‘Where is he?’ Finbarr Williams mutters, his voice blurry. ‘Where the fuckis he?’
‘Who?’ Eve whispers, backing away.
‘That little fucker Tom.’
‘He’s… They’ve gone away.’
‘So who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m the tenant. I’m?—’
‘Show me.’ He grabs her wrist, holding it so tight that she gasps, and forces her towards the kitchen, where he looks around him balefully. His breath stinks so strongly of alcohol that she turns her head. He drags her to the foot of the stairs and releases her wrist. ‘Gimme your fucking phone.’
She holds it out. He snatches it from her, stuffs it in a pocket, and pushes her towards the stairs. She climbs and hears him lumbering behind her. Mutely, she indicates the three cramped bedrooms and the tiny bathroom. After a few minutes he gives up, kicks Philippa’s door shut, and lurches downstairs again. Silently, Eve follows him.
‘So where are they?’ He sways. ‘Tell me right now, or I give you my word, I will really fucking hurt you.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got a phone number, but?—’
His face seems to sag. Then he draws back his arm, steadies himself, and slaps her face. It’s so hard, and so explosively painful, that she almost passes out. For several seconds she can’t see anything. It’s as if phosphor has ignited in front of her eyes, blinding her.
‘I said…’ He grabs her by the throat with both hands and starts to squeeze. ‘Where. The fuck. Is he?’
She gags, can’t breathe, and starts to shake uncontrollably. There’s a rushing sound in her ears and a sickening darkness at the edge of her vision. Finbarr Williams’s eyes stare into hers, and Eve knows that she’s starting to die. Then there’s a screeching howl, a thump, and Pyewacket is hanging from Williams’s face by his claws. The fingers around Eve’s neck loosen, and she falls to her knees, retching. Through streaming eyes, she sees Williams writhing on the ground, desperately attempting to tear Pye away as the cat rakes bloody furrows across his face.
Eventually, Williams manages to free himself, hurls Pye across the room, and charges at Eve. But this time she’s ready. This time she’s holding Philippa’s ceremonial dagger, and as he lurches towards her, she drives it hard into his belly. He falls on top of her, grunting, his torn face inches from hers, his breath foul, but she holds the dagger’s leather-wrapped hilt in a death grip, drives the blade deeper and deeper inside him, then drags it sideways. Finally, he rolls off her, sighing. He’s on his back now, blood sluicing from his belly, as Eve drags herself to her knees and raises herself up, the knife held double-handed above her head. She stares at him for a moment, is flooded with intense longing for Oxana, and with all of her remaining strength punches the blade through his right eye and into his brain.
37
There’s a tap at Oxana’s cabin door. She ties a towel around herself, opens the door a crack, and sees Inci in a pale-blue cotton dressing gown. The two of them stare at each other for a moment, then Inci quickly steps inside. She steps to the porthole, and peers through it at the night sky.
‘It’s late,’ Oxana says. ‘And I don’t think your hair needs my attention.’
‘No,’ Inci murmurs. ‘But I do.’
She walks back to Oxana and unknots her towel, so that it falls to the ground. Then she lays her hand on Oxana’s bare shoulder, runs it down her arm, takes Oxana’s hand in hers, and places it against her cheek.
‘Where does your boyfriend think you are?’ Oxana asks her.
‘In my cabin. I told him I needed to sleep alone.’
‘Do you often do that?’
‘Often enough to keep him interested.’
‘So if you want him to be interested, what are you doing in here with me?’
Inci runs her thumb along Oxana’s lips, and with her other hand loosens the sash of her own dressing gown, so that the front falls open. ‘Do you always ask this many questions?’
‘I’m curious.’ She takes Inci’s head in her hands and slides her fingers into her hair.
Inci begins a slow descent to her knees, running her mouth from Oxana’s chin to her throat, and from there to the precise mid-point between her breasts. ‘Who are you?’ she whispers.
‘Who do you want me to be?’
‘Ah.’ Inci sighs. With her fingertips, she traces the hard ridges of Oxana’s abdomen, then follows her fingers with her lips. ‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’
The phone in Inci’s dressing gown pocket rings. Once, twice, three times. She butts her forehead frustratedly against Oxana’s belly. The phone continues to ring. ‘Tahir,askim,’ Inci says, pulling it to her ear. ‘What is it? I’m just having a word with, uh… Yes, I’ll come. I’ll come.’