Brodie didn’t move a muscle – Chan was pressing the blade against his jugular, so it would have been unwise. Beyond the window, the geometry of his failed escape route – rusted, angular twists covered by peeling green paint – curled seductively to earth. Despair washed through him from head to toe. His limbs felt watery, pliable, as though his bones had been replaced by some alternative, sub- standard composite. His right thigh was throbbing dully.
The voice whispered softly in his ear, like a lover’s entreaty. ‘Shall we go back to the showers, Duncan?’
He allowed himself to be led towards the stairwell. But he wasn’t going to let her truss him up again. He’d rather risk all, than that. It was just a question of how and when.
‘Why kill me, Connie?’ His right foot felt for the the first step. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’
The knife pressed harder into his flesh. ‘I don’t like to be crossed, Duncan. I don’t like to be used. And I’m upset about Isaiah. He didn’t deserve an end like that.’
‘What happened?’ They were half-way down the staircase now.
‘An automobile accident. His car was hit by a lorry.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Crazy, incongruous conversation.
‘Why, thank you. Turn left, please.’
There was a door leading to the outside world just before the changing room block. Was it bolted? It had often been left unlocked during the school day to accommodate pupils’ various comings and goings. Only a select few, the prefects, had been allowed to enter by the front portal. This door was a convenient side entrance to the refectory, changing rooms, dormitories. It had been referred to by masters and pupils alike as the ‘common door’.
But was it locked? And if so, would it resist a determined shoulder?
It wasn’t just a chance; it was his only chance. Beyond the common door lay the showers, and he wasn’t going to let that happen.
Just a few more steps.
‘You have alternatives, Connie. You can stop all this. There are people who can help you.’
The knife dug savagely into his neck. ‘Help? There is no one to help me. There never was. I learned that very early in life, Duncan, so don’t talk to me about help.’
They were almost level with the common door. It was now or never.
He jerked his elbow back into Chan’s body, ducked his head forward to escape the knife, fell against the common door with all his weight. It stayed put, secure in its frame.
Try the handle you idiot …
His hand fumbled for the knob, turned it, pushed.
The common door flew open, and he threw himself through. He felt the knife graze his back, a sudden, shocking burning sensation. Then he was running towards the car.
Oh God, she still has the keys…
He was running, but his legs were struggling to cooperate. Here was the blind corner where one of the boys had almost been run over by a master’s car as he chased a friend to the rugby field. The wooden sign was still there, faded now:
NO RUNNING!
Hysteria welled in his throat. Where could he go?
Wait. There was someone by the car. Who…?
Brodie didn’t care. Another human being had entered his nightmare. They would help. Of course they would. He flung himself forward, Chan’s banshee-like screams ringing in his ears, lost his footing, fell spreadeagled at the feet of the new arrival.
Charlie saw immediately that the man was injured. His trousers were bloodstained, as was his shirt collar. But the man, presumably Duncan Brodie, wasn’t her priority, not right now. Her priority was the woman with the knife – no, two knives, one in each hand. They were all Charlie had eyes for, those two silver blades, moving this way and that as the woman assessed the new situation, decided on her best angle of attack.
Charlie heard herself tell the man that it was OK. Everything would be all right. Time seemed to slow and her mind filled with images of the break in at her apartment, not long after she’d arrived in her new post at Thames Valley – the assassin lying in wait, the cosh she’d only narrowly escaped from, the trail of blood as the would-be killer was impaled on the glass shards of her front door.
The last time.
And now, here she was again, facing a murderer.
Chan feinted right, went left. Charlie read it correctly, sucked her tummy in as the blade whickered through the air, glided harmlessly past. A miss.
‘Stop. I’m a police officer.’ Charlie held up both hands, the time-honoured signal of non-provocation.
Chan’s eyes flickered with – what? Excitement? Anticipation? Yes… definitely, she was getting a buzz out of this. She was moving gracefully from side to side, probing Charlie’s defences, waiting, watching. There was something of the martial arts in the woman’s movements, small as she was. Somewhere on the periphery of Charlie’s subconscious she heard Duncan Brodie moan in pain. It was a fleeting distraction, but Charlie saw Chan’s eyes dart to her original prey, just for a micro-second. It was enough. Charlie went in with her fists, dodged the left-hand knife, felt a sudden sting as the second grazed her shoulder, felt her fist strike Chan’s cheek with a slapping crunch.
Chan’s chin jerked up and Charlie followed her assault with an attempted uppercut, but Chan was too fast – she jerked her head back, slid out of reach and Charlie’s fist swept harmlessly through clean air. She ducked, anticipating the descending blades, allowed her initial impetus to carry her out of harm’s way.
Chan was still off-balance and Charlie charged at the woman’s midriff, using all her weight. They fell together, Charlie grabbing the sinewy arms tightly at both elbow joints to prevent Chan gaining an angle of attack. Something fell to the tarmac with a clink. A knife? No, a set of car keys. Was Brodie in a position to act on instructions? Chan was wriggling in Charlie’s vicelike grip, cursing, spitting.
‘Get the keys!’ Charlie yelled at Brodie. ‘Get in the car!’
She heard Brodie scrabbling about on the ground but Chan had grabbed her left ear in her teeth, was biting down hard. Charlie gasped. She used her only available weapon, her skull, flicked her head to the left, felt Chan’s cheekbone crack at the impact. She let go of Charlie’s ear with a howl. Charlie released Chan’s elbows, rolled away, got to her haunches.
The Lexus’ lights beeped on. Brodie was pulling at the door handle. Chan shrieked, lunged at him. Charlie tackled her but Chan’s arm came down and Charlie felt the knife enter her shoulder like a hot needle. She fell to her knees. Her arm wouldn’t obey her, it was getting number by the second. She felt a wave of nausea wash over her.
Brodie had made it into the car, closed the door behind him. Chan was attacking the passenger side window like a berserker, using both knives and hammering into the glass with repeated blows. Charlie’s vision blurred. Somewhere in the distance she heard a repetitive thrumming, maybe her own heartbeat, maybe the blood pounding in her temple…
She had to stop Chan, protect Brodie. She crawled forward, reached out with her good arm, heard the Lexus’ engine purr efficiently into life and then die abruptly as Chan crashed through the passenger window. Charlie lifted her arm, the wrong one. The pain made her gag, her head spin.
The lights went out.