by Jo Bannister
And she did.
He was in her bedroom. All right, that was not nice but not the worst. He wasn’t between her and the way out. If she could do it quietly she could let herself into the hall and then outside, and if he heard her footsteps on the gravel it really wouldn’t matter because she’d be going like stink by then. Any of the neighbours would take her and John in until help arrived. If she could just get out of the house.
The risk was that she would make enough noise opening her own front door to alert him. When she’d seen that shapeless shadow on the gravel she’d retreated in here too quickly to shut the outside door, let alone lock it: once in the hall there would be nothing to impede her. But if she could shut both doors behind her as she went she could slow his pursuit significantly. She opened and shut those doors several times each day, she could do it in her sleep, but could she do it when she was being hunted? If she fumbled or made too much noise he’d be on her. She needed to be ready: to plan every move so nothing would delay her from the moment she began her run until she was out on Chiffney Road screaming for help.
Another soft footfall on the bedroom carpet. Closer: he was at the door. Making his own move, coming for her. No more time to plan: if she wasn’t foot-perfect now she’d have to wing it. One good breath to free up her locked limbs and push oxygen out to her muscles, then –
She was on her way. Heedless of the noise now she tore open the door of her flat and slammed it behind her, hearing the latch snap shut. She crossed the tiled hall in a couple of long-legged strides and reached the massive Victorian door, groping as she went for the big brass knocker. She couldn’t find it. She handled the thing every day, how could she not find it? She was blind, not stupid!
An instant before she decided to leave it and run, her shaking fingers stubbed against the lion’s mask, fastened on the ring through his mouth. She tugged the door on its heavy hinges and heard it shut and lock behind her, gaining her valuable seconds. Ahead, with nothing between, lay the safety of the road. The glow of the street-lamps fell on her light-starved eyes like searchlights, dazzling.
Searchlights mounted on a watchtower, five metre walls topped with razor-wire and a shout of “Halt or I release the alligator” wouldn’t have stopped her then. She flew the steps two at a time, touched down on gravel, and dropping into a protective crouch put every ounce of fear and determination into increasing the distance between her and her pursuer.
She’d have done it, too. With a head start and a genuine terror of what was behind her, a whippet on steroids wouldn’t have caught her. But when she swung round the bonnet of the car with one hand on the wing-mirror and the other ready to snatch John out of his seat, she saw what the shadow on the gravel was. It was a man’s body, and there was really only one man it could be.
Time divided. The same seconds both raced, because of the urgency of her situation, the certainty that delay meant disaster, and stretched — dilated – opened like an iris to make room for some oddly coherent thoughts. One was that John might be dead but he might not: there wasn’t enough light or leisure to make sure. One was that he was only here because of the danger to her, and though he’d proved an inept bodyguard, just trying earned him better than to be abandoned in his own need. One was that help was only fifty or sixty metres away, she could rouse the street in a minute and have four or five strong men here in the next. And the last was that two minutes was too long to leave a defenceless man at the mercy of a maniac.
She pulled up beside the car, scattering gravel like hailstones, and spun back to face the house. She crouched over the inert body of the man who had once meant more to her than anything in the world and prepared to face whatever was coming in order to save him further harm. She thought she just might die here. She didn’t feel to have any choice.
The front door opened – not with a bang, not even with much haste, just swung quietly inward on its heavy Victorian hinges – and a man was standing at the top of the steps. She couldn’t see his face. She couldn’t see if he was armed. All she could see was an outline that moved as a man moves, that stood at the top of the steps looking down at her. She couldn’t see the eyes and so could not guess what motive burned in them.
For what seemed an interminable time they remained connected by line-of-sight, as if it had a physical existence, like six metres of fishing-line. Brodie had the oddest conviction that if she moved towards the man on the steps he’d back away to keep the tension on the rod.
Finally he said, “Brodie? Are you all right?”
And she said, “Daniel?”
13
John’s car was comparatively new, Brodie had never driven it. She fumbled along the dashboard. When the lights came on they pinned him to the front of the house like a butterfly on a board. Or something less exotic than a butterfly: a moth perhaps. There was nothing flamboyant about Daniel Hood, unless it was his bright hair. He had a nice smile. Brodie had always thought he had a kind face. But then, she’d always thought he was her friend.
He put a hand up to shield his eyes from the glare. They were pale grey and not strong: Boy Scouts using his glasses to concentrate the sun’s rays could have devastated whole forests. “Brodie? Is that you? What’s going on?”
Spot-lit on top of the steps he loomed bigger than she remembered. As he came forward, still shading his face, he diminished step by step. He was smaller than her, and unless it was the stubborn strength of intellectual pride that occasionally kindled within him there was nothing dangerous about him. Nothing alarming; nothing she had ever felt afraid of. Until now.
Now there was light she risked a fast look down at the man at her feet. He wasn’t moving and there was a wetness in his hair. She looked back at Daniel. Her taut body was bent like a bow over the injured man and her voice throbbed with anger. “You bastard! What have you done?”
