terrain, isn’t it, the supernatural? You think we’re dealing with a spirit? An unrested soul?’
‘I never heard of a ghost ejaculating,’ Grace said. ‘Or driving cars. Or tattooing people with power drills. Or turning up in the A&E department of hospital with a hand injury.’
‘Dead men don’t do any of those things either,’ Branson said. ‘Do they?’
‘Not in my experience, no.’
‘So how come we have one who does?’
After some moments Grace replied, ‘Because he’s not dead enough.’
117
Somehow the barricade was still holding, but it wouldn’t for much longer. With every jarring thump on the door it opened a fraction more. The chair had already collapsed and she had taken its place with her own body, her back jammed against the foot of her bed, the frame digging into her spine agonizingly, her legs wedged against the drawers each side of her dressing table.
The dressing table was not sturdily built. It was cracking, its joints slowly giving out. At any moment it was going to shatter like the chair had done. And when that happened, the maniac would be able to push the door a good eighteen inches open.
She could hear the faint ringing of her mobile, downstairs. Eight rings, then it stopped.
Then a faint
A splinter of wood flew off the door and a new, deep coil of terror spiralled through her.
More wood splinters and this time the head of the hammer came right through.
She tried to control her panic-breathing, to stop herself hyperventilating again.
If she moved, she would have just a few seconds before he shoved the door open. If she stayed put, it would only be a few minutes before he had smashed a hole in the door big enough to get his arms through. Or even climb through.
Another loud bang, more wood splintered away and now there was a hole three or four inches across. And she could see one glass lens pressed up against it. The faint shadow of an eye flickering behind it.
She thought for an instant she was going to vomit. Images of people flashed through her mind. Her sister, Charlie, her mother, her father, Roy, people she might never see again.
There was a sharp crack, like a gunshot. For a moment she thought the man had fired a weapon at her. Then she realized, horrified, what it was. The wood on the right-hand bottom drawer of her dressing table had split and her bare foot had gone through. She withdrew it, then jammed it against the next drawer up. That seemed firm, for a moment. Then the whole thing began collapsing.
He was really enjoying himself! It was like opening a particularly challenging tin of sardines. One where you got the lid to lift up just a tiny fraction, so you could see the sardines lying there beneath you, tantalizing you, but you couldn’t yet touch or taste them. Though you knew in a few minutes that you would!
She was feisty! He was staring at her now, her face flushed, eyes bulging, hair all tangled and matted with perspiration. She was going to be great to make love to! Although clearly he was going to have to quieten her down or restrain her first. But not too much.
He took a couple of steps back, then slammed the sole of his shoe, his solid, metal-tipped and heeled workman’s shoe, against the door three times. It yielded a good inch! The most by far for one attempt! Now he was cooking with gas! The lid was peeling! A few more minutes and she would be in his arms!
He licked his lips. He could taste her already.
Not bothering with the hammer any more, he stepped back again and kicked out.
Then he heard the shrill ring of the front-door bell. He saw the change in the bitch’s expression.
He blew her a kiss. Although, of course, she couldn’t see it.
