One Night (31 page)

Now I found my voice and the
screaming began. I had no idea I could make so much noise. It was motivated by
fury as much as fear. I was only a few feet away from the front door…

Jake’s thumbs pressed down on my
windpipe. The pressure cut away air, pain reaching to the bones in the back of
my neck. The edges of the room began to darken. Then there was a shape suddenly
between us, a growling flurry of fur. Sticky’s teeth bared with the menace of a
wolf in the wild. His teeth clamped on Jake’s wrist. Immediately the pressure
on my throat relaxed. Air rushed into my lungs, coherent thought returned. I
slipped my hand under a cushion, found the second knife…I dragged it out and
with the last ounce of strength stabbed upwards – and this time did not miss
his throat. The blade slid into his flesh, butter-smooth. He gurgled like a
plugged drain and blood came out of his mouth, running hot and sticky on my
cheek.

He pulled away, grabbing at the
handle of the knife, pulling it free. Blood spurted. His eyes on mine, he fell
to his knees, his long arms reaching for me. His fingers caught vice-like at my
wrist. Sticky began a continuous volley of barking. I reached for the brass
statue of Buddha and crashed its solid weight into Jake’s face. He made a
groaning noise but still maintained his agonizing grip on me. I raised the
statue again and there was another sound – someone yelling my name.

I turned. A rattling of keys at my
door and Mr Corbett stood there, his mouth agape. Behind him were other
figures. I couldn’t see properly because now I was operating on blind instinct
and involuntary reaction.

Mr Corbett stumbled in, people in
his wake. There was incredible noise. Yelling, shrieking, barking, a babble of
voices. I saw Thelma Clark with her shotgun pointing wildly. But my mind was on
deadbolt shut. Before anyone could reach me, I brought the statue down on the
back of Jake’s head. He collapsed forwards, a purple black mess, and lay prone
at my feet.

I stood wobbling on one intact
stiletto, the other shoe under the coffee table where it lay uselessly,
delicate ankle strap broken. I looked up to see – emerging from some distant
memory – a familiar shape.

‘
Jesus!
’ the shape said.
‘Casey, what have you done?’

Stephen.

Stephen called for an ambulance. Three policemen seemed to morph in an
instant. Mr Corbett removed Sticky to his wife’s care. Thelma Clark stood guard
with her shotgun and refused to budge until Jake Adler had been removed.

During this chaos, I was unable to
communicate. I felt as if my head had been wrapped in cottonwool and I couldn’t
see anything clearly. My jaw felt broken. A tooth was loose, blood oozing from
my tongue which I had bitten. My left ankle was aflame. Pain reached into every
part of my body. Stephen gently removed the remaining stiletto, lay me on the
couch, found a pillow for my head, ripped a blanket off my bed and wrapped me
tenderly into its warmth. He wiped a damp cloth with great care around my
mouth.

‘Casey,’ he kept murmuring
brokenly. ‘Casey. Oh, my God.
Casey
.’

I was aware of sound, of people
talking, of movement. People coming and going. A general hullabaloo. But I
didn’t care. I was safe. And I knew what had really happened in the woods on
that dreadful day and night. I knew the truth. My eyes hardly left Stephen’s
form as he moved around, organizing the various people who came and went.

I floated. A blissful cloud. I was
so happy. The realization finally in my mind that there, in those caring eyes,
those gentle hands, was another truth.

In the ambulance I regained a semblance of speech. ‘I love you,’ I mouthed at
Stephen who sat beside me on the way to the hospital. But I’m not sure he
understood. Slowly I became aware of something odd. Stephen looked a mess – as
though he’d been through the fight with me. There was dried blood on his chin,
a ragged cut down the left side of his face, an eye that was beginning to swell
with the pale emblem of bruising yet to come. His shirt was tracked with mud,
one collar hanging in a scattering of torn thread.

I focused on this mysterious damage.
And my mind cleared somewhat.

‘What happened to your face?’ I
squeezed out.

‘Don’t worry about that now,’ he
said. ‘You must rest.’

I put a hand up to that dear,
injured face, cupped his cheek, rested my thumb gently on the long cut. ‘Your
face,’ I whispered.

Jake put his hand in a mirror
gesture on my cheek. ‘I met a mutual friend of ours.’

