It was then that she rolled on to her back, her eyes opening slightly.
Before she could react, the Scot was upon her, tearing frenziedly at the nightdress, ripping it from her, exposing her breasts. He grabbed one roughly, using his other hand to part her legs. She clawed at his face then attempted to push him off, using all her strength to keep her legs together but he knelt over her and struck her hard across the face. Still dazed from sleep, she was stunned by the blow and her body went momentarily limp. Campbell took his chance and pulled her legs apart, forcing his penis into her.
Melissa screamed in pain and fear and bit at the hand which he damped over her mouth but he seemed undeterred by her feeble assaults and he struck her once more, harder this time. A vicious red mark appeared below her right eye.
With a grunt of triumph he began to thrust within her, using one forearm to hold her down, weighing heavily across
her throat until she began to gasp for air. She flailed at him weakly and he slapped her hands away contemptuously as he speeded up his movements, thrusting harder into her.
With his free hand, Campbell reached for the bedside table and pulled a pencil from the pastic container. The point had been sharpened repeatedly to a needle-like lead tip and he gripped it in one powerful hand.
Melissa, who was already on the point of blacking out now seemed to find renewed strength as she saw him bringing the pencil closer, but the weight on top of her prevented her from squirming away from her father.
He guided the pencil inexorably towards her ear.
She tried to twist her head back and forth but he struck her again and she felt the pressure on her throat ease as he held her head steady.
With fastidious precision, Campbell began to push the needle sharp pencil into her ear, putting more weight behind it as the wooden shaft penetrated deeper.
He felt his daughter’s body buck madly beneath him and her eyes bulged wide as he pushed the pencil further, driving it into the soft grey tissue of her brain, forcing it as far as it would go. Almost a full half of the length had disappeared before she stopped moving but still Campbell forced the object deeper, as if he wished to push it right through her skull, to see the
bloodied point emerge from the other side.
The Scot grunted in satisfaction and continued to pound away at her corpse, a crooked smile of pleasure on his face.
Phillip Campbell awoke with a start, his body bathed in perspiration. He was panting like a carthorse, his heart thudding heavily against his ribs. He looked across at the empty chair opposite him.
‘Melissa,’ he breathed, a note of panic in his voice.
He hauled himself out of his chair and bolted for the stairs, taking them two at a time, stumbling as he reached the landing. He threw open the door of his daughter’s room and looked in.
She was sleeping soundly but, as he stood there, breathless, she murmured something and opened her eyes, blinking myopically at the figure silhouetted in her doorway.
‘Dad?’ she said, puzzlement in her voice. ‘What’s wrong?’
He sucked in a deep, almost painful breath.
‘Nothing,’ he told her.
‘Are you all right?’
The Scot wiped-his forehead with the back of his hand.
‘I must have dozed off in the chair,’ he said, softly. ‘I had a nightmare.’ He dare not tell her about it. ‘Are you OK?’ he added, his voice full of concern.
She nodded.
‘Yes, of course I am.’
Campbell exhaled.
Tm sorry I woke you,’ he croaked, and pulled the door shut behind him.
He walked slowly back across the landing, pausing as he reached the top step.
There was a sticky substance on his underpants, a dark stain on his trousers.
For a moment he thought he’d wet himself.
It took but a second for him to realize that the substance was semen.
How long the phone had been ringing he wasn’t sure but the discordant tone finally woke him and he thrust out a hand to grab the receiver.
‘Hello,’ Blake croaked, rubbing a hand through his hair. He glanced at the alarm clock as he did so.
It was 12.55 a.m.
‘David, it’s me.’
Blake shook his head, trying to dispel some of the dullness from his mind.
‘Sorry, who is it?’ he asked.
Beside him, Kelly stirred and moved closer to him, her body warm and soft.
‘Phillip Campbell,’ the voice said and finally Blake recognised the Scot’s drawl.
‘What do you want, Phil?’ he said, with surprising calm.
“I had a dream … a nightmare. It was so vivid.’
‘What about?’
Campbell told him.
- ‘So now you believe what I’ve been telling you about the subconscious?’
Blake said, almost mockingly.
‘Look, we’ll sort out the contract in a day or two. All right?’
‘That’s fine.’
Blake hung up.
Kelly, by now, was partially awake.
‘What was that, David?’ she purred. Her voice thick with sleep.
He told her of Campbell’s insistence on going ahead with the book.
‘I’m glad he’s decided to publish the book, I wonder why he changed his mind?’
she said.
Blake didn’t speak. He merely kissed her gently on the forehead then lay down again.
Kelly snuggled up against him and he pulled her close.
In no time they had both drifted off to sleep again.
Paris
The full moon was like a huge flare in the cloudy sky, casting a cold white light over the land. The breeze which was developing rapidly into a strong
wind, sent the dark banks scudding across the mottled heavens.
Michel Lasalle stopped the car and switched off the engine, sitting motionless behind the wheel. Despite the chill in the air he was sweating profusely and wiped his palms on his trousers before reaching over onto the back seat where the shovel lay. He pushed open his door and clambered out.
The gates of the cemetary, as he’d expected, were locked but Lasalle was undeterred by this minor inconvenience. He tossed the shovel over the wrought iron framework where it landed with a dull clang. He stood still, looking furtively around him in the” darkness then, satisfied that no one was around, he jumped and managed to get a grip on one of the gates, hauling himself painfully upward until he was in a position to swing over the top.
The impact jarred him as he hit the ground but the Frenchman merely rubbed his calves, picked up the shovel and headed across the darkened cemetery towards the place he knew so well. Trees, stirred by the wind, shook their branches at him, as if warding him off, but Lasalle walked on purposefully, a glazed look in his eye.
The gendarme had heard the strange noise and decided that his imagination was playing tricks on him. But, as he rounded a corner of the high wall which guarded the cemetery, he saw Lasalle’s car parked outside the main gates. The uniformed man quickened his pace, squinting at the vehicle through the gloom in an attempt to catch sight of anyone who might be inside. He moved slowly around the car, tapping on two of the windows, but received no response.
As the moon emerged from behind the clouds he peered through the gates of the graveyard.
