Had the man heard her break in after all? Was he ignoring her in the hope that she would go away? Was he so arrogant he had assumed she was just a common house-breaker who would go away if ignored, or was he simply a coward?
It did not much matter what he was, because he was about to die. He was about to die so that Antonia Weston should suffer. Her hatred of Antonia enveloped Donna’s whole being, sending her courage and resolve sky high. She was ten feet high, she was a giant–a giantess!–she was unstoppable and invincible and she could do this and walk away scot-free, exactly as she had done at Twygrist that day.
As she pushed the door wide, no longer worried about being heard, the voices of the music demons were all around her, laughing and jabbing into her mind, urging her on, saying, Go on, Donna, go on…Let’s do it, Donna, let’s do it…
The man reacted at last. As the door crashed back against the wall, he stopped playing and turned his head. Donna could see him outlined against the uncurtained bay window. Incredibly he was still seated at the piano, not even bothering to stand up: simply sitting there, waiting and watching her.
He said, quite coolly, ‘I suppose you’re after money. The desk’s by the window, and there’s plenty of cash in the drawer. Take it and get out.’
The sound of that cool, unafraid voice in the dark room sent bitter fury boiling up. Out of the scalding waves of pain and anger, came a voice that screamed at this smooth-voiced pianist, that it was not money she was here for, it was justice and punishment.
The sound of this shrill voice filled the room. The man stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment and then said, ‘Oh God, you’re high on drugs or something, aren’t you?’ and the pity in his voice slammed into Donna’s mind like a blow. The voice screamed again, shouting that she was not high, she was not some squalid drug addict. But somewhere under the screaming was another voice, saying don’t lose your cool, Donna, stay with the plan.
The plan. Donna snatched at the word and held onto it like a talisman, and the out-of-control voice shut off. In two bounds she was across the room, the knife lifted high above her head. It came down in a sizzling arc, printing a razor-line of brilliance on the dark room, and it came down on the man’s neck exactly as she had planned. He half fell back against the piano with a cry of pain and shock. Aha! you weren’t expecting that! Blood spurted from his neck, coming at Donna like a fountain warm and thick. Disgusting! You hadn’t allowed for the blood, had you, Donna? You forgot it would shoot out like that. You’ll have to burn every stitch of clothing you’re wearing, and bath and wash your hair a dozen times tonight to get rid of the smell and the feel—Stop that! Never mind about the blood, you need to find out if he’s dead, that’s what you need to find out now.
He was not dead. Dear God, he’d had a six-inch blade driven into his neck, and he was still alive! He had fallen to the floor, clutching at the piano as he went, bringing some of the furniture down with him, but he was still moving, flailing at the air, grabbing at a small side table and overturning it, clutching at the edges of the piano. Nothing for it, then, better stab him again. She bent over him, and brought the knife down a second time and this time it went in deeper. Donna felt the scrape of bone. Collarbone? Breastbone? Oh, who cared what it was, and who cared that the knife, Antonia Weston’s own knife, had embedded itself so deeply in bone and flesh.