Sam yelped. His eyes went huge. Donovan cupped his free hand over Sam’s mouth and his cheeks billowed from behind Donovan’s gloved palm as he twisted his body and writhed and groaned.
Donovan didn’t release him.
He held Sam’s neck compressed in the crook of his elbow.
Sam moaned louder as Donovan pressed his knee into the base of Sam’s spine, levering him backwards from his hips.
Dread thudded inside me. Donovan’s movements had a rehearsed precision. They suggested a degree of training or expertise. I thought of how he’d restrained me before. I’d experienced for myself his strength and his composure. There was no doubt in my mind that he knew exactly what he was doing.
But his face was sickly and pale. He was sweating prodigiously, his teeth bared in pain.
I started forwards but he told me, ‘Don’t,’ and tilted Sam back even further.
I stopped.
Donovan sucked air through his nostrils. His face was taut and contorted. He contemplated me with a penetrating look.
I noticed that he’d removed his coat and I could see that his jumper was stained red and torn extensively where I’d stabbed him. I couldn’t see the wound itself because he’d packed it with a sterile dressing and a bunched tea towel, held in place by strands of duct tape which he’d passed around his midriff in a rough and ready field dressing.
The spots of blood I’d seen in the kitchen made sense to me now. He hadn’t gone down into the basement. He’d used the first aid kit I’d left on the side instead.
The tea towel had been hanging over the handle of our range cooker. He would have found the duct tape in a drawer of the kitchen island.
His face, neck and gloves were spattered with blood.
Sam’s toes scrabbled for purchase on the waxed floorboards. He reached up and dug his fingers into Donovan’s arm, trying hopelessly to prise his grip free.
I could tell that he couldn’t breathe. His face was already taking on a purplish hue in the bright electric light.
‘Stop this,’ I shrieked.
Donovan squeezed Sam’s throat harder in response. ‘Close the front door.’
I glanced towards it – it was still hanging open – then returned my attention to Sam.
His cheeks bulged. His eyes pleaded with me to comply. His complexion was glossy, the Adam’s apple in his throat protruding sickeningly.
I was afraid to move. Afraid not to.
Everything that mattered to me hung from a thread.
‘Shut the door now or I’ll break his neck.’
Donovan tugged Sam’s head to one side as if to demonstrate. I could see the muscles standing out like cords in Sam’s neck.
‘No,’ I begged.
‘You’ve already had your free pass tonight, Lucy.’ He nodded towards John’s house next door. ‘You don’t get another one.’
Sam stamped his foot repeatedly. He shuddered. His fingers began to twitch.
‘Shut the door.’
I curled my toes in my shoes, craving the wail of the emergency sirens, the spatter of blue lights.
‘The police are coming,’ I said. ‘They’ll be here any second.’
‘Then you’d better lock it as well. Do it now. I mean it. Three seconds or he dies.’
I finally moved.
The floor felt soft and marsh-like under my feet.
When I reached the door, I stifled a whimper as I looked outside.
No sirens.
No lights.
I shut the door, my hand trembling as I reached up and rested my thumb against the snib button on the deadlock.
Blinking tears from my eyes, I slipped it upwards.
—click.