For an instant Owen makes no move, only listens, teasing apart the sounds that reach him. The lyrics of the song ‘Suzanne’, the backing chords of the guitar, the husky sigh of the leaking taps, the murmur of traffic.
‘Naomi?’ Intending not to startle her, his tone is deliberately soft. ‘Naomi? It’s Owen.’ Her bedroom door is closed. He knocks softly. ‘Naomi?’ He tries the handle with gentle pressure and finds it locked. In his room the contents of the wardrobe and drawers lie ripped and scattered over the bed and floor. The cardboard boxes of stock for the market have been torn open and gilt key-rings, costume jewellery, bags and purses litter the floor. Now he becomes aware of another noise, louder than the rest, the pounding of his own heart. But his framed photograph is where he left it and he retrieves it. He leaves his room, and parts the bead curtain before stepping through it. Cupboards have been emptied in the galley kitchen, but the lounge is relatively unscathed. Cushions lie on the floor, along with a couple of ashtrays spilling over with cigarette stubs. There is a vase of dead browning carnations in murky water on the small dining table. The record is going round and round on its turntable, the whine of the song emitting from the record player’s built-in speaker.
Behind him the beads clatter. A shriek rends the air. Owen wheels round as Naomi launches herself at him. She clutches a carving knife, stabbing frenziedly. Instinctively his hands shoot up, palms outwards in self-defence. The framed photograph crashes to the floor. Arms flaying, he knocks the vase, sending it flying. It shatters. Shrivelled flowers scatter. Slimy water puddles over the photograph of the snowman. Light jewels it. The flash of a face contorted with malice comes at him. A smear of heavy make-up. The blur of a flowered smock. The knife thrusting. He feels the blade slash. The soft flesh of his hand bursts open. He grabs her wrist, tries to turn the weapon away from him. His grasp slips on his own blood. Her strength is staggering. They arm wrestle, knocking the lava lamp over, the telephone. His shoes and her bare feet trample the shards of the glass. His heart is pumping, the tip of the knife only inches from it. He knows he is about to die.
An arm sweeps aside the bead curtain. Catherine screams . . . Naomi’s head snaps round . . . Owen twists her wrist . . . the angle of the blade shifts . . . he skids on the wet slick . . . Naomi’s head snaps round . . . he skids on the wet slick . . . Owen twists her wrist . . . the angle of the blade shifts . . . Catherine screams . . . they fall in an elegant arc. The knife roots in her soft belly. Naomi gives a breathy grunt. Time stops.
There is an indeterminate interval. Then Catherine’s face swims above Owen, the red hair dangling down. Did a strand of it touch his face? He thinks it did. He thinks amid all the other sensations, he can isolate that one. The tickle of her red hair. He feels the warm blood pumping between the sandwich of his body and Naomi’s. He is not sure if he is dying, not sure which of them the knife has skewered. Catherine is calling his name. Then she is gone and he can hear her reeling off an address. It is the address of a flat in Covent Garden. It is where he has been living with Naomi and Sean all this long, hot summer. He inhales the chalky taint of powdery make-up. Naomi’s eyelids, half open, waver. Her lips are parted, bluish and dry as asbestos. Her pallor is lead-white. Her mouth is froth-full of blood.
‘Naomi?’ he says.
She lifts her neck in one final supreme effort of will, her bloodied lips moving against his ear make her faltering reply. ‘Ma . . . Mara.’ As the song finishes, the first fat drops of rain strike the windows.