If he had not been perfectly certain of his own sanity, certain to a degree that normally is only found in people who have concluded that they're definitely Julius Caesar and have been sent to save the world, he might have thought that he was going mad. First he saw a blonde woman who claimed to be a duppy, and now he heard voices. Well, he heard one voice anyway. Rosie's.
She was saying, "I dunno. I thought it would be a holiday, but seeing those kids, without anything, it breaks your heart. There's so much they need." And then, while Spider was trying to assess the significance of this, she said, "I wonder how much longer she's going to be in the bath. Good thing you've got plenty of hot water here."
Spider wondered if Rosie's words were meant to be important, whether they held the key to escaping from his predicament. He doubted it. Still, he listened harder, wondering whether the wind would carry any more words between the worlds. Apart from the crash of the waves on breakers behind and far below him, he heard nothing, only silence. But a specific kind of silence. There are, as Fat Charlie once imagined, many kinds of silences. Graves have their own silence, space has its silence, mountaintops have theirs. This was a hunting silence. It was a stalking silence. In this silence something moved on velvet-soft pads, with muscles like steel springs coiled beneath soft fur; something the color of shadows in the long grass; something that would ensure that you heard nothing it did not wish you to hear. It was a silence that was moving from side to side in front of him, slowly and relentlessly, and with every arc it was getting closer.
Spider heard that in the silence, and the hairs on the back of his neck stiffened. He spat blood onto the dust by his face, and he waited.
In his house on the cliff top, Grahame Coats paced back and forth. He walked from his bedroom to the study, then down the stairs to the kitchen and back up to the library and from there back to his bedroom again. He was angry with himself: how could he have been so stupid as to assume that Rosie's visit was a coincidence?
He had realized it when the buzzer had sounded and he had looked into the closed-circuit TV screen at Fat Charlie's inane face. There was no mistaking it. It was a conspiracy.
He had imitated the action of a tiger, and climbed into the car, certain of an easy hit-and-run: if they found a mangled bicycle rider, people would blame it on a minibus. Unfortunately, he had not counted on Fat Charlie's cycling so close to the road's drop-off: Grahame Coats had been unwilling to push his car any closer to the edge of the road, and now he was regretting it. No, Fat Charlie had sent in the women in the meat locker; they were his spies. They had infiltrated Grahame Coats's house. He was lucky that he had tumbled their scheme. He had known there was something wrong about them.
As he thought of the women, he realized that he had not fed them yet. He ought to give them something to eat. And a bucket. They would probably need a bucket after twenty-four hours. Nobody could say that he was an animal.
He had bought a handgun in Williamstown, the previous week. You could buy guns pretty easily on Saint Andrews, it was that sort of island. Most people didn't bother with buying guns though, it was that sort of island too. He took the gun from his bedside drawer and went down to the kitchen. He took a plastic bucket from under the sink, tossed several tomatoes, a raw yam, a half-eaten lump of cheddar cheese, and a carton of orange juice into it. Then, pleased with himself for thinking of it, he fetched a toilet roll.
He went down to the wine cellar. There was no noise from inside the meat locker.
"I've got a gun," he said. "And I'm not afraid to use it. I'm going to open the door now. Please go over to the far wall, turn around, and put your hands against it. I've brought food. Cooperate and you will both be released unharmed. Cooperate and nobody gets hurt. That means," he said, delighted to find himself able to deploy an entire battalion of clichés hitherto off-limits, "no funny business."
He turned on the lights inside the room, then pulled the bolts. The walls of the room were rock and brick. Rusting chains hung from hooks in the ceiling.
They were against the far wall. Rosie looked at the rock. Her mother stared over her shoulder at him like a trapped rat, furious and filled with hate.
Grahame Coats put down the bucket; he did not put down the gun. "Lovely grub," he said. "And, better late than never, a bucket. I see you've been using the corner. There's toilet paper, too. Don't ever say I didn't do anything for you."
"You're going to kill us," said Rosie. "Aren't you?"
"Don't antagonize him, you stupid girl," spat her mother. Then, assuming a smile of sorts, she said, "We're grateful for the food."
"Of course I'm not going to kill you," said Grahame Coats. It was only as he heard the words coming out of his mouth that he admitted to himself that, yes, of course he was going to have to kill them. What other option did he have? "You didn't tell me that Fat Charlie sent you here."
Rosie said, "We came on a cruise ship. This evening we're meant to be in Barbados for the fish fry. Fat Charlie's in England. I don't even think he knows where we've gone. I didn't tell him."
"It doesn't matter what you say," said Grahame Coats. "I've got the gun."
He pushed the door closed and bolted it. Through the door he could hear Rosie's mother saying, "The animal. Why didn't you ask him about the animal?"
"Because you're just imagining it, Mum. I keep telling you. There isn't an animal in here. Anyway, he's nuts. He'd probably just agree with you. He probably sees invisible tigers himself."
Stung by this, Grahame Coats turned off their lights. He pulled out a bottle of red wine and went upstairs, slamming the cellar door behind him.
In the darkness beneath the house, Rosie broke the lump of cheese into four bits and ate one as slowly as she could.
"What did he mean about Fat Charlie?" she asked her mother after the cheese had dissolved in her mouth.
"Your bloody Fat Charlie. I don't want to know about Fat Charlie," said her mother. "He's the reason that we're down here."
"No, we're here because that Coats man is a total nutjob. A nutter with a gun. It's not Fat Charlie's fault." She had tried not to let herself think about Fat Charlie, because thinking about Fat Charlie meant that she inevitably found herself thinking about Spider-
"It's back," said her mother. "The animal is back. I heard it. I can smell it."
"Yes Mum," said Rosie. She sat on the concrete floor of the meat cellar and thought about Spider. She missed him. When Grahame Coats saw reason and let them go, she'd try to locate Spider, she decided. Find out if there was room for a new beginning. She knew it was only a silly daydream, but it was a good dream, and it comforted her.