Thy Fearful Symmetry Read Free Page B

privacy. Curiosity prevented him from staying warm in bed with Heather, and something more, a protectiveness. If Ambrose was in trouble, Clive wanted to be there to help him. Clive wanted to be the man Ambrose could rely on when there was trouble. Perhaps in helping now he would make amends for whatever offence had driven his friend away.
    “Clive,” Heather whispered, “where are you going?” Clive's eyes had adjusted enough to make out his wife's silhouette sitting up in bed. Not too long ago, he would have been worried about her, about what might happen if the trouble next door spilled over. They had been married two years, and Clive knew deep down that there was something wrong in putting Ambrose's safety above hers.  
    Still, he could hardly sit back if their neighbour needed help, could he? The thought settled in his mind, smothering his doubts like a heavy blanket.
    “Don't worry. I'll knock on the door and check that everything's okay. Be right back.” Heather huddled in the bed. For some time now, Clive had been aware that she backed off rather than challenge anything to do with Ambrose. She was a perceptive woman, and no doubt sensed that this area was off limits. Besides, she knew as well as he that, since moving up to Scotland from Birmingham, Clive had made few friends outside of work.  
    “Be careful,” she whispered, and her urgency was not lost on him.
    “Of course.” Pulling on his trousers and t-shirt, he padded towards the bedroom door, fumbling for the handle.
    As his fingers touched the metal, a long, wailing shriek cut through the night. Where the scream that woke him had been full of fury, this was the sound of agony and desperation balled up into one primal howl. Clive froze, barely aware that Heather was out of bed too, her footsteps taking her to the light switch on the wall. When the bulb flashed to life, he saw the clammy shock on her face as she waited for him to take the lead.
    Yet Clive couldn't move. Imagination seized him, and he played through the scenarios that could lead to a scream like that. The cry was Ambrose. Though he wanted to rush next door and burst into the flat, ready to throw himself at an attacker, adrenaline was squirting him in the other direction. Hide , it urged his muscles. Stay away .  
    Heather grabbed his arm. “What should we do?”  
    Another scream, and this time Clive heard stumbling movements to go with it. The second cry rallied him, and he opened the bedroom door. Six months from his thirtieth birthday, Clive was still in good shape, unimposing but far from incapable. He could handle this. “Call the police,” he told his wife.
    “What are you going to do?”
    “Never mind that. Just call them.” Heather rushed for the phone by the living room window as Clive stepped to the front door. Pushing his ear to the wood, he tried to hear what was happening outside, hoping to make out the running footsteps of Ambrose's attacker fleeing the scene. There was nothing, and now he couldn't hear anything from the flat next door either. He stood there, torn, knowing that if he stepped outside now he was going to get badly hurt.  
    Behind him, Heather was on the telephone, stammering over the address. Resting his head against the door, he tried to find the will to move.
    A new clatter arose, three or four sharp, hard thuds, as though a cricket ball had rebounded off several walls. Moments later the cold, cultured voice that did not belong to Ambrose was speaking again. Clive was too far away to make out any words.
    When Ambrose's door slammed open, and somebody fell into the hallway, Clive shrank back. A howl sounded from the flat, full of rage and hate, and this time the words were perfectly clear.
    “Aaaaammmmmmbrooooossssse! I will fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind yoooouuuuu….”
    Relief poured into Clive like warm water, and he slid to the floor as he heard footsteps stagger down the hall. Ambrose had overpowered his attacker and was fleeing the scene. Clive wanted