Hanging Hill - Mo Hayder [135]
‘I’ll come back.’
‘Shut up. I’m thinking.’
She lay in silence, her eyes going from him back to the window-frame. Magpies sat in the branches of the tree outside, the way they had outside Lorne’s house. She wanted to shout to them, tell them to fetch someone, as if they could help her. Kelvin drank some more. He pulled up a chair and put it next to the chest of drawers, sat with his elbows on it, as if it was a desk. Lit another cigarette.
‘Can I have some water?’
He lowered his chin and turned his eyes to her, his face serious. ‘What?’
‘Water? I’m thirsty.’
‘Are you?’
‘Please?’
He shrugged, pushed the chair back. ‘Did you like me fucking you?’
She clenched her teeth.
‘I said – did you like me fucking you?’
‘Yes.’
He cocked his head, cupped his hand to his ear.
‘I liked it. Kelvin.’
‘Good. Then I’ll get you some water.’ He got up. Halfway to the door he took a sudden sharp step towards her, his hands coming up as if he was going to attack. She jolted back into the headboard, her arms flying up to protect her face. Then she saw he was smiling. Cautiously, she lowered her hands. ‘Don’t be so jumpy.’ He smiled. ‘We’ll get through this, babe.’ He came back to the bed and squeezed her leg reassuringly. ‘We’ll get through this together.’
32
When he’d gone she worked fast. She pulled on her trousers, her sweater. No time for knickers. It seemed to take for ever to get the boots on to her numb feet. Downstairs Kelvin turned on the tap in the kitchen. The water pipes in the walls knocked and groaned. The condom she shoved into her back pocket. She’d been thinking hard. The frames between the panes in the french windows were fragile – little more than beading holding the glass in: she’d be able to fit through the hole made by three frames in a vertical row. The moment the first pane went he’d hear, though, so she’d have to do it fast. Bam bam. Like the karate experts she’d once sat and watched in a Japanese park at dawn. Like Uma Thurman in the yellow jumpsuit in that film years ago.
From the balcony the drop was ten feet. If she didn’t land well she could forget it – her legs and feet were weak enough already without an injury and her only hope was to recover from the drop instantly and run straight into the forest before he could follow. Even when he had realized what the noise was it would take him time to get from the kitchen to the front of the house. The front door was locked – he’d have to find the key or go out of the back and round the cottage before she had time to reach the far trees.
The sound of him opening and closing the fridge door came up clearly from the kitchen. She heard him filling a kettle – doing what? Making tea for himself? He was so fucking calm that he was happily making tea, as if this was a normal Thursday for him. She flexed each muscle, checked it was working, wouldn’t let her down. Then she linked her hands into the iron bed head to brace herself, lifted her right knee up to her chin and kicked. The glass broke instantly, falling outwards, tinkling on to the balcony. The cross brace above it needed a second thump. It splintered, taking the pane above with it. Another kick and the final pane toppled outwards from the frame. The hole was almost three foot deep.
Kelvin’s footsteps were in the hallway; she heard him on the stairs, bellowing, ‘Bitch! Bitch!’
Good. Coming upstairs would cost him more time. With the sleeve of her sweater pulled down over her hand, she punched out the remaining slivers of glass and pushed her feet through. Then her hips. She heard Kelvin in the room, shouting and swearing, but she was gone, over the railings of the balcony, slithering down until she was dangling underneath it.
‘Do it,’ she hissed, looking at the ground, which seemed a million miles from her feet. ‘Do it.’
Through the broken window she saw him appear in the doorway, his face contorted with rage. She let go of the railings and dropped.