?”
“Yes,” said the male officer. “We received a call from his son in Cape Town. He hasn’t heard from him in a few days, and he was quite worried, so he asked us to check on him. Wanted to make sure no one had seen him before—entering the property.”
Later she watched from her bedroom as they took Mr. Weinberg’s body out on a stretcher. He looked like nothing more than a pile of sticks beneath the blanket. How lonely it must have been for him in that big house. I expect he just gave up after his dog went missing, thought Marion. She forced herself to imagine what it would be like to end up like that, living all alone and getting old and ill, being unable to wash or feed oneself, getting weaker and weaker until it was too late to get help.
? ? ?
AS SHE HAD her supper of poached eggs and cold ham that evening, Marion thought of Mr. Weinberg eating his last meal, forcing it down even though the taste made him sick. Afterwards he would crawl off to bed and then lie huddled beneath the covers, perhaps suffering terrible thirst or pain. Even then afraid of calling his son in Cape Town and causing him any inconvenience. How long had he lain in his own filth, waiting for the end to come?
Before she went to bed that night, she remembered the meeting she had the next day with the solicitor who would oversee the purchase of the flat and felt a flutter of anxiety. Simon had given her his name with the assurance that he would deal with everything. Could it really be happening? Was she really going to move away from this house where she had lived her whole life and away from John? Surely she was bound to make some mistake that would ruin everything. “No, Marion,” she said to herself firmly. “You can change things for the better, you really can.”
? ? ?
SHE WOKE TO the sound of the door handle being turned ever so gently. Finding it locked, he went away. Marion lay there, ice crystals slowly forming in her blood as she waited for him to return. Then there was a clicking and tapping as he methodically went about his work. She heard each rattle as the separate parts of the lock fell onto the floor. When she opened her eyes, a shape was standing by the bed.
How foolish I was to think he could be kept out by that pathetic little lock, she said to herself. It seemed the giant figure that loomed over her in the dark could have lifted off the roof of the house, then reached in and grabbed her right out of her bed if it wanted to.
The hands that reached around her throat smelled of coal tar soap. Had he washed them before deciding to choke her? It hurt very badly, worse than anything had ever hurt before. As she wondered if it would take a very long time, memories came back of tooth extractions and having stitches on her foot after treading on broken glass while paddling in the sea. “It won’t hurt for much longer,” they always said. But it always did. And the pain around her neck was hurting for a very long time.
The squirming, purplish-black, glistening thing was biting into her throat with sharp little teeth, trying to chew right through the bone and sinew. The burn of death spread from her neck to the rest of her body. She almost wanted to laugh at herself for being such a fool in thinking she could escape all the horror. Would he put her body in bags, then burn her out in the garden like he had done with the others? The smell floating in through Judith’s window, causing her to wrinkle her nose in disgust? This will end for me like it did for them. I am getting what I deserve. That thought came with a soothing dose of calm, like a shot of anesthetic given by a kindhearted doctor.
But it would not be over. When she came to, John was sitting on the side of the bed weeping.
“I can’t do it,” he wailed, as if her death were an arithmetic problem that couldn’t be solved. “Why can’t I do it, Mar?”
“To think once I believed you were capable of anything,” she said, despising him then, not for what he had done to the women in the cellar, but for his weakness. “But you’re nothing but a pathetic old fool, John.”
Dec 18th
Alla, darling daughter, why don’t you call, what has happened to you? We have not had phone call or skype message or letter for over three weeks now. Vava is always asking for you. I saw her the other day trying to prize open laptop with her little baby hands. Because she has seen you on the skype she must have thought her mama is trapped inside there and she can help you to escape. And then she cries when I take it away, I cannot allow her to break it, how would we ever buy new one?
All I care about is that you are safe, and I do not mean to complain but at the same time I must inform you times have been difficult because Vava and I depend so much on the money you send us.
Your mama is not complaining of course. If necessary can try to get my job back at the factory—the trouble is they do not like so much when I take the baby with me because she sometimes gets into mischief. We do not want to be any trouble to you but you must remember Vava is growing very fast and needs new clothes and shoes all the time. Your mama does not need anything for herself, apart from one packet of cigarettes per week that she smokes while standing on the small balcony and looking down at the park where the old men go to walk their dogs, plus one small bottle of English gin per week if there is a little bit of money to spare.
Of course I would give up these luxuries just to see your beautiful round apple cheeks and pinch them between our fingers! By the way Mr. Zhenshavic keeps asking about the rent he gets very angry with me sometimes and is threatening to take away television set. I say please wait one week until I see season finale of Never is not Enough to find out if Magda is released from jail—she has been wrongly accused of killing Mara’s husband.
Please do not concern yourself about money just call soon, I am so worried about you!
Dearest Alla