Питер Робинсон - No Cure for Love

She walked over and pulled the doors fully open. It took her only a split-second to realize that it was no longer her reflection she was staring at.

It was him, the one she had seen at Stuart’s house, the one Arvo said had been caught.

Sarah screamed and staggered backwards. He came in and put his hand over her mouth. His skin smelled of Pears soap. She struggled briefly but he was too strong. He pushed her gently down into the armchair and he stood over her, hands on the chair arms, closing her in.

He reached forward gently and touched her hair. She flinched. He looked at her with sadness in his eyes, and she knew that whatever it was he was seeing, it wasn’t what she saw when she looked in the mirror.

She remembered him now. The silent one, always in the shadows: Mitch’s brother.

“What do you want?” she asked. “Why have you been hurting my friends? Why don’t you leave me alone?”

He said nothing, just kept looking at her in that twisted, adoring way.

“Look, this is crazy,” she rushed on, trying to keep the hysterical edge from her voice. “I don’t love you. I’ve never loved you. I’ve never even given you cause to think I loved you. Why are you doing this to me?”

But whatever he was hearing, it wasn’t what she was saying. She wished to God he would speak. His silence and his fixed, loving eyes were making her even more scared than she had been to begin with.

Then he took her hand. She tried to resist, but he grasped her wrist tightly and pulled her up from the chair. She screamed and struggled, knocking over a small table and one of the Inuit sculptures, but he held on to her and dragged her across the floor, through the doors and over the wooden deck. She managed to make him slow down enough for her to stand up. He seemed to want her to go with him down to the beach. He had obviously climbed up the rocks beside the gate, and he wanted her to go back down with him that way.

Sarah didn’t want to get dragged and bumped over the rocks, and she also realized that if she could play for time, then the police might find out they had made a mistake and come looking for her.

“Wait a minute. There’s a key,” she said. “For the gate. Let me get it.”

He thought for a moment, then nodded and held on to her as she went back inside slowly and took the key from the hook by the doors. Then they walked back out, hand in hand, down the rough-hewn stone steps.

The sky was clear and the moon bright. Sarah opened the iron gate. When they walked out onto the sand, she thought she might be able to make a break for it and run for help, maybe dash toward the first place that would give her access to the road. She didn’t know what she would do when she got there. Run out and flag down a car if she could, if anyone would stop. There were lights on in some of her neighbors’ houses, she noticed, and she tried shouting for help, but the combination of the sea and whatever TV programs they were watching drowned her cries.

He didn’t seem to notice her screaming, or care; he was completely intent on taking her toward the sea. She felt as if his powerful fingers were crushing her wrist. She screamed again, louder this time, hoping someone in one of the nearby houses would hear between commercials or the canned laughter and come to help her, but still nothing happened, no one came.

She tried to kick him in the shins and fell on the sand. He dragged her behind him, the same relentless pace. The more she struggled, the tighter his grip became, until she could hardly feel her hand.

God, how she wished he would speak, wished he could explain what he was doing and why, what he wanted. Never before had she felt so much in the dark, felt such a desire to understand .

When they reached the shoreline, he stopped, turned and faced her, now gripping both her hands in his.

“Please,” she begged above the crashing of the waves around their feet. “Please let me go. I’ll do what you want. Whatever you want. Don’t hurt me.”

She could make out his expression in the moonlight, and she could see from his eyes that he was trying to tell her he didn’t want to hurt her. But she also knew he was going to kill her. It might seem like something else to him, something grandiose and romantic and transcendental, but he was going to kill her. She remembered his letter: “But you must not think I enjoy causing pain. No, that is not it at all, that is not my purpose, surely you can see?... My Knives were sharp. I spent hours sharpening them. I was gentle when I bent over him. He didn’t feel a thing. Please believe me.” She believed him now.

“Please,” she said, “talk to me. Tell me what you want me to do.”

Then he put his hand over his mouth and shook his head. My God, she realized, he couldn’t speak. But at least he could hear her.

Pleading would do no good. Sarah tried to invoke something of Anita O’Rourke’s coolness and competence. Think, she told herself. You’re an actress, goddammit, so act . She couldn’t tackle him herself; he was far too strong. Her best bet was still to play for time. Just stay alive.

He relaxed his grip on her right hand. Not completely at first, but enough to get the circulation flowing again. Then, when he saw she wasn’t going to run away, he let go of both hands completely. He didn’t seem to have a gun or anything, at least no weapon that was immediately visible.

Sarah stood before him and massaged her wrists, the water lapping around her bare feet. What could she do? Run? No, he was powerful and would soon catch her. He wanted to kill her, but how? Walking out into the sea together, or some such sentimental love-sacrifice? He wouldn’t see that as hurting her. People said drowning in salt water was like going to sleep. But how did they know? Sarah had always wondered.

Again, she remembered the letter. He didn’t like to cause pain. But he had killed Jack. Knocked him out with a hammer and stabbed him. And he had stabbed Stuart. Even so, she could already sense that he was sorry he had grasped her wrists so tightly. Could she play on his sympathy?

Between waves, she could hear loud rock music from one of the houses and cars roaring by on the Coast Highway. So near.

His eyes locked with hers and he seemed to be drinking in her presence, inhaling her nearness. She realized in that moment that no amount of pleading or playing on sympathy could delay the consummation for much longer. He had one purpose and one purpose only: their eternal union through death.

Sarah thought she could hear sirens in the distance. Were they for her? Was she hearing things?

Then he reached in his pocket and took something out. His arm moved quickly by the side of his head. Sarah thought she saw something flash in the moonlight. Was that whirring sound coming closer really a helicopter? Was it coming to save her?

He handed her something. It felt like a mixture of hard calamari and soft tomato. She held her palm open in the moonlight and looked. It was an ear. His ear, cartilage and lobe. She dropped it on the wet sand, screamed and stumbled backward. Then she saw him pointing the knife toward her.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist again, the blade in his other hand coming closer. But instead of stabbing her or cutting her, he handed the knife to her, wrapped her fingers around it and stood before her.

My God, she knew what he wanted now. He wanted her to do the same, to cement their love by parting with a limb. A token.

The sirens were getting closer. She could hear cars screech to a halt by the nearest access point. And the helicopter was flying low, shining a cone of light over the beach about a mile to the south.

Still he just stood there, hands out, waiting for her to prove her love with a token of her flesh. She felt violated by his thoughts and desires; somehow, they seemed to have insinuated themselves into her consciousness.