Angel Kiss - Laura Jane Cassidy [76]
‘They’ll know he didn’t do it. If he dies, they’ll know someone murdered him.’
‘You know what, Jacki, the Internet is a very handy thing. Don’t you think?’
I didn’t answer. Peter took another puff of his cigarette as the realization hit me straight in the chest.
You have to move the blade in a certain direction. Don’t cut the wrist at such an angle that the victim could not have comfortably done so themselves. You must cut before the victim is dead, as there will be no blood post-mortem. Be careful not to cut the tendons. Include hesitation marks. Be careful not to restrain the victim to such an extent that might leave bruising. Be sure levels of intoxication are not so high that the victim could not have inflicted the wound themselves … et cetera
I swallowed hard.
‘Guess he just couldn’t live with the guilt any longer,’ said Peter with a smirk.
I felt sick inside. I needed to get out. It wasn’t just my life I was fighting for. I was fighting for Des’s too.
Peter flicked more ash on to the table. I bolted for the door.
He grabbed my hair before I could reach the handle. I dropped the bag as he yanked my head back and I fell on to the floor with a thud.
I kicked and screamed and scrambled back to the door, but he grabbed my wrists and held them above my head, and pressed his knees against my thighs to weigh me down.
‘Feisty one, aren’t you?’ he said.
I suddenly realized I must have looked a lot like Beth Cullen, my hair plastered against my face and the brown leather bag lying by my side. It suddenly occurred to me that the vision in the master bedroom of the Mulveys might not have been about Beth Cullen. It could’ve been a premonition about me. After all, I’d been lying on Peter’s bed.
‘You have such a pretty voice,’ said Peter. ‘Pity nobody is going to hear it again. Now, this should shut you up,’ he said, grabbing one of Mum’s scarves to gag my mouth.
I don’t know where I mustered the strength, but it came from somewhere. I head-butted him in the face, jumped up, kneed him hard in the crotch and with my free arm I grabbed the frying pan off the hob and bashed his head with it. He stumbled backwards and fell to the floor, hitting his head against the counter top on the way. I grabbed the bag and got out the door. I ran faster than I had ever done before. I ran for my life.
My pumps smacked against the tarmac. I could feel the sharp loose pebbles digging into their flimsy soles. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I was so scared. I couldn’t let anything happen to Des. My mum really liked him. And he didn’t deserve this. He hadn’t done anything. I ran past the bungalows, down the hill, then past the guesthouse and across the street. There was no time to go to the hall. I had to get to Des.
I fumbled with the handle of the front door for several precious seconds before pulling myself up over the little gate between Des’s house and Mary’s shop. I hoisted myself over its steel bars. My anklebones cracked as they hit the ground on the other side. I dropped the bag and ran over to the back door. It was locked. The sick bastard had locked it.
‘Hello! Hello!’ I banged my fist against the glass, and I kicked the wooden panels, but nobody came to open it.
‘Hello! Open up! Open up!’ It was pointless. The window. Get in through the window. It was locked too. But the glass was single glazed. I had no choice. I had to do it. It didn’t hurt. I couldn’t feel my fist slice through it. I couldn’t feel the shards slitting my skin. I grabbed the handle, pushed the window open and climbed in. I clambered up the stairs and pushed his bedroom door open. That’s when I saw him, slumped in the corner. His head hanging limply, his legs outstretched. Blood on his wrists. A Stanley knife lay on the ground.
‘Des! Des!’ He didn’t look up. His eyes were closed; his body was still. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ His eyes opened for a second, but then they shut again. I ran into the hall and picked up the phone. I don’t remember dialling the number, but I must have