Cory walked a little way down the bank. ‘What happened to it?’ he asked. ‘Afterwards.’
‘After the investigation? It was destroyed, I think. Broken up, what was left of it. It must have been so badly damaged – the explosion as well as the fire. No one would have wanted to live on it after that, anyway. Even if it had been rebuilt, it would still have had that history.’
In the mud just in front of her there was a flat grey stone about eight inches long, five wide. Its edges were rough, as if it had been quarried once upon a time, used for a wall or a path, perhaps. Why was it here? Had it been part of the barge set-up? Her mind slipped a memory across the table like a card: Marianne on stepping-stones to the gangplank, Rowan herself standing under the willows begging her to come away.
‘She must have been insane,’ Cory said. ‘Temporary insanity caused by psychological stress. Maybe the pressure of finishing her degree combined with grief at the idea of losing her father. It’s the only way I can explain it.’
‘Have you been in touch with Adam yet, Michael? Have you called him?’
A momentary pause, imperceptible unless you were listening for it. ‘No,’ he said, without turning around.
‘Have you got his number?’
‘No.’ Still he faced away, hiding his lying eyes. ‘Could you give it to me?’
Now. Do it now. Keeping her feet clear of the mud, Rowan crouched and, as silently as possible, picked up the stone. It was heavy – heavy enough. With a final look around, she raised her arm and, summoning the full force of her anger, she brought the stone down on the back of his head.
A sickening crunch. For a moment, the world seemed to stop – the birdsong went silent, the lapping of the river, even the stir of the breeze among the leaves. They were on the point of time, a fulcrum.
But then – a warning flag – the blood. It welled up in a second; nothing and then, all of a sudden, a torrent. There was so much of it, blood running down his head, the back of his neck – he had no hair to absorb it or even interrupt the flow. She panicked: she couldn’t risk him falling with his head on the bank. If it were going to look like he’d slipped, hit his head, fallen in the water – an accident – there couldn’t be blood spattered on the mud.
Staggering, knees buckling beneath him, Cory turned. His eyes were wide – stunned, disbelieving – but then, even as he started to lose focus, she saw realisation. ‘You . . .’ he said.
She gathered her strength again and shoved him. For all his heft, it didn’t take much: he was already reeling. He fell straight backwards, feet on the bank, head and shoulders in the water. Thank God. The splash set the birds chattering, excited, and the leaves seemed to carry the sound: Did you see? Did you see?
Stepping on areas of stones, she waded in after him. His eyes were open, unseeing, but when she took off her glove and put her hand close to his mouth, she felt his breath, warm in the cold air. Glove on again, she plunged her hands into the water, grabbed the back of his coat and pulled. Now his weight was a problem, and the water in his clothes made him heavier still – she felt her back strain. Another moment of alarm – what if she couldn’t turn him? Then, though, planting her feet firmly, she took hold again and with every ounce of her strength, she managed to roll him on to his side and then his front.
Hand at the base of his skull, careful not to touch the wound, she held his face under the water. The resistance was physical only, his body’s unconscious fight for survival, but she held him firm until the bucking slowed then stopped and the bubbles came to an end.
Thirty-one
The miniature woman huddled in foetal position, downy forearms hugging her skeletal knees, scalp gleaming white through her lifeless hair. From her spot beneath the window, Rowan could see the three who preceded her, each smaller than the one before, and for the first time, she had the idea that the women were shrinking not just from the world, the anonymous viewers who would stand in front of them in galleries and museums, no doubt, in years to come, but specifically from her. She looked at the way the last one curled in on herself, turning her face towards the pitiless varnished boards, and the posture struck her suddenly as defensive, fearful. Cowering. ‘Why?’ wailed the ruined O of her mouth. ‘Why, Rowan?’