He saunters out of the living room, humming ‘Shiny Happy People’ as he goes.
When he’s out of sight, Gillian mumbles something, but it’s impossible to know what.
‘I’m sorry.’ Lucy blinks hard to shift the tears that make the room swim. ‘I should’ve...’ What? ‘I’m a police officer, I should’ve been able to stop him.’
Gillian’s hair is drenched where it touches the carpet, hanging limp, darkening as the lager soaks into it. The tin of Stella is lying there, on its side, like they are, mouth open and hollow. Silently screaming.
Maybe...?
Lucy glances over her shoulder at the door. He’s going to be, what, five minutes? Slightly longer if he bothers to wash his hands?
They could make a run for it.
Lucy lowers her voice to a hissing whisper. ‘Get up! We need to get out of here!’
‘Gnnnnn fnnnnnt...’ Gillian shakes her head, good leg shoving at the carpet, the other one flopping uselessly with its distended ruined knee.
OK. So they can’t both make a run for it. But if Lucy gets out, she can raise the alarm. Call the police. Get someone to burst in here, kick the shit out of Neil Black, and rush Gillian to hospital.
All she has to do is get free from this bloody radiator.
No sign of a knife, or scissors: nothing to cut the rope.
But there’s that empty tin of Stella.
Lucy shuffles her way down as far as she can go, stretching out her whole body, reaching for the tin with her toes. Straining towards it until every muscle in her body screams...
Her toes brush the edge of the cold metal, turning it slightly, then a little further, pulling it closer, till it’s near enough to cup with the arch of her foot. Bending her knee and dragging the thing towards her. Twisting and contorting herself till the can’s up at her head. Pushing it towards her hands.
Got it.
One tin of lager.
This has to work. Because they’re both dead if it doesn’t.
Lucy crumples the tin in half, then clacks it back again, scrunching it back and forth, twisting until the metal separates with a squealing creak. Unravelling it, so she’s left with a long curl of razor-sharp metal with a rounded lump — the base and the lid — at each end.
She presses her makeshift blade against the rope between her bruised wrists and saws.
‘Come on, come on, come on...’ Pressing harder, gritting her teeth as the tin slips with every other shove, slicing thin bloody ribbons into her forearm.
COME ON, YOU BASTARD!
It’s working: hacking away, slowly, through the unravelling rope.
Warm red dribbles run down her lacerated skin and drip into the filthy carpet.
She saws and saws and saws—
From the bathroom overhead comes the sound of a toilet flushing.
— and saws and saws and saws.
Then finally the last strands give way and she’s free.
It worked.
Jesus Christ, it worked.
Lucy scrambles to her knees.
Gillian gazes up at her, tears streaming down her battered face. ‘Pllllssss, dnnnt leeeeee mmmmm!’
‘I’ll get help. I promise!’ Scrambling for the open living-room door.
‘Dnnnt leeeeee mmmmm!’
Out into the hall.
Footsteps thump on the landing upstairs.
RUN.
Lucy grits her teeth and runs for the front door. No key, no key, no key...
There — Gillian’s purse on the little table.
The contents spill and clatter out onto the tiled floor. WHERE’S THE SODDING KEY?
She drops to her hands and knees, bloody fingers skittering through the bits and bobs till she finds a little bunch of keys. Lucy snatches them up. One has a red fob with the word ‘HOME’ on it.
‘WHERE THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?’ Those footsteps are hammering down the stairs, now.
Lucy jams the key in the lock, turns it, hauls the door open, and lunges out into the morning rain. ‘SOMEBODY HELP ME! HELP!’
‘No you don’t!’
Her head yanks backwards, razors slashing across her scalp as Neil Black grabs a handful of her hair, his other arm wrapping around Lucy’s throat. Hauling her back inside and kicking the door shut.
‘You stupid BITCH!’ Letting go of her hair to slam a fist into her kidneys. ‘YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH!’ Flinging her against the wall hard enough to send framed photos crashing to the ground.
Lucy’s legs give way, and she falls, landing on the cold tiles, amongst the debris.
‘Oh, you are so dead.’
‘NO!’ She snatches a shard of glass from its broken frame, big as a carving knife. ‘GET AWAY FROM ME!’ Swinging it at him.
‘What, you think someone’s coming to help?’ He kicks her, right in the ribs. He’s not wearing shoes, but it’s still enough to smash her back into the wall again. Sending the glass blade flying to shatter against the skirting board. ‘Think the cavalry’s going to break down the door and rescue you?’ He curls a fist into her hair and drags her back to the living room. ‘No one cares. I could strangle you right out there, in the middle of the street, and the most anyone would do is film it on their sodding phone.’
‘GET OFF ME, YOU BASTARD!’ Legs kicking out, both hands wrapped around his wrist, trying to stop him ripping out a chunk of scalp.
He dumps her next to Gillian. ‘But I’m going to strangle you right here, instead.’ Shoving Lucy over onto her back. ‘You can die knowing your mate’s going to burn, because of you. She’ll still be alive when the flames get her.’ He straddles Lucy, pinning her to the ground, both hands wrapping around her throat. ‘Bye, bitch.’
She pulls at his wrists, jerks her hips up, doing everything they taught her about ‘how to escape being strangled, from a prone position’ at Officer Safety Training... but he’s too big, too heavy, and too into it.
Claws. She rakes at his face with her nails, but he’s just out of reach.
‘You having fun, yet?’ Grinning as he leans his full weight on her throat.
Blood whooooosh-whumps in Lucy’s ears. The pressure growing behind her eyes. No breath. No breath...
That ripped-open can of Stella — it’s lying right there.
The living room dims, as if there’s an eclipse outside, getting darker and darker...
Lucy’s fingers scrabble for the tin, snatching it up, and slashing it across his forearms. The thin metal tugs in her fingers, but nothing seems to happen. Damn thing isn’t as sharp as it—
‘AAAARGH!’ Blood wells up across both of Neil Black’s arms, in a bright-red straight line, left to right, as the skin opens wide. His hands leave her throat, and he stares in horror at the damage, thick waves of scarlet pulsing out of his wounds.
Air screeches back into Lucy’s lungs; throat burning, head pounding.
‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? YOU BITCH!’ Fingers curled and useless.
Maybe she’s severed a couple of tendons? Can’t strangle someone if your hands don’t work.
She gasps in another breath and swings her makeshift blade again — only he’s leaning forwards now, unable to support his weight on his arms, so the tin carves its way across his right cheek, then on through his nose and out the other side.
His scream gets higher pitched as he rears backwards, blood raining down. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
Another slash across his arms and he tumbles off her, trying to get out of the blade’s reach. Crawling towards the door.
Lucy gets to her knees, staring around her: magazines, a couple of romance novels with the spines all creased, an empty wine rack, wilting flowers in a vase. Geode. It’s heavy in her hand, about the size of a large baked potato, cut through to expose the blues and purples sparkling away inside. It’ll do.