I took a moment. ‘Todd?’

He smiled, green eyes alight with
triumph. ‘I told you I would knock his fucking head off.’

‘
Stephen – !
’ My eyes traced
the dark flush of injury around his eye. ‘What happened?’

‘Found the bastard lurking outside
your building. We had a – ’ he paused ‘ – a discussion.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. It was pretty bad. He’s not
an easy man to take on. We messed up the garden and then busted into the foyer.
Your concierge was in a bit of a state. He called the police. Todd decided on
discretion at that point.’ Ruefully, he added, ‘Which was maybe a good thing
because the bastard just might have got the better of me.’

We stared at each other, bloodied
and bruised, utterly entranced.

Stephen went on, ‘That’s when we
heard you screaming.’

‘From the foyer?’

‘You were rather loud.’

‘Todd…’ I murmured. ‘Of all people.
How ironic. Would he have saved me, I wonder?’

‘Saved you for what?’

A smile danced in me. ‘I hope his
face is going to look like yours.’

Part 6

Sunshine

There’s something about a lazy Sunday afternoon that fills me with warm
happiness. I sat on the couch, Sticky’s head in my lap, my feet warming in the
fall of sunlight from the window. Stephen was engrossed in a magazine called
HR
Today.

We’d just finished a celebratory
dinner of roast chicken (cooked by Stephen – I had done the pudding) and had
consumed most of a bottle of South African white wine. Stephen had insisted on
buying something with what he labelled ‘a heritage’. Sticky had consumed an
elegant sufficiency of the chicken and was snoring gently.

I was at peace.

We had celebrated the end of the
hearing process – and although we knew the trials of Jake Adler and Brent
Sedgeworth were still on the cards, the worst was behind me. Stephen had said I
was terribly lucky I hadn’t killed Jake. I had pointed out that, on the
contrary,
Jake
was terribly lucky I hadn’t killed him. But on the night
in question, nobody had been quite sure. Except Thelma Clark had stage
whispered, ‘Take the gun, girl. I’ve loaded it. Finish the bastard!’

And if Stephen hadn’t intervened,
that opportunity might well have been fulfilled.

As it was, Jake Adler spent a week in
a coma before waking to the realization he’d been caught like a fly in treacle.
And my jawbone wasn’t broken, only badly bruised. Sadly, though, I had lost a
tooth.

Now I looked round the room. My knives and the Buddha statue were still with
the police. I had replaced my duvet on my bed. I had also recovered the couch
in dark blue and bought new cushions because Jake’s blood had been everywhere.
The old rug had been sent to specialist cleaners who had managed to remove the
stains from that. It spread under the coffee table looking cleaner than it ever
had before. I studied the clear, crisp pattern as sunlight fingered across the
floor.

Stephen looked at me over the top
of his magazine.

‘I think we’ll get married.’

I eyed him without much focus. ‘I
want a red dress.’

He looked at me. ‘What about green?’

I wrinkled my nose. ‘Why green?’

He came to sit beside me, gently pushing
Sticky to one side. ‘Because you are in my eyes. I cannot look out on the world
without seeing you. You are my world.’

I snuggled into him. ‘Honestly,
Stephen. You do have a poet’s eyes. You should write poetry. I can’t compete
with that.’

Grinning, he bent his head to kiss
me. ‘You’ll never compete with anyone.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re a pixie. Pixies do their
own thing.’

#############

Thank
you for purchasing and reading ONE NIGHT.

If
you have enjoyed this thriller, try others by Malla Duncan available on Kindle
worldwide and all outlets:

DEEP
AS BONE:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007MCOD7A

CATCHEE
MONKEY:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00845BBR4

DARK
SANCTUARY:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00781SBGE

FAT
CHANCE:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0080R8ISG

About the author

Malla
Duncan lives and writes in Cape Town, South Africa. Her writing focuses mainly
on women’s psychological thrillers but she also writes fantasy for children and
books for African children. She has a BA in Psychology & Communications
from the University of South Africa, Business Management from IMM and
Counselling I from the SA College of Applied Psychology.

Find
Malla Duncan on Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Malla-Duncan/199026870134425

Follow
on Twitter: @MallaDuncan

Read
more at:
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/malladuncan

########################