by Angela Dyson
I took a furtive glance to my left. The mop and bucket were still leaning against the open larder and next to that was the door to the garden. Could I fight him off sufficiently to give me time to get to it and to make my escape? The garden was walled and fenced, but I could at least scream and make one hell of a noise. Surely someone would hear me? My eyes fixed upon the key in the latch, but I now felt sure that I hadn’t unlocked it. With a sinking heart I knew that he’d be on me before I could even make a move. And for the first time in my life I fully understood what it was to be truly afraid.
Through the upper glazed section of the door I could see that the rain had become torrential. The trailing creepers of a clematis plant that clambered up and over the lintel were agitated by an angry squall of wind, so that they beat like phantom fingers against the glass. The stabs of lightening were much closer now. But it was in the sudden explosive retort of a great crash of thunder sounding so close that it must have been almost overhead, that a suggestion whispered and I felt the first mutinous stirrings of defiance. A renewal of hope presented itself. I was a woman wasn’t I? So, why not use what I had.
I rallied and retrenched. I had one chance. In his contempt for what he had believed to be my powerlessness, Simon had committed the cardinal error that the combatant so often makes in the face of impending victory. He’d underestimated the enemy. The quarry was in his sights and was to his mind too defeated in spirit to put up any more of a fight and so I’d been written off.
Well the bastard wasn’t as in control as he thought. He might be bigger and stronger than me, but brute force doesn’t always overmaster the driving instinct of survival. I am your match Simon Napier, I thought. You may well see yourself as the cat toying with the mouse before tearing it to shreds, but you’d better look out you fucker because this mouse bites back.
And so instead of twisting away, I forced myself to remain where I stood allowing him to come closer, the sham of a hesitant smile preying invitingly across my lips.
For a moment this change of tack threw him and he halted in surprise, then the overmastering egoism that was his chief characteristic regained its hold and he asked with a self-satisfied smirk, “Hmm, changed your mind have you?” There was a kind of smugness to the set of his mouth and he could afford now to be gracious. “I thought you’d come around in the end – knew you’d see sense.”
He was only a foot away. I looked up at him but all the time I was conscious of the blaze of heat on my back from the grill. Simon still didn’t seem to be aware of it. And I was determined that he shouldn’t. It was vital that I kept his attention fully on me.
“Well Simon,” I said softly and looking squarely into his eyes added, “It’s just that you took me by surprise.”
It was enough. With another step he was directly in front of me, his body pressing against mine. I could smell the tang of his sweat as he leaned in and put his hands on my shoulders jamming me up hard against the oven. With a butting motion of his head he then brought his face in close and his mouth down on to mine. I could taste the wine on his breath and feel his hard-on as he rammed his pelvis against my hips.
The intimacy was obscene to me, but in simulated passion I curved my body into his and brought my left arm up to caress his back. But slowly I inched my right arm up behind me feeling my way for the grill pan. His hands were at my neck and starting to move down to my breasts. I felt a sob of fear and disgust rise in my throat, but I forced it down as my hand continued to grope up and over the controls of the oven. He was pulling at the halter-neck tie of my dress, his tongue pressing hard against my teeth, as at last I got a tight grip on the handle.
I needed air. I felt I was suffocating and drowning in panic. I had never struck a blow in my life and I prayed for courage. It was now or never. Drawing my mouth away from his, I murmured, “Hang on. Wait a bit. Let me get more comfortable.”
He grunted and relaxed his hold on me giving me the chance I needed and allowing me enough space to bring up my right arm and grab the handle of the now red-hot grill pan behind me.
“What the fuck?” Simon spluttered.
“Take that you bastard!” I screamed and then harnessing all of my strength I batted him full in the chest with the pan. The blow pushed him back against the kitchen table, which shifted against his weight causing the empty Merlot bottle to teeter ominously for a moment and then crash noisily to the floor.
Instinctively Simon had put up his hands to fend off the attack and then yelled out as his fingers clasped around the scorching hot pan. Instantly, he released it and it started to fall between our two bodies.
Prepared for this I hastily jumped back, but he, dazed and stupid with surprise, wasn’t quick enough. As it descended, the scalding cast iron pan hit him full on the crotch.
“I couldn’t have hit you in a better place Simon!” I shrieked.
His knees buckled and howling in pain he clasped at his genitals, but I wasn’t going to be offering a cold compress and a sterile bandage. I struck out, side stepping the mop and bucket and made for the back door. I reached it and found that it was locked. My hands fumbled clumsily with the key but they were sweaty and I couldn’t get it to turn.
In panic I risked a look over my shoulder and saw that Simon, still bellowing, was now lurching towards me. Frantically I worked at the lock but he was nearly upon me and I’d run out of time. I whirled around to face him looking desperately this way and that for something to defend myself with. But there was nothing to hand, nothing I could use as a weapon.
My eyes lit upon the mop. I grabbed hold of it just as Simon reached me and like some free-styling matador, I struck out at him with as much force as I could muster, jabbing him hard in the stomach. It barely checked him. He gasped, still in obvious pain, and then recovered himself almost immediately and charged forward to get at me. But he hadn’t reckoned with the bucket. He hadn’t seen it, hadn’t known it was there, so he tripped, lost his footing, and pitched violently forward. The momentum of his descent brought him cannoning into me with a glancing blow to my shoulder but nothing could break his fall.
