Free Thorn by Sarah Rayne

simmering hatred of the pampered bitch-creature had boiled over in a huge scalding wave then, burning into Thalia’s mind, etching the idea of retribution and punishment into her heart. Punishment for the whey-faced brat who would grow up in Edmund’s stead, whole and unflawed, and who might one day have Ingram’s, lock, stock and barrel.
    Never! thought Thalia grimly. She would turn the tables on Imogen, and she would turn the tables on the cheating forces who had tricked her so viciously. Edmund
would
come back – he would come back and he would come back whole and beautiful and golden! It was then that she had become aware of something lying serpentlike in the darkest, most secret corners of her mind . . . Something that had been there for a very long time, and that was only now slithering and uncoiling into life. To bring Edmund back . . . That would be the sweetest, most comprehensive revenge of all . . .
    She went stealthily into the large, first-floor bedroom. She had told the family that she would cope with what was in this room on her own and so she would. She would ask for help presently, she said; in the morning she would be very glad indeed of people to help with the burning of sheets and nightclothes. The family had shuddered as one person, and had reminded one another of Thalia’s work on hospital committees; at one time she had even helped in the local Casualty Department – which you now had to call Accident and Emergency – one of several volunteers who helped frightened or bewildered patients to complete forms, or explained about claims for street injuries, or how to find their way to X-ray. She would have seen some extremely unpleasant sights there. Elspeth’s husband, George, put forward the theory that some people were less affected than others by these things. Everyone agreed that it was amazingly brave of Thalia to cope on her own.
    None of them knew that she was not really on her own. When she entered the shadowed room with its smothering stench of blood, Edmund entered it at her side, pointing out what had to be done.
    Thalia threw open the windows, letting in the sweet night air. It was very late; she caught the distant chiming of a church clock. Two a.m. The smallest of the small hours. The time when graveyards yawned and gave forth their wormy dead. When midnight’s arch loomed dark and forbidding over the world, and when you could not be sure that eyes did not peer at you from out of the shadows . . .
    There was no time to waste on imaginings, and no emotion to spare for being squeamish. The room had to be set to rights before breakfast time and what was in it had to be put into the semblance of normality. And it was important to be very quiet and very quick; Imogen was sleeping her drugged sleep along the landing. It was vital not to alert her. She closed the curtains and switched on the main ceiling lights to chase back the shadows, and then went to work.
    She had brought up one of Mrs Scullion’s aprons – it went round her thin figure twice, and it could be burned afterwards if necessary – and two pairs of rubber gloves. It was not particularly difficult to strip the bedclothes and bundle them into a large plastic bin liner for the garden bonfire, and it was no more difficult to remove Royston’s pyjamas and Eloise’s nightgown. She added them to the plastic bag, and then stood looking down at the naked bodies. Royston had become flabby and slightly paunchy of late – that was something the well-cut suits had concealed. Eloise’s neck – treacherous area! – was crêpey and dry and her breasts sagged emptily. A pity John Shilling could not see her like this!
    Edmund was with her as she sponged the blood painstakingly away, fetching warm water from the bathroom, replacing it several times, and finally tipping it down the lavatory. The sponge and flannels and towels could be burned with the rest of the soiled things.
    The