A Finer End

Dr. Rosenthal was a rational woman, a scholar, and yet she had spoken of Old Gods and elemental powers without reservation. If she were right, Gemma’s perceptions had been more than an overactive imagination, and Faith had indeed been in danger. Yet Faith had been drawn to the Tor before Garnet even knew of her existence; had the danger not been Garnet herself, but something else that had not yet run its course?

That thought made Gemma so uncomfortable that she stood and began to get ready for her day, but she worried at it restlessly throughout the morning. No matter how much she tried to rationalize it, she couldn’t shake the instinct that Faith was still at terrible risk.

At noon, she called in her sergeant and informed him that she would be out for the rest of the day. Her guv’nor was away on a training course—she’d have to explain herself to him when she came back. And Hazel! She would have to ask Hazel to keep Toby for the night.

But first, she rang Kincaid at Jack’s.

“Andrew! What are you doing here?” Faith stared at the apparition in the doorway. His thin anorak glistened with rain, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. He looked different somehow, younger, and she realized he’d taken off his glasses.

“I’ve come to see you.” He stepped into the kitchen and shut the door. “You’re looking well.”

“Well?” She looked down at her distended abdomen, then back at him. “Is that all you can say?”

“What should I say? That you’re blooming? Or one of those other euphemisms people use to get round the fact that pregnant women resemble beached whales?”

His cruelty was shocking. Nor was there any trace of tenderness in his voice. What had she seen in him, all those months ago?

He had been impressed with her performance in his history classes, and with her knowledge of music. And she had been so flattered by his interest, intrigued by his boyish good looks and his air of vulnerability. When he’d begun asking her to stop by his office, she’d felt singled out, special. And then had come the casual touch, the hand on her shoulder, the stroking of her hair—so different from the fumbling of boys her own age.

The thrill of it had made her giddy with excitement, and when he’d said, oh, so nonchalantly, “If ever you’re walking up Wirral Hill, stop by my house for a cup of tea,” she had gone.

There had been a few charmed weeks of regular visits, of feeling so grown-up, sleek with her secret and her superiority to the other girls in her class.

Then reality had struck—a missed period, the worry, the sickness, the inevitable acknowledgment of the truth. When she’d told him she was pregnant, he had wept in her arms like a terrified child, and she’d sworn to him she would never tell anyone the truth. And she’d believed that, once the baby was born and she was on her own, perhaps they could be together again.

Now she saw that she had been mad to think she had meant anything to him—or that she had ever been more than a dreadful mistake in his eyes.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“This can’t go on, you know,” said Andrew, coming a step closer. “This wondering, waiting for the ax to fall. I can’t bear it anymore.”

“I haven’t told anyone!”

“Not Garnet?”

“No. I swear.” But she had confessed to Garnet, when Winnie had urged her to see her mum—and learned to her horror that Winnie was Andrew’s sister! She had been introduced to Winnie only by her Christian name, and so had never made the connection.

“And you haven’t told my sister?”

“I wouldn’t tell Winnie!”

“I never expected that,” Andrew said dispassionately. “That you would make friends with my sister. Did you think it would give you some hold over me?” He shook his head. “You should have known that was the one thing I would never tolerate.”

Too late, Faith realized her mistake. But if she had lied and told him Winnie knew, would it have made a difference? “I’ve protected you. All these months. I had to leave home, because my dad would have killed you if he’d found out.”

“That doesn’t matter now. But my sister … You have to understand. Winnie mustn’t ever know. I can’t take any more chances. I’m sorry.”

He was on her before she could move, his hands round her throat.

Faith felt the searing pressure of his thumbs, heard the rasp of his breath in her ear. She struggled, trying to pull his hands away, but she couldn’t loosen his grip.

Even through the suffocating fog of her fear, she knew that if she lost consciousness she would be finished. She kicked at his ankles, but he merely tightened his grip on her throat. His face was contorted with purpose, unrecognizable. He pushed her backwards until she felt the cooker press against the small of her back.

Her vision blurred, sparking with luminous blue spots. In a last effort, she stopped scrabbling at his hands and reached behind her, groping for something, anything, that might hold him off.