She stomped down the hall, calling,'They're your sodding parents, you know. You could help!' No response. Typical. She pushed through into the kitchen/dining room. He was such a useless ... She stopped. Eyes wide. Red. Everything was red. There was red everywhere. The smell of hot copper and sea salt. Raw meat. Something that used to be a man was laid out on the kitchen table. In bits. She could ... she could ... Clunk. The front door closing. Snick . The front door locking. RUN! Vicky didn't look back, just dropped her shopping and charged straight though the kitchen, heels skidding on the blood-slicked linoleum. She grabbed the patio door handle, but it wouldn't budge. Locked. Sodding Marcus! Key in the lock. KEY IN THE LOCK! She turned it and yanked the door open, throwing herself out into the night ... which wasn't dark for long as the back garden security light glared into life. She slipped and fell, sprawling across the wet grass, and for a moment she was looking back into the kitchen. And came within an inch of wetting herself. It was him, the man from the papers: butcher's outfit, Margaret Thatcher mask, knife. Marcus's head was staring back at her from under the table. Vicky scrambled to her feet, grabbed her handbag, and ran. Down the garden, heels sinking into the sodden turf. She wrenched the damn shoes off, leaving them behind. Past the shed. She could hear Him : the Flesher was coming after her. She clambered over the back fence, ripping her jacket as she tumbled down the other side and into a gorse bush, not caring if the thorns tore her skin, just as long as she lived to see tomorrow.
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