Cambridge Blue - Alison Bruce [3]
She passed within two feet of him and heard a sharp crackle of movement from the hedgerow. She didn’t turn to face him, but the first wave of fear arrived even before she felt his hands at her throat. It paralysed her. Sucked her inside herself to a place where her body was no longer her own and where her last seconds would be torn from her as easily as tearing paper. His grip was ferocious, compassionless, crushing her windpipe, making the pain scream in her ears and silencing the rest of her world.
She saw Bridy, just a tumble of black and white. Then a second wave washed over Jackie, but this time it was adrenalin that surged through her. And Bridy rushed again, barking and buffeting his shins.
‘Shut up,’ he snarled, and lashed out with his boot. Bridy was faster and dodged the kick. His grip slipped, and Jackie threw herself sideways, grabbing at the undergrowth; anything for escape. She tried to roll away, but he lunged at her legs, grabbing her at the knees, pulling her back to the ground. One hand reached up and his fingers grabbed the belt buckle on her jeans; he hauled himself on top of her, working his way up her body. His face drew closer to hers, his breath hot. She had no room to manoeuvre now, and for one long moment it seemed that neither of them moved. His weight pressed down on her, chest to breast, pelvis to pelvis, pushing her legs apart. With one free hand he reached downwards, and she expected to feel his fingers tugging at the zip on her jeans, but instead he felt for something in his own back pocket.
Bridy renewed her barking, just as Jackie saw the knife in his hand. He lashed out his leg once more. This time the dog launched herself, grabbing the hem of the man’s trousers between her teeth. She pulled hard. He extended his foot and attempted another kick. ‘Fuck off,’ he yelled, but Bridy held tight and growled as she yanked at his outstretched leg.
The knife sprang from his fingers, landing silently in the long grass. As he reached to grab it, Jackie wriggled one arm free, slipped her hand into her jacket pocket and grabbed for Bridy’s collar and lead.
Still on the ground, the man hauled himself towards the knife, heaving the weight of Bridy along with him. His fingertips brushed the handle, but he was still not close enough to take hold of it. She knew that if he reached it, he would finish the job.
The choke chain still ran in a loop and, with one movement, Jackie hooked it over his head. His reaction was delayed: it seemed several seconds before his body jerked, then he let go of her and his hands shot up to his own throat.
She dragged on the lead and he pulled it back towards him, slackening the chain momentarily. It’s him or me. Him or me.
His eyes were still wild, but now they bulged with fear. Jackie kicked out. One leg, then the other, pulled free of him and the hard toes of her boots drove into his abdomen and chest. He hung on to the metal links of the lead, but she refused to release her grip. Then her knee connected with his jaw, cracking against the bone and sending his teeth into his tongue.
Finally she found the foothold she sought and pushed hard on his sternum. Her body flexed rigid and she pulled the lead tight until the links slipped out of his fingers and the chain had all but disappeared into an engorged welt around his purpling neck.
Bridy let go first, but by then the man was dead.
Jackie Moran retreated. Standing with her back in the hawthorn, she stared down at the body. Two questions screamed at her. Who? Why?
Bridy looked up at her, waiting for her to decide what to do next.
Something bright caught her eye. She stepped past Bridy and looked down at it. It was the knife, its blade poking up at the angle of a shark’s fin. She knelt beside it; it was a kitchen knife, not an everyday folding pocket kind that some men carried.
Jackie picked it up, holding it with the tip of its blade between her forefinger