Doors all over the house were closing. I moved around my small chambers. Everything was wrong, everything itched. All offended. I’d rip my own heart out. I must govern myself, I thought. I must think of my trousers. Truth is, I couldn’t bear myself, I hated my trousers. The storm droned on, it wouldn’t let you forget, not for a moment, but must mock, mock, mock all the time, knocking on your head, wrapping upon you. I thought about smashing a window and letting it all come in. Oh, Tummis, Tummis. I’m sorry, so very sorry. He was my Tummis, wasn’t he, mine and poor Ormily’s. How was poor Ormily that night? What to do? What’s ever to be done now? Whoever should I ever be without Tummis to tell me? I remembered Grandmother’s mirror then. I took it out. SO THAT I MAY ALWAYS KNOW WHO I AM.

Thank you, Granny.

I remember now. I hadn’t for a moment. There’s an engine somewhere, firing up. Steam. There’s steam coming out of me.

20

MOORCUS’S THING

Lucy Pennant’s narrative continued

I ran. That great clanking monster turned them all around and I ran. I couldn’t see where I was going, on account of the leathers, and that helmet still atop of me. I crashed into things, was nearly impaled once or twice, fell down stairs, down and down, bruises all over me. But I was still there and breathing and couldn’t hear anyone else about. So I stopped then, I didn’t know how far I had fallen, I didn’t know where I was, but wherever I was it was certain I wasn’t going to get anywhere in leathers and in that helmet. I crawled under a table, a little shelter, and I tugged the damned thing from me. The leathers were cut in a few places and from those cuts I managed to make tears until at last there was a hole and that hole with effort became bigger and bigger and then I could crawl through and I was out of it. Deflated. Nothing inside it any more.

I was in the kitchen, great pans on hooks, so many knives hanging there. I thought of Mrs Groom and her knife then, she’d skin me, that’s what she’d said. Got to get out, I thought, got to keep going out of here, otherwise might just as well lie me down in a roasting pan and call out to them all: ‘Here I am! Tuck in!’ I left my leathers and helmet behind me, it felt somehow right to leave them there: choke on that, I thought, season that. I rushed and panicked on. I heard people coming closer, talking. And these words, ‘This way, Odith, I’d bet on it. Have you the cleaver?’

‘Look at the skin! The skin of it!’