The bathroom was full of pale thick vapour, as it always was if someone took a long hot bath and forgot to open the window, and for a moment Edmund could only make out the shapes of the washbasin and the deep old bath and the cloudiness of the misted mirrors. But here and there the mists were tinged with red, like clouds reflecting a vivid sunset.
It was a large bathroom by modern standards: the house had been built at a time when space was not at a premium, and one of the bedrooms had been converted some time before Edmund was born. For a moment he could not see any sign of his father, but then the mistiness cleared a little as the cooler air from the open door began to disperse it. The pulsing fear that had been beating inside him changed key, and began to drum against his temples.
Because there was someone lying in the bath.
There was someone lying absolutely still in the bath, the head turned to the door as if watching for someone or something it would never see again. For the space of six heartbeats the lisping trickle of water still dribbling into the tank whispered all round the room, seeming to mock the confused panic in Edmund’s mind. S-s-someone lying in the bath…S-someone with blood-dabbled hands, and blood-smeared che-s-s-t, and someone who’s grinning through gaping bloodied lips-s-s…
Someone who had deliberately run a hot bath, and then had got into it and was grinning with macabre triumph at having cheated the world. The tiles around the bath were splattered with blood, and there was blood on the damp tiled floor. The razor lay on the tiles.
How am I supposed to interpret what I’m seeing? thought Edmund. I must concentrate, I must work out exactly what I’m looking at, because they’ll want to know – police and doctors, they’ll all want to know. So what am I seeing? I’m seeing that he’s smiling – that’s the first thing. But his mouth’s in the wrong place.
His mind finally snapped out of the frozen paralysis, so that he could think logically again. His father was not smiling, of course. His lips had a blueish tinge and they were slightly open. They were expressionless, giving nothing away. It was the other lips directly underneath, the lips of the deep, gaping wound across his throat that curved into that dreadful grin, and that glistened wetly with blood…
He’s cut his throat, thought Edmund. That’s what’s happened. He found the old-fashioned razor and then he got into a hot bath, and he slashed the razor across his throat. That’s what I’m seeing. I’m seeing someone who no longer wanted to live.
A dozen different emotions were scalding his entire body, but at last he walked across the damp tiles. The hot tap was still dribbling into the bath; moving like an automaton he turned it off, and then reached into the still-warm water for one of the flaccid hands, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. And Crispin’s skin was unmistakably lifeless. Dead meat. But I’ve got to make sure, thought Edmund. How about a heartbeat? It was unexpectedly distasteful to reach into the warm water to touch the bloodied chest, but it was necessary. Don’t think, said his mind, just do it. You’ve got to make certain beyond all doubt that he’s dead. If you phone an ambulance now, that’s what they’ll tell you to do. The flat of your hand against the left side of his chest. A bit higher. That’s about right. And if there’s the least sign of anything beating—
But there was nothing at all, and at last Edmund stepped back from the bath, suddenly realizing that he was shaking violently, and that despite the warm damp bathroom he was icily cold. He leaned back against the wall, wrapping his arms around his body as if it might bring back some warmth, staring down at the thing that had been his father. For several moments he fought to remain in control, because he must not give way to nerves or confusion, he must not…And looked at logically, there was nothing in here that could possible hurt him or threaten him.