The bucket knocked over by the impact had shed its contents of scummy water and now rolled futilely against Simon’s feet as he lay sprawled face down upon the floor. Winded, I scrambled to right myself, vaulted over him, and hurtled towards the hallway.
It was going to be all right, I was going to get away. I would run out into the night, would bang on my neighbour’s door, and call the police and… But instead I did none of these things. Something prevented me.
Whether it was a feeling of culpability in that if I hadn’t interfered with Simon’s affairs I would never have found myself in this position, or an element of wounded pride that I couldn’t handle this myself, I had no idea. Whatever it was it halted me in my tracks. All I knew was that I wasn’t done here yet.
I walked back towards Simon who was now in the process of easing himself up to his knees. His breath came in ragged grunts and gasps.
“You bitch,” he spat and started to pull himself upright just as an almighty clap of thunder booming directly overhead startled us both.
And it was then, acting purely on the instinct of the moment that I picked up a heavy bottomed saucepan from the top of the stove and without hesitation, stepped forward, and brought it down hard upon his head. With a whimper he slowly slumped back down to the floor. And in the crackle and fizz of the lightening streak that then flashed and flared through the kitchen in an unearthly radiance, I looked down at his prostrate body. The enemy had been vanquished. The cat had got his comeuppance. He’d thought himself the hunter, but what he hadn’t bargained for was contending with a woman who hadn’t eaten a square meal in twenty-four hours. I get mean when I’m hungry.
Without further thought I grasped hold of his ankles and alternately pushing and dragging him, succeeded at last in heaving the unconscious Mr. Simon Napier, manager of Dunstan Stead
estate agents, into my walk-in larder. Wincing a little from the wrench to my shoulder I shut and bolted the door. And then leaning back against it and dusting off my hands I heaved a great sigh of satisfaction. Now I was done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There was only one person I could think of turning to. Flan. She answered the phone on the third ring.
“Flan it’s me. Bit of an emergency here. Can you come over? I mean now.”
If she was surprised at the request and by the fact that I was phoning so late, she didn’t express it or shower me with questions. She merely answered smoothly, “Certainly darling. And I’ve got company. We’re on our way.”
“Thanks. I can’t really explain over the phone but…”
Suddenly there was a sound of banging from the kitchen. Somebody was coming to.
“Please hurry. It’s important.”
With a click Flan rang off.
I couldn’t face the kitchen. The door to the larder was solid wood and although I thought it unlikely that Simon would be able to kick through it, nevertheless the muffled thumps, thuds, and curses were unnerving. I paced about in the hallway and then as a precaution, opened the front door wide ready to make a quick getaway if it should prove necessary.
The rain had stopped and the wind had eased. The storm had either passed on to inflict its tantrums on someplace else or had blown itself out in a fit of pique.
A car drew up and a minute later Flan came hurrying up the path with Mr. H. two paces behind her. She was looking fully alert and dressed in navy trousers and a cream sweater, and although the rest of her face was bare of make-up she had applied lipstick.
“Darling what is it? What’s happened?”
“Well,” I explained breathlessly still on the doormat. “I’ve caught a cat and it’s in the kitchen. Because you see mice sometimes do turn. Or is that a worm? Anyway doesn’t matter.” My previous calm had abated and I was jangling with a manic energy.
Flan and Mr. H. exchanged a look before she said tranquilly, “Clarry you don’t have a cat.”
I laughed in what I hoped was a reassuring way but it came out more as a cackle. “No it’s alright. I haven’t completely lost my mind. It’s Simon. He turned up here and well he attacked me.” I felt the sudden sting of tears. Angrily I dashed them away explaining, “I managed to fight him off. And then I smashed him over the head with a saucepan and locked him in the larder. But now he’s waking up. So at least I haven’t killed him. Which is a good thing I suppose,” I trailed off.
Flan put a comforting arm through mine and turning to Mr. H. who had been hovering anxiously during my outburst, said, “George perhaps we should investigate?”
“Righto my dear.” Mr. H. may be seventy-two years old, a little barrel-chested and with dodgy knees, but there was something in the resolute set of his shoulders and the look of quiet determination in his faded blue eyes that was instantly cheering. “In we go then,” he said. “In we go.”
The crashes from the larder were louder now. Flan took in the wrecked kitchen: The table pushed off-centre, broken glass underfoot, and dirty water pooled over the lino. The grill was still on and the room was hot. Carefully picking her way across the debris she turned off the grill and then she unlocked and opened the back door, allowing in a draught of clematis-scented air. Turning to Mr. H. she asked, “Shall we?”
He nodded and made his way to the larder. The volley of abuse had reached a crescendo as Simon picked up on the sound of voices. He was yelling and kicking in such a paroxysm of indignation and rage that for the first time I was struck by how ludicrous this all was. I fought to suppress a spurt of nervous laughter and I could see by the look of droll enquiry on Flan’s face that she had also picked up on the absurdity of the situation.
