‘Jobs like breaking into lone women’s homes and making them disappear?’
He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘What makes you say something nasty like that?’ Then his tongue darted out and moistened his top lip. ‘You psychiatric types like a bit of drama, don’t you. That’s why you kick off the whole time.’ Stepping closer. ‘You like when things get a bit rough.’
Lucy’s eyes drifted down to Lockerby’s other hand — the one not hidden in his pocket. It was gloved. Not a medical nitrile glove, but black leather.
‘It’s OK.’ Charlie stood up, water cascading off his sodden suit. ‘Come on, Lucy, nice calm breaths. It’ll all be all right. You want help, don’t you?’
Dr Lockerby loomed over the bath, grinning down at her. ‘But that’s all right, because I like it rough too.’
She grabbed the eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich and lunged to her feet, bringing with her a great swathe of water that crashed down on the tiled floor as she raised the bottle high and battered it down onto Lockerby’s head.
He staggered backwards, feet skidding in the soapy water, sending him crashing into the towel rail, then down to the floor, one arm and both legs flailing.
She clambered out of the bath, wielding the whisky like a cudgel.
He got his arm up in time and the bottle hammered down into the wrist, hard enough to send a shock reverberating all the way up to Lucy’s elbow.
Lockerby’s hand sagged at the end of the crumpled joint. ‘You BITCH!’ His other hand flashed out of his pocket, but it was too slow to stop the bottle raining down again. Bouncing off the crown of his head with a resounding clunk. ‘Gmnnnn...’ One eye rolled up in its socket.
One more thump and a sickening crack muffled out into the room. Lockerby keeled over, blood trickling from his nose as he lay there, on his side in the puddle of bathwater, left leg twitching, lips opening and closing like a drowning fish.
A clatter sounded on the landing and Dr Meldrum charged in through the door again, one of Mum’s floral dresses clutched in her leather-gloved hand. ‘What the bloody...’ Eyes wide as she took in the scene. ‘Sandy!’
‘WHO ARE YOU?’ Lucy swung the bottle, but Meldrum jerked backwards, getting just enough distance to let it fizz through the air millimetres from her nose.
Meldrum surged forwards, both fists up and curled, held tight in front of her face like a professional boxer. The first jab was so close it brushed Lucy’s cheek, but the second landed with a resounding clatter, jerking her head sideways.
Another fist smashed into her bare stomach, folding her in two. Then a knee flashed up, catching Lucy on the jaw and jackknifing her back into the side of the bath, setting it ringing like a muted bell as burning nettles scorched their way through her stomach, face, and spine.
Lucy slid down onto the drenched tiles, groaning.
Charlie stared at her over the lip of the bath. ‘What the hell just happened?’
Dr Meldrum took off her right glove, pulled out her phone, and thumbed at the screen for a moment. Holding it to her ear as she knocked the whisky bottle out of Lucy’s numb fingers with the toe of one black boot. ‘Yeah, it’s me... Uh-huh... No: listen. I think she’s killed Lockerby... No, I’m not “joking”! She battered his head in with a whisky bottle... Uh-huh...’
‘Lucy, I don’t think they’re real doctors.’
You don’t sodding say.
Dad’s eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich was almost empty now, its saved-for-special contents glugging out onto the swamped bathroom floor. Five years it’d lived in the sideboard and this was all it got.
‘I’m not kidding, Lucy. You have to get up and do something!’
‘Well, how am I supposed to know? This was meant to be a simple job, and now I’m standing here, up to my ankles in soapy bloody water while—’
Lucy launched herself forwards with a bellowing scream, bare feet squealing on the wet tiles as she sprinted the four paces from the bath to the doorway, slamming into Dr Meldrum.
The phone went flying as they careened across the landing, then a rattling boom filled the air as Meldrum’s back hit the handrail. She bounced, pushing forward, a fist slashing up like a sledgehammer into Lucy’s ribs.
Lucy’s knees buckled, and large, gloved hands grabbed her shoulders.
Next thing, she was sailing through the air, crashing into the door to the spare room and collapsing onto the carpet. Breathing hard, each inhalation rubbing gravel between her ribs.
Charlie hunkered down in front of her. ‘Lucy, you don’t have time for this, you need to run away or she’s going to kill you!’
‘Unngh...’ Lucy struggled onto her hands and knees, crawling to the top of the stairs.
‘Go on then!’ Meldrum grabbed a handful of Lucy’s hair. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’ Yanking her forwards and up, over the top step, sending her tumbling downwards, end over end, steps cracking into Lucy’s back and arms and legs and arms and head and—
Thud: she hit the floor at the bottom. Rolled once, before coming to a jarring halt against the sideboard, knocking over the umbrella stand and the bowl with the keys. Then slumping over to lie, flat on her back, just inside the front door. Gasping for air.
Everything ached. And stung. And throbbed. Skin burning, even though it should be cold down here, stark naked and dripping wet.
Charlie paced back and forth across the tiled hallway floor. ‘Please, Lucy, you have to get up. She’s coming!’
45
Heavy boots thumped down the stairs. Taking their time. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
Lucy’s bare heels squealed across the cold tiles, pushing her backwards, towards the door, hands scrabbling through the fallen walking sticks and keys and brollies.
‘Sandy was an arsehole’ — Meldrum stood over her, scowling down, hands flexing — ‘but he deserved better than—’
Lucy’s right fist punched sideways, each one of the Bedford Rascal’s keys poking out between her knuckles, slamming into the side of Meldrum’s right knee. Hard enough to stab two of them straight through the black fabric of her trousers and deep into the joint.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Both hands clutching the knee as blood and clear fluid welled up through the puncture wounds.
Lucy’s other hand wrapped around the shaft of Dad’s metal walking stick, swinging it to batter off Meldrum’s head.
She collapsed to the hall floor, still trying to protect that ruined knee as Lucy struggled upright and brought the stick down on Meldrum’s back. Shoulders. Legs. Head.
Teeth bared. Spitting out each word as if it was rat poison: ‘YOU — DON’T — COME — INTO — MY — HOUSE!’ The stick smashing down with every word until the so-called ‘doctor’ went limp. Lying there, cheek pressed against the skirting board, eyes closed.
‘Oh, thank... thank... God...’ Lucy staggered over to the sideboard, leaning heavily on the thing, breathing hard, one arm wrapped around her ribs, wincing with every inhale. Then froze. ‘Urgh...’ She lurched into the kitchen and over to the sink, grabbing hold of the taps and holding on as the post-adrenaline slump evicted the contents of her stomach in half a dozen bitter-spattering heaves. Leaving her slumped against the draining board.
A small round of applause clattered out behind her, and when she turned, there was the Bloodsmith — still puffing away on one of Dad’s stinky cigars.
‘You did good, Kiddo. You did good.’ He smiled his wolf smile, nodding towards the kitchen doorway and the unconscious figure in the hall. ‘Now, all we need to do is wait till she wakes up and ask her some questions she’s probably not going to enjoy a great deal.’ A small frown. ‘Your dad does have pliers, doesn’t he?’