I gazed at her levelly. “Run away,” I said.
There was a smattering of laughter at that, but it died away when I didn't join in.
“I'm serious,” I continued. “Choosing to stand there and fight someone who's got a knife is lunacy. Trust me on this. Unless you're cornered, you turn and you run like hell. That's your best option by far.”
“Yes, but supposing he's in trainers and you're in high heels,” Joy persisted. “You're not going to get very far, are you?”
“True,” I allowed. “OK, I know it isn't always possible to run, which is why we're going to cover knife defences in this class.” I went over to my rucksack and pulled out the fake plastic daggers I used just for this purpose.
I told the class to pair up and handed the daggers round. There was an odd number, and it was Joy who ended up with me. She looked nervous at the prospect. I grinned to reassure her as I handed her the dagger.
“OK, to start off with, let's look at what to do if he's got the knife at your throat.” I positioned us so that she had a hold of the front of my sweatshirt with her left hand, the knife held against the side of my neck with her right. “Come on, Joy, take a firm grip,” I instructed. “Remember, you're trying to kill me here.”
Whoever had killed Susie had got a firm grip on her, all right. A death grip. He'd jammed the knife so hard against her throat that the blade had peeled back the skin, slicing into flesh and muscle, opening up the blood vessels so her strength and her will to fight drizzled away. Had he enjoyed then violating her slowly weakening body? Had it given him an added thrill?
I swallowed as I buttoned down tight on the thought. I showed the class how to twist suddenly away from the weapon, dropping away and down to the side, then striking at the hand that held it. By wrenching the wrist back on itself, you could turn the tables, taking control of the knife hand and using their own blade to shear at the arm that still held you captive.
It was a fairly simple movement, and repetition made it surer. I went through it again a few times, then let them all practise for five minutes or so.
“Remember,” I said, “go for the arm that's holding you. Don't be tempted to stab them anywhere else. You're not out for vengeance here, you're just effecting your escape.”
“If it came down to it, could you actually do it?” Joy asked now, and there was an edge to her question. “Could you actually kill a man who was attacking you?”
I paused, giving it some serious thought. I noticed the rest of the class had hesitated, stopped to listen.
“It depends what you mean,” I said at last. “If you're asking have I got the ability to do so, then I suppose yes, I have. I know where and how to hit somebody to do them serious damage, but that proves nothing. You are all physically capable of ploughing through a bus queue in your car, or holding a cushion over your granny's face, but that doesn't mean you'd actually go through with it.”
There was another twitch of amusement from the others and I grinned at them. I hoped nobody would notice I was side-stepping the question, because I didn't really know the answer.
In the relatively short period I spent in the British army I was never required to get close enough to the enemy to actually shoot at them. I learned to fire handguns, rifles and light sub-machine guns simply as part of the training. I often wondered when I was out on the ranges how I would feel about squeezing the trigger if that cut-out board thirty metres away was a living, breathing person.
When you went to paste the little squares of paper over the holes left by the high velocity rounds in your target, all you found were sets of splintered holes. No blood, no shattered bone or ripped intestines, no screams of the wounded. I avoided finding an answer. That was OK, because the occasion never arose.
And afterwards, when my blood should have been up, when I should have been out looking for violent retribution, I folded like a coward. I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that it was the only sensible course of action. It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that I'd run away.
Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay. They'd threatened me with death, and I'd believed them. Believed them enough not to fight too hard to save myself. I'd always wondered what would have happened if I'd had the skills I now possessed. How far I would have gone to survive.
I shook myself out of it as Joy looked vaguely dissatisfied and I tried a different tack. “The law says you're allowed to use the minimum amount of force necessary,” I said. “Gauging exactly what constitutes minimum force is not an easy one. You just have to use common sense.”
I picked up one of the fake daggers again. “Look at what we've just been learning today,” I said. “When you've got the knife away from your attacker, use it to skewer his hand to the ground – just remember if you're on concrete that doesn't work so well, so take the knife with you.”
More laughs, short, nervous, fading quickly. I waited a beat, then went on. “Do not sink the knife hilt-deep into his jugular vein. I'm afraid that doesn't really constitute minimum force in the eyes of the law, whatever satisfaction it might give you at the time.”
But if it was me – now, today – I considered privately, I might just be tempted. I thought again of the list of dreadful injuries inflicted on Susie Hollins. Oh yes, I'd be tempted to go for it and to hell with the consequences. I looked into Joy's eyes, and saw the same thoughts reflected there.
“OK,” I said, “let's go through that again. Change partners this time so—”
I broke off suddenly. I'd turned as I'd started to speak and a movement at one of the French windows had arrested my eye. The curtains were rarely drawn at Shelseley. I think the faded velvet drapes in the ballroom would have disintegrated if you'd try to release them from their tie-backs, in any case.
As my eye passed over the window I'd just caught the flash of a moving shadow on the other side of the glass. It's amazing the way the human eye works. It only needs a fraction to fill in the missing pieces and put together a complete image.
A man, watching.
I knew I shouldn't have jumped to that conclusion over gender, because I didn't see his face. Not even a pale suggestion, which implied a mask of some sort, but I was working on instinct.
He ducked back out of sight instantly, and I felt a corresponding crunch of fear. Nobody goes lurking round windows with their face covered unless they're up to no good. I remembered the figure Nina claimed to have seen, and I just knew it was the same man.
A few of the others had seen him, too. There was a ripple of fright, anger, at this furtive observer. The first instinct of some of the women was to retreat. Others went straight on the attack.
“Come on!” cried Joy, heading for the door. “If we're quick we can catch him!”
I ran, too. I told myself it was to see that she didn't get herself into trouble, but I was lying. I wanted the bastard who was playing games with Nina, and now with me. I wanted him badly.
We pelted along the hallway and took the front steps in a flying leap, neck and neck. I vaguely remembered that Joy ran half marathons and tried not to disgrace myself. A couple of the others soon fell back.
With the gravel slick under our feet we slithered round the corner of the house, heading for the back garden. There were no exterior lights, and we slowed from necessity, unable to see a clear way forward. I wished I'd stopped to grab a torch. Ailsa kept a couple in their sitting room, in case of power cuts, but I hadn't wanted to let Joy race on ahead. Not alone, at any rate.