‘Yes…’
‘So… what should I do?’
‘Right…’ He smiled.
He nodded. ‘Yeah.’
And she was gone.
He kept looking at her. Rani was alone now. The blonde bitch had got up, gone into the kitchen for another bottle of wine. Rani looked up. Right at him.
His heart jumped, he pulled a breath quickly into his body. Smiled at her.
‘For you…’
Stretched his fingers out. He could feel her, stroked her.
‘Soon,’ he said to her. ‘Soon, it’ll just be you and me…’
31
Zoe couldn’t sleep.
There should have been no problem, given the amount of wine she and Suzanne had put away. Not to mention the stress of the day. And if there was an intruder, the huge kitchen knife she’d placed under her side of the bed would offer plenty of protection. So she had expected to just drop straight off. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t.
Suzanne, lying next to her in bed, was spark out, but that may have been a combination of wine, exhaustion and sleeping pills. For Suzanne every little creak and groan from the old house, every car or lorry that went past the window was an intruder.
They should never have stayed. She knew that. As soon as they found that disgusting thing in the fridge they should have upped and left. Zoe should have insisted. But no, she had given in to Suzanne who didn’t want to be driven out of her own home. So they had stayed, tried to be comfort for one another, draw strength. And now, in what must have been the middle of the night, it seemed like a very stupid idea.
And, to make matters worse, she was hungry.
Another car went past, another jump and involuntary tug on the duvet. Another sigh, once it had gone.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Zoe.
Zoe had made a decision. She wasn’t going to be scared any more. There was no one else in the flat but herself and Suzanne. She had checked, double-checked and rechecked the locks on the doors and windows. No way anyone could get through them. At least, not without making a hell of a racket in doing so. So they were alone. They were safe.
And she was still hungry.
She flung the duvet back, got out of bed. Her head spinning slightly from the wine. Suzanne didn’t wake, didn’t even move.
She padded to the kitchen, checked her watch as she went. Just after three a.m. What was that quote? Something about in the real dark night of the soul it’s always three a.m.? Was that it? And who said it? Scott Fitzgerald, wasn’t it? Well, she thought, looking round the kitchen, seeing yellow sodium streaks of street light and shadow snaking round the window blind, he had a point.
She crossed to the fridge, opened it, glad of the unapologetically bright light that shone out, looked inside. Suzanne didn’t have much. Cheese, milk, some leftover pasta, a bit of salad. A couple of bottles of white wine. Cheese gives you nightmares, she thought. She doubted that. You had to be asleep to have nightmares. That would do her.
Taking out a lump of cheddar, she stood up, closed the door, turned.
And stopped dead.
Was that a shadow flitting across the doorway? Someone moving in the hall?
Her heart tripped. ‘Suzanne?’
No response.
Zoe looked round. It was impossible. She had locked the doors and windows, checked and double-checked them. No one could have got in. She would have heard them.
She stood still. Listened.
Nothing.
Must have been a trick of the light. Seeing things out of the corner of her eye. Her imagination working overtime. Yes. That’s what it was.
But still…
The knife. She had left it in the bedroom. It was the only sharp thing in the kitchen, Suzanne being domestically useless. She should get it, just in case. She would feel safer with it in her hand.
The cheese forgotten, she put her head slowly round the kitchen door, checked both ways up and down the hall. Nothing. She hurried across to the bedroom. Suzanne was still lying there, sound asleep, mouth open, snoring slightly.
Zoe knelt down at the side of the bed, felt for the knife.
It was gone.
Her heart hammered once more.
The rational side of her brain kicked in. She must have pushed it underneath, knocked it with her foot, sent it further in than she had realised. She felt around, arm extended as far as she could.
Nothing.
Quickly, she straightened up. Thought of waking Suzanne, decided against it. She was too out of it. Instead, she ran across the hall to the kitchen, pulled out drawers, frantically searched for another knife, anything she could use as a weapon.
Nothing.
Then, a noise. From behind her. Zoe turned.
A figure moved forwards. Big, dark, like a living shadow had detached itself from the corner of the room and come to life. It seemed to flow towards her.
Zoe didn’t have time to cry out, to scream.
She barely had time to feel the knife – the missing knife from underneath the bed – slice quickly across her throat, push into her neck.
She knocked the lump of cheese from the worktop to the floor as her hand went to her throat.
Thoughts spat, rapid fire, through her head.
She fell to her knees, her hands feeling hot and wet at her throat.
She saw the shadow flow out of the room, head towards Suzanne’s bedroom. She tried to call out but no sound would leave her lips, just more hot redness.
Darkness began to grow before Zoe’s eyes, a darkness more than night, untouched by streetlights or shadows.
Then her eyes closed and she felt hungry and sad and anxious.
And scared.
