Alraune.
So you really did exist, said Edmund to the thin sheet of paper. The legends were all true, and you really did exist, and after all Lucretia really was your mother. But he had known ever since the day inside Studio Twelve that Alraune existed. Even if Trixie Smith had not said, ‘A child listed as “Allie” was there that day,’ Edmund would have known, because he had felt Alraune’s presence in the deserted studio, and he had been aware of Alraune’s hand taking his, and he had heard Alraune’s childish voice whispering to him.
You don’t need to believe in me, Alraune had said that day. All you need to believe in, Edmund, is the practice of morthor – mord…
Returning to the office was unthinkable; Edmund could not have concentrated on ordinary routine work if his life had depended on it.
He locked the damning sheet of paper in his briefcase, and drove back to his own house. Once inside he carried the briefcase and its explosive contents through to the sitting-room, where a small fire was laid ready for lighting. He liked to have a fire in the evenings at this time of year – people said it made a lot of work and what about polluting the environment, but Edmund did not consider the environment to be his responsibility, and most of the work fell on his cleaning lady who came in three times a week from the nearby village and had instructions to rake out the ashes and re-lay the fire ready for the next day. The room was at the back of the house and no one could possibly see in, but Edmund drew the curtains before opening the briefcase.
He carried the certificate to the fireplace, holding it flat on his upturned palms (Like a sacrifice? Don’t be ridiculous!), and placed it in the exact centre of the hearth. Then he lit a match and set it to a twist of newspaper. It caught at once, and the flames licked across the brittle sheet with its spider-faded writing. Edmund watched the sad dryness curl in on itself, and the tiny charred flakes shrivel into powdery ash.
And now you’re really gone, Alraune. Even if you ever existed, there’s no longer anything left to prove it. I’ve put an end to you once and for all.
Are you so sure about that? said the sly scratchy voice deep within his mind.
Yes, I am. In fact I still question whether you did exist. That certificate could have been a fake. Part of the legend they created about you.
Oh Edmund, said Alraune’s voice reproachfully. We shared a killing…We shared mord, Edmund…
We shared a killing…But I’m perfectly safe on that score, thought Edmund. They’ll never trace it to me. And I’ve burned the birth certificate, and I’ve severed all the links to the past.
But, said Alraune’s voice inside Edmund’s mind, can the past – particularly that past – particularly MY past – ever really die, Edmund…?
Some pasts might never die, and most pasts could not really be rewritten, but it was gratifying to find that when it came to the present, Edmund had got it right.
Early on Saturday morning, just as he was eating his leisurely weekend breakfast and scanning the papers, a young but perfectly polite voice telephoned from Ashwood police station, apologized for disturbing Mr Fane and explained that the body of a Miss Trixie Smith had been found at the derelict Ashwood Studios site.
‘Dead?’ said Edmund in a shocked voice. ‘Trixie Smith? You did say dead?’ He paused, and the polite voice said, yes, certainly dead, and the body had been found early on Friday evening.
‘Good God,’ said Edmund. ‘What exactly happened?’