Mother had backed away to the wall. There was blood on her knuckles from where she had driven the scissors home, but she was watching the blind, blood-smeared face and it was impossible to know if she was horrified or frightened, or what she was feeling at all.
The mutilated head was turning from side to side – after what had been done to him, was it possible he could still see? No, of course he could not. He was going by sound, by smell, by instinct. He knew Mother was still in the room, and he was going to smell her out like dogs did. Could humans do that? Oh God, yes, he’s starting to move across the room, and he’s holding the scissors over his head, and I must do something, I must do something…
But it was like being inside a nightmare. It was impossible to move, and it was impossible to call out a warning because the words would not come out, just as words would sometimes not come out in a nightmare, no matter how hard you tried.
And now he had reached Mother and he was grabbing her arm, lifting the dripping scissors over his head with his other hand. Curses streamed from his mouth – you could almost see the words coming out, wet with the blood and the eye-fluid…Kill you, kill you, bitch, murdering bitch-cunt, and then kill the child as well, kill both of you…
She was fighting him off, clawing at his face – yes, her hands were like claws! – but he had too strong a grip. The two of them fought and struggled, and just when it seemed that Mother was about to push him away, he brought the scissors flashing down, stabbing them deep into her neck. The blood spurted out at once, like a tap turned full on, splashing the floor and the walls, and Mother was crumpling to the floor, a look of surprise on her face.
Time seemed to run down and stop completely, so that it might have been hours or only minutes before there was a wet rattling sound in Mother’s throat, and she fell forward. Dead? Yes, of course she was dead, it did not need a second look to know it. Like a light going out. Like something collapsing deep inside.
The man standing over her remained absolutely still: it was impossible to know if he was recovering his strength or fighting his own pain. Then the terrible listening movement came back. He turned his head from side to side, and the dreadful face with the two wet, bloodied sockets seemed to search the room. He’s still holding the scissors! He pulled them out of her neck, and he’s still holding them! And now that he’s killed her, he’s searching for me!
The realization brought a fresh wash of terror. He’s mad with pain, but he’s still as cunning and as brutal as ever. And he’s searching for me because I saw what he did. If he can get me, he’ll kill me so that I can’t tell people he’s a murderer.
There was surely nothing easier than escaping from the murderous hands of a man whose eyes had been destroyed. It was the kind of thing people made jokes about: a blind man on a galloping horse would never see that, they said. Or they said that something was about as much use as a blind man in a coal-hole on a dark night.