Listening intently to the piano-playing, every nerve tensed in case it suddenly stopped, Donna went cautiously along the hall. Would the kitchen be at the back of the bungalow? Yes, here it was, a big room, dim and cool. There was a tiled floor and modern fittings, and someone had partly prepared a meal: on a work surface were diced peppers, and chicken and tiger prawns defrosting in a shallow dish. A crusty French loaf was on a chopping board. It looked as if Weston was coming home to eat, which meant she could be home at any minute, which meant that Donna had better buck up her ideas.
Next to the chopping board was a long sharp-bladed knife and the next piece of the puzzle slid neatly into place. She had intended to use the paperweight for the next stage of the plan but the knife would be far, far better. In three paces she was across the tiled floor and had picked it up. Even through the cotton gloves the thin blade felt strong and as if it was sizzling with its own energy.
She went stealthily back to the hall. Had the musician heard anything? No, he was still playing. Very good; now for the light. It was necessary to switch that light off. She dare not risk being seen in case things went wrong and the man was able to identify her later on.
Nothing would go wrong, but Donna preferred complete darkness, which meant either switching the light off in the room itself–which was clearly impossible–or finding the mains switch.
There was often a cupboard under the stairs for electric meters and switches, or even a cellar, but there were no stairs here, and the bungalow looked a bit modern for a cellar. How about a pantry in the kitchen? Or a cloakroom out here in the hall? As the thought formed, she saw the door midway along the hall, on the other side to the music room, and saw that it was the kind that had slats in it–louvres, weren’t they called? A cloakroom? A meter cupboard?
She moved silently forward, and inched the door open, every nerve stretched in case it made a noise. But it did not, and she breathed more freely. Inside, were several coats hanging up–the kind of semi-battered jackets most people kept handy for dashing out to post a letter in the rain or collecting the Sunday papers–together with a couple of umbrellas and wellingtons. It was all a bit higgledly-piggedly. Bit of a slut when it comes to housework, are you, Doctor Weston? I suppose you’d say you hadn’t time for housework, what with your patients, what with your musician, what with your toy boys…
But there, behind the door, was a row of switches with modern trip-switches, and if the cupboard itself was a bit untidy, the switches were all marked. Heating. Lighting. Cooker. Power. Mains. Mains. A smile curved Donna’s lips and, keeping a firm hold of the knife with her right hand, with her left she reached up to the mains switch and depressed it.
There was a soft click, and the bungalow fell into thick cloying darkness.
But it did not fall into silence. The piano-playing–the jeering prancing music that had whispered its jibes into Donna’s mind–continued.
For a moment this almost completely unnerved her. For several panic-filled moments she had absolutely no idea what to do. She had no idea why the man was continuing to play. Surely anyone, suddenly plunged into what would appear to be a power cut, would display some form of exasperation, break off whatever he or she had been doing, and go in search of candles and matches? But the pianist did none of these things; he simply went on playing, and the more she listened, the more Donna could hear a frightening madness within the music. Things jeering, things mocking…We know what you’re going to do, Donna…
There was a moment when it suddenly occurred to her that the man might be blind–you often heard about blind people being musicians. Then she remembered the first time she had seen him he had broken off his playing to scribble notes. Not blind then. But there’s a madness in here–I can feel there is, and I can feel that it’s very close to me indeed.