Only then did Daniel seem to notice the body on the gravel. He took another step forward, staring. His light eyes quartered Brodie’s face with every appearance of concern. “Who is that? John? Brodie, what’s happened – what’s going on?”
They had known one another for almost a year. She’d seen him in pain, in terror, in tears. He’d seen her tender, abject, joyful, and angry enough to spill blood in defence of those she cared for. He had never seen her afraid of him.
She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. But when he didn’t produce a blunt instrument and set about finishing what he’d started, slowly she straightened up. “I’m going to call an ambulance. And Jack. If you want to leave, now’s a good time.”
He flinched as if she’d clawed his face. He looked at John again and back, disbelieving. “You think I did this?”
She barked a bitter little laugh. “I know I hurt you, Daniel. I always knew there was no way to make amends. But this is … unforgivable. When Jack gets his hands on you …”
She shuddered. It had pained her that the two men she cared about could find no common ground. She’d defended each to the other until she was tired doing it. She’d lost sleep worrying what would happen when they finally clashed over something neither was prepared to yield on. Now she was worried again. But not about what Deacon’s big fists would do to Daniel’s slight frame, only how they might damage his own career.
“Brodie!” Daniel’s voice cracked like a heart breaking.
She made the calls without taking her eyes off him. Then she squared her shoulders. There was no mildness in her eyes or her manner, no dilution of the acid in her tone. “All right, if you’ve got an explanation let’s hear it. Why you were missing all the time someone was terrorising me. Why you didn’t return my messages, let me think you were lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Now I’ve been put out of my home, and when I come back for a few things someone hits John, follows me inside and kills the lights. And when I beat him to the front door, who should come down the steps behind me but you? Only it wasn’t you doing any of that, was it? You’re going to tell me it was all a coincidence.”
“Terrorising you?” Hi
s eyes were full of concern. “Are you hurt?”
“No. But I could have been. And John …” She looked at him, tears pricking her eyes.
“Let me see.” Daniel dropped on one knee beside the injured man.
Brodie’s breast swelled and her fists knotted at her sides. “Don’t you lay a finger on him, do you hear?”
He didn’t look at her. Carefully he eased the unconscious man into the recovery position, half on his side. He parted John’s hair with cautious fingers, revealing a gash above his right ear. He wadded his handkerchief firmly against the wound. Finally he looked up. “Or what?”
In that moment Brodie knew she’d got it wrong. Regardless of how it looked, or how the facts stacked up against him, or the things she could hardly explain any other way. Now he was in front of her, and his eyes were his own, not a stranger’s twisted by hurt and history, Brodie knew that if coincidence was the only explanation he could offer she would believe him.
She let go her pent-up breath in a long unsteady sigh. “I’m sorry. But you can’t imagine what it’s been like this last week. I’ve had my car torched, I’ve had my handbag stolen, and this morning I went to meet … someone … at the library and the lift turned into a cut-price version of Alton Towers. Now this. But I’m sorry. I didn’t want to think it was you. It was only as I got really scared that I started to wonder.”
Daniel’s cheek was chalky in the headlights’ glare. “You’ve moved out? Where are you living? Where’s Marta?” She told him. “Did anyone know you were coming back here?”
“John.” She looked down at him. “But that doesn’t look like a self-inflicted injury.”
“Plus, John would never harm you.”
“I know.”
“Neither would I.”
“Daniel, I know that too.” She reached out a tentative hand to his narrow wrist. It was, she realised with a shock, the first time she’d touched him in two months. “I’ve been so scared I’m not making sense any more. I thought I must have hurt someone terribly to provoke this, and the only one I could think of was you. And I couldn’t find you. If we’d only been able to talk! Then you turn up here. I’m not making excuses. It’s just, my head’s a mess, nothing sensible’s coming out of it. But I’m sorry I hurt you again.”
A tiny smile flickered across his unremarkable face. “We’ll sort it out. Brodie, who did you go to meet at the library?”
“You,” she said simply.
“Ah.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t know who you were talking to, but it wasn’t me.”
“I know,” said Brodie. “It was a message on my machine. I thought it was you because I wanted it to be.”
Help arrived in a chorus of sirens. Deacon’s car beat the ambulance by so narrow a margin he must have been racing it. In an instant the drive was full of people. The paramedics took care of John, who was trying to sit up by now. Not wanting Brodie in the open, Deacon took her back into the house. Daniel followed.
Brodie recounted the sequence of events. Voss went to the fuse-box. The main switch had been tripped: when he thumbed it down again the lights came back on.
Deacon turned to Daniel. “So what are you doing here?”
“Looking for Brodie. I didn’t know she’d moved out.”
“But it wasn’t you tripped the power?”
“Of course not.”
“Was it on or off when you arrived?”
“Off. I tried the light in the hall but nothing happened.”
“The front door was open?” asked Deacon.
“I left it open,” admitted Brodie. “I was only going to be a moment, and John was outside, and both flats have their own doors anyway …” It still sounded pretty stupid.
Deacon scowled at her but forbore to comment. To Daniel he said, “Go on.”
