Not Dead Enough

She swung it at him, hurtling the entire contents – several gallons of water and the pieces of miniature Greek architecture – at him. The weight of the water took him by surprise, knocking him back several steps. Then, with all her strength, she threw the tank at him. It struck him in the knees, bowling him over backward like a skittle, with a muffled, angry howl of pain, then shattered on the floor.

Still holding the hammer, somehow, he was already starting to get back on to his feet. Cleo stared around frantically again, trying to work out her options. There were knives in the kitchen. But she would have to pass him to get in there.

Upstairs, she thought. She had a few moments on him. If she could get upstairs, into her bedroom, lock the door. She had the phone in there!

Staggering to his feet, ignoring the excruciating pain, the sound of his breathing echoing all around him as if he were in a diving chamber, he watched, with pure, utter hatred, tinged with a degree of satisfaction, as her bare ankles and feet disappeared up the stairwell.

And a deep stab of lust.

Nothing up there, sweetheart!

He knew every inch of this house. Jangling in his trouser pocket, inside his protective suit, were the keys to the roof door and to the locks of all the triple-glazed windows. Her mobile phone was lying on the sofa next to an open folder containing some project she appeared to be working on.

He was aroused now. She had put up a spirited fight, just like Sophie Harrington, and that had been a very big turn-on. He smiled at the thought of the nights he had slept with Sophie Harrington, when all the time she had thought he was Brian Bishop.

But the biggest turn-on of all was now. The knowledge that in a few minutes he would be making love to Detective Superintendent Grace’s woman.

Evil creature.

You’ll think twice before you ever call anyone an EVIL CREATURE again, Detective Superintendent Grace.

He limped forward, his left shin in particular hurting like hell, knelt and unplugged the phone jack from the cordless base station. As he stood up again, he saw a jagged rip in his left leg, just below his knee, with blood leaking out. Too bad, nothing he could do about that now. Carefully, he placed his foot on the first tread of the stairs. It wasn’t so easy in this gas mask, as he could not see directly down in front of him very well.

In addition his balance didn’t seem to have been too good these past couple of days. He was still feeling feverish, and in spite of the medication he was taking, his hand did not seem to be healing up. It had been a big decision, wearing this. He liked the thought that it would frighten the bitch. But most of all, he liked the idea that a third victim found with a gas mask would make Detective Superintendent Grace look a fool, because it would show he had the wrong man locked up.

He liked that a lot.

In fact, the gas mask had been a masterstroke! He had Brian to thank for that – he had found it by chance in a cupboard beside the Bishops’ bed when he had been looking for toys to entertain Katie with.

It was the only thing in his entire life that he had to thank his brother for.

Cleo slammed her bedroom door shut, hyperventilating. In near blind panic, she grabbed the Victorian wooden chest at the end of her bed, and dragged that over, jamming it against the door. Then she threw herself at her large bed, grabbed it by one leg and tried to pull it. But it would not budge. She tried again. It wasn’t moving. ‘Shit, you bastard, come on!’ Her eyes jumped around the room, looking at what else she could use for a barricade. She dragged across her small, black lacquered wood dressing table, then the chair, which she wiggled into the remaining space between the dressing table and her bed. Not brilliant, but at least it should hold long enough for her to dial Roy, or maybe 999. Yes, 999 first, then Roy.

But as she pressed the button to activate the phone, she let out a whimper of terror. The line was dead.

And the stainless-steel door handle was turning. Slowly. Incredibly slowly. As if she was watching a freeze-frame video inching forward.

Then a loud BLAM-BLAM-BLAM as if he was kicking the door, or hitting it with his hammer. Her stomach curdled in terror. The door was moving, just a fraction. She heard wood splintering, and realized to her horror it was the wooden trunk and the chair from her dressing table that were both, slowly, disintegrating.

In desperation she ran over to the window. She was two storeys up, but it might be possible to jump. Better than being in here. At least out in the courtyard, even injured, she would be safe, she reasoned. Then a shiver rocked her.

The window was locked and the key was missing.

Frantic, she looked for something heavy, ran her eyes over make-up bottles, hairspray, shoes. What? What? Oh, please God, what?

There was a metal reading lamp on her bedside table. Gripping it by the top, she swing the flat, round base at the window. It bounced off.

Down below she saw one of her neighbours, a young man with whom she occasionally exchanged pleasantries, wheeling his bike across the