His head moved from side to side, his eyes closed, and he gasped: “Can’t breathe.”
She realized that her knees were constricting his lungs, but she did not move to ease him, because she was terrified that he might regain his strength.
He seemed to convulse, and there was a smell of vomit. Liquid trickled from the corners of his mouth. His arms and legs went limp.
Ragna had heard of drunk men passing out and choking to death on their own puke. She realized, in a moment, that if Wigelm were to die now she would get Alain back: no one would say he should be raised by Meganthryth. A momentary wave of hope passed over her. She would have prayed for Wigelm to die, except that such a prayer seemed blasphemous.
Wigelm was not dying. His nose was full of liquid vomit but air was bubbling through it.
Could she kill him?
It would be a sin, and it would be dangerous. She would be a murderess and, although there was no one here to see what she was doing, she might nevertheless be found out somehow.
But she wanted him dead.
She thought of the year in prison, and the repeated rape, and the theft of her child. By forcing his way into her house tonight he had shown that his torture of her would never end, not while he lived. She had taken all she could stand; it had to end here and now.
God forgive me, she thought.
Tentatively, she took her hands away from his arms. He did not move.
She closed his mouth, then placed her left hand over his lips and pressed firmly.
He could still breathe through his nose, just.
She put her right forefinger and thumb either side of his nose and squeezed his nostrils.
Now he could not breathe.
She had not killed him, not yet; there was still time to change her mind, to release her grip. She could roll him over and clear the fluid from his mouth and enable him to breathe. He would probably survive.
Survive to attack her again.
She maintained her hold on his mouth and nose. She waited, watching his face. How long did a man live without air? She had no idea.
He twitched, but he seemed barely conscious, and could not struggle. Ragna remained with her knees in his belly, closing his mouth with one hand and his nose with the other. All his motion ceased.
Was he dead now?
The house was silent. The embers in the fire made no sound, and there was no rustle of small creatures in the rushes on the floor. She listened for footsteps outside but heard none.
Suddenly Wigelm opened his eyes. The shock made her shriek with fear.
He looked with terror at Ragna. He tried to shake his head but she leaned forward, pressing down harder with her two hands, holding him still.
He stared into her eyes, in a half-conscious panic, for a long moment of high tension. He was in fear of his life but he could not move, like a man in a nightmare. “This is how it feels, Wigelm,” she said, her voice taut with loathing. “This is what it’s like to be helpless at the mercy of a killer.”
Suddenly his feeble efforts ceased and his eyes rolled up into his head.
Still Ragna held her grip. Was he really dead? She could hardly believe that the man who had tormented her for so long might have left this world for good.
At last she summoned the courage to release her pressure on his nose and mouth. His face showed no change. She put her hand on his chest and felt no heartbeat.
She had killed him.
“God forgive me,” she prayed.
She found herself shaking uncontrollably. Her hands trembled, her shoulders shuddered, and her thighs felt so weak she wanted to lie down.