“I knew there was someone home – there was a car outside. But not Brodie’s, so I assumed she was out and Marta had a pupil. I was heading upstairs to ask when Brodie would be back when all hell broke loose. Doors were banging, people were running – I’d no idea what was going on. I came back downstairs — I think I called out – and someone passed me in the hall. I couldn’t see who.”
“Me,” suggested Brodie. “High-tailing it for the front door.”
Daniel shook his head. “Whoever it was went the other way.”
“Other way?” frowned Deacon.
“The back door,” Brodie guessed. “Through the scullery. We don’t really use it. It’s not in either of the flats, and I have a back door off my kitchen.”
“Did you lock it when you shut up the house?”
“I checked that it was locked,” said Brodie. “But it always is.”
“Was the key in it?”
She nodded.
Charlie Voss reappeared from behind the stairs. “Well, it’s open now.”
“So that’s how he got out.” Deacon looked at Daniel. “Can you describe him?”
Daniel gave an apologetic shrug. “It was dark. I wasn’t sure it was a man.”
Brodie listened attentively as Deacon put it together. “Probably he was watching my place when John picked you up. He followed you here and waited till you went into your flat, then he decked John and followed you into the house. He found the fuse-box and tripped the switch. He knew you’d come out to check it – when you did he slipped past you into the flat.
“At which point Daniel turned up. He walked up the drive – on the other side of the car so he never saw John – and through the open door into the hall. By then both you and the man were in your flat, and you were planning your escape. Daniel headed upstairs, you made a break for it, the man followed. But when Daniel called out he thought he couldn’t deal with both of you and turned the other way, making for the back door.”
“He knew about the back door?” asked Brodie faintly.
“Probably. I think he was here before, at least close enough to peer through the windows. He knew where the fuse-box is and where you keep your phone. He found the back door, and everybody knows the back door key is always kept in the lock.”
“Who?” demanded Daniel. “Who are you talking about?”
“I told you,” said Brodie, subdued. “Someone who hates me.”
“Actually, no,” said Deacon. He sat heavily on the stairs. “Someone who hates me.”
She stared at him until he winced. “What?”
For a week Brodie had believed she was in danger because of something stupid or unkind or just unfortunate that she’d done in the past. Now Deacon was telling her it was because of something he’d done. She went on staring at him, unable to decide if that made it better or worse.
Daniel regarded Deacon through the top edge of his glasses. “Two thoughts. Are we safe discussing it here? I mean, if he came here to hurt Brodie, shouldn’t somebody check the house? For” – he shrugged – “explosives, gas leaks, booby-traps – I don’t know?”
“Jesus!” Deacon shot to his feet, herding them towards the door. “He’s right. Charlie, get them out of here – take them back to my place. I’ll have a look round.”
Voss didn’t often contradict his superintendent directly, but there wasn’t time to be tactful. “Better still, you take them and I’ll have a look round. We know he was here ten minutes ago – we don’t know how far he ran. You shouldn’t stay here on your own. Offer him too tempting a target and he might take a crack at it.”
Deacon opened his mouth to refuse, then thought about it. “All right. But be careful. If there’s a gas leak, don’t light a match to see how bad.”
Voss grinned.
On the way to the car Daniel voiced his second thought. “And shouldn’t we do something about John? Follow him to the hospital maybe? Tell his wife?”
Brodie rolled her eyes. “Of course we should. Jack, take us to John’s house. Daniel and I will stay with Paddy, you take Julia to the hospital.”
It was surreal to return to a house where she had been a young wife, where she’d lived for five years, wher
e for the last two her ex-husband had lived with someone else. It felt both familiar and very strange.
Paddy was asleep upstairs. Brodie didn’t wake her. She went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and was surprised when it wasn’t her kettle.
Daniel stood in the doorway. “If I’d known about any of this …”
“I know,” she said. But actually it wasn’t enough. She turned to face him. “Why didn’t you call me? You got my message days ago. You must have known I’d be worried.”
“I guessed. I had some thinking to do. I didn’t want you changing my mind before I could even make it up.”
“You put your house up for sale,” said Brodie, her voice low and accusing.
“Yes. I thought I had to get away”
“Do you still think that?”
He didn’t answer directly. “I’m going nowhere until you’re all right.”
Brodie appreciated that. Not because she felt safer with Daniel around – as a bodyguard he was about as much use as Dorothy Minniver – but because she felt better. Stronger and calmer. At least she didn’t have to worry about him any more.
She frowned. “What do you mean, you didn’t want me changing your mind?”
His eyes dipped. “Well – you do, don’t you? Your idea of a discussion is convincing everyone else that you’re right. I envy you – I wish I was more decisive. I’m always afraid I may have overlooked something.”
“That’s because you’re nice,” said Brodie dismissively, “and worry how your actions will affect other people. I have no trouble making decisions because I’m selfish and don’t worry much beyond pleasing myself.”
It was an over-simplification. That’s not to say she was wrong.
She said, “I saw Simon.”