She and I maintained a position at the entrance to the kitchen, whilst Mr. H. took his stance to the left of the larder door. Stretching out his arm he placed his hand on the bolt.
“Ready?” he looked from Flan to me.
“Ready,” said Flan.
“Ready,” I agreed swallowing convulsively, my throat feeling suddenly dry.
He silently slid back the bolt and Simon who had been mid charge as the door swung open, came catapulting out into the light. Swearing horribly he skidded on the wet floor nearly losing his balance. Righting himself he took in the sight of Flan and Mr. H.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded angrily and then not waiting for an answer yelled, “That bitch…” pointing an accusing finger at me. “Almost killed me and then she locked me in the…”
Flan held up a restraining hand and said firmly, “That’ll be quite enough from you young man.”
Simon gulped in surprise and said nothing. His hair was sticking up on end and there was a trickle of blood on his forehead, the sight of which made me feel slightly queasy. I’d done that. I’d drawn blood. Swaying slightly but resisting the desire to sit down, I noticed and was heartened to see that he was limping from the impact of the heavy grill pan upon his testicles. The fingers of his right hand were swollen and red from the heat of the pan. The front of his shirt and trousers were soaked from the dirty water. He was not at all his usual sleek groomed self. And one thing was for sure his yellow silk tie would never be the same again. Serves him right I thought with a jolt of satisfaction. He should have bought drip-dry.
Simon taken aback by Flan’s tone of scornful disapproval broke off in mid rant, looking from one to the other of us to add querulously, “But I’ve been in that fucking cupboard for…”
But it was now Mr. H.’s turn to remonstrate. “And there’ll be no more of that language. There’s no call for it. Especially when there are ladies present.”
Simon opened his mouth to object but seemed unable to find the right words and so stood gaping fish-like at the pair of censorious septuagenarians before him.
“Now,” said Mr. H. assuming command. “I think we had all better sit down.” He moved to the table and made to lift one corner to reinstate it in the centre of the room, when turning to Simon he exclaimed, “Well come on then. What are you waiting for? Give me a hand with this.”
Simon still dazed, and for the moment seemingly docile, obeyed. He glowered at me as I took the seat furthest away from him. It was strange though. I was no longer in the least afraid of him. He was reduced. His moment of dominance had expired. He was just a bewildered and contemptible man. And I despised him.
“Now,” said Flan turning her eyes upon him with haughty distain. “I believe your name is Simon Napier and that you are an estate agent. And I understand from what Clarry has told me that you are guilty of…” and here she enunciated very distinctly, “of some highly questionable practices.”
Simon made to interrupt but she ignored him.
“However, what I don’t in the least understand is what you are doing here, in this house, and in the middle of the night.”
“And neither do I!” declared Mr. H. stoutly.
Simon shifted uneasily in his seat as Flan fixed him with her gimlet gaze.
“I came to talk to her. That’s all,” he protested.
“Funny kind of conversation you’ve been having by the look of this kitchen,” observed Mr. H.
“That may well have been your intention,” continued Flan. “But the fact remains that you committed an act of violence upon a woman. Nothing excuses your behaviour. It is the grossest form of outrage and also the action of a coward.” She gave him a withering look.
Simon blanched.
“Hear hear!” chimed in Mr. H. “You deserve to be horsewhipped and if I had my way you…”
Flan cut across him. “Well?” she demanded imperiously. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
Simon squirmed but had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m sorry about that.” Then looking across at me, “Honestly I am. I don’t know what came over me. I just fel
t so angry that I flipped. I’m about to lose my job.” A note of self-pity crept into his voice as he looked back at Flan. “I’ve worked really hard. I’ve turned that agency around. They weren’t even shifting ten properties a month until I took over and now that’s all gone to waste. All because of her,” he pointed at me, his self-pity swiftly turning to accusation. “She was the one who blew the whole thing.”
“I have to say that you are making yourself intensely disagreeable,” interjected Flan. “After all from what I gather it’s nobody else’s fault but your own. There’s no earthly point in blaming Clarry, or anybody else. You have been found out. Your dishonourable conduct has thankfully come to light. As it inevitably would have done at some time or another with or without Clarry’s… er… endeavours… and so now you must take the consequences.”
“Exactly!” I shouted no longer able to contain my smouldering anger with his blatant self-justification. “You have cheated God knows how many people out of their rightful inheritance and yet you expect us to feel sorry for you? You make me sick!” I slumped back in my chair feeling spent and exhausted.
“I think that what we all need now is some tea,” suggested Mr. H. getting to his feet.
“No don’t you get up Clarry dear,” he said as I started to rise. “Just point me in the right direction. I’ll see to it. I’m quite domesticated you know. I have had to be, as I’ve been on my own for a good few years now.” He shot a look laden with meaning at Flan who pretended not to notice.
I sank back down suddenly aware that a cup of tea was what I wanted more than anything else in the world at that moment. Whilst Mr. H. bustled about with the kettle I noticed that Simon was now staring at Flan with a look of deep mistrust.
