The instant the darkness closed down, Edmund was aware of a hard throbbing excitement engulfing him. And instead of inhibiting his movements, the lack of light was heightening his senses and even lending him other senses he did not normally possess. The ability to sense his victim’s presence, in the way of hunting animals …Edmund could not see Trixie Smith and he could not hear her, but he knew exactly where she was; he knew she had backed away to the far wall on his left, and that she was kneeling down, hoping to evade him.
She did not evade him, of course. When he stepped out of the darkness, he felt her bolt of fear and surprise and he was aware of a deep triumph because after all she had not known he was so close to her. Strength poured into him – his own and Crispin’s together – and he knew himself strong enough and confident enough to kill twenty prying schoolteachers.
He twisted her arms tightly behind her back – the bitch kicked him quite hard but he knocked the breath from her by hooking his right forearm around her throat. And then he lifted the whisky bottle high and brought it smashing down on her head.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As Trixie slumped to the ground, the whole of Ashwood’s past seemed to jump straight at Edmund; ghosts stirred and slithered within the darkness, and a confusing jumble of echoes swooped and spun around his head.
Ghosts.
Deep within the swirling echoes he could just make out a soft whispering voice; distant and blurred at first, but then becoming more distinct.
Well done, Edmund…said this whispering voice. Oh, well done…And now you’re going to kill her, aren’t you?
It was a very young voice – almost a childish voice, and Edmund knew it was a voice he had never heard in his life. Was it the voice of a child who had not lived to grow up…?
He stood very still, concentrating intently on this light, young voice, and gradually he understood that it was asking why he did not forget that careful precise plan he had made – that murder committed by a fictitious drunk or a convenient tramp. Why did he not use Ashwood’s legend in his plan?
Ashwood’s legend. With the words came a sudden thump of such searing excitement that for a moment Edmund thought he was going to lose consciousness under its impact.
But of course he could not use Ashwood’s legend. It was far too dangerous. It would make people remember.
Scaredy cat…said the voice mockingly. (Yes, it was a child’s voice.) Couldn’t you cope, Edmund, if people did remember?
The excitement was pulsating through Edmund’s entire body, and the darkness was throbbing and becoming laced with the fear that still lay on the air from when he had stalked Trixie Smith a short while ago. Fear was the colour of crimson, like old blood; Edmund could feel the lingering fear and he could almost see it.
Ashwood’s legend. Dare he use it? But the possibility was already zinging around his brain like arcing electricity, setting up little sparks of shivering anticipation. Ashwood’s legend…But could he cope with the memories being resurrected?
Oh, of course you could…said the whisper. Do you really think that anyone has ever forgotten what happened here, once upon a time…? The story will be dug up again anyway when Trixie Smith’s body is found…And this always was the Murder Studio, Edmund, let’s not forget that…
The words hissed lightly to and fro, like silk being spun in the dark. I’m imagining it, thought Edmund. I’m not really hearing anything at all. It’s just the rain outside. Yes, but ‘A child, listed simply as “Allie”, was at Ashwood that day…’ Could that child have been Alraune? Was Alraune here now? But Alraune had never really existed…
Didn’t I, Edmund? Are you sure about that? The whisper was so light and insubstantial – it was like the dry husks of flies in a spider’s web. Was this really Alraune’s ghost, Alraune’s voice?
I don’t believe in you, said Edmund, half-angrily, half-pleadingly. I don’t dare believe in you.