by Dick Francis
I glanced briefly out of the window. There was still no sign of the police, nor of the arrival of an ambulance.
Julian Trent drew his left leg forward beneath him and slowly began to rise.
It had to be now or never.
I stood up, lifted my arms high over my head and hit him again, bringing the bat down hard and catching him at the base of the skull where the neck joins the head. I hit him with the very end of the bat in order to gain maximum leverage. There was a terrible crunching noise and he went flat down again onto the carpet, and lay still.
I wasn’t certain whether it had been a lethal blow or not, but it would have to be enough. I felt sick.
All the frustration and fear of the past six months had gone into that strike, together with the anger at losing my possessions, the rage I had for him having torn to shreds the photograph of my Angela, the resentment I bore for having to dance to his tune for so long, and the fury at what he had done to my father.
I sat down again calmly on the arm of the sofa.
It was finally over. I had done only what I honestly and instinctively thought had been necessary to meet the threat as I saw it, and I would have to take my chances in court.
I glanced out of the window once more.
At long last, I could see two policemen coming down the driveway.
But now I needed help of a different kind.
I picked up the telephone and called Arthur.
