The Fog - James Herbert [33]
She knelt on the bed beside him as he gasped for air and raised the knife above her head again, holding it with both hands. The sight made him forget his pain and he kicked out at her stomach, viciously sending her crashing off the bed to land in a heap on the floor. He struggled up on one elbow, both of them now heaving, trying to draw air back into their bodies. The knife lay somewhere in the gloom, he couldn’t see where. She raised herself to her knees, glaring maliciously at him, her teeth bared in a snarl of rage, then leapt towards him, her arms flailing, fingers clawing to tear at his eyes. He caught her arms as her full weight landed on him, then arched his body to try to throw her off, but was only partially successful. They rolled over on the bed, their bodies becoming entangled in the bedclothes, restricting their movements. She spat at him, her eyes gleaming with fury, muted growling noises coming from deep down in her throat. He fought back desperately, still afraid to hurt her but knowing he would have to if he were to prevent her harming him and possibly herself.
They fell to the floor, taking the bedclothes with them, landing in a struggling, mixed-up heap on the floor. She managed to free herself from his grasp and raise herself to one knee, the sheets from the bed impeding her efforts. He grabbed for her again and caught at her blouse. It tore as she pulled herself away, exposing her small breasts, the sight causing Holman to hesitate, to freeze momentarily, dangerously. It was as though her sudden nakedness, the sight of her soft defenceless flesh made her vulnerable. Helpless.
But her laugh quickly swept pity from his mind, and he struggled to free himself of the sheets. It was a laugh that chilled him; the empty cackle of a crazy woman. He sprang at her.
She dodged his outstretched arms and leapt across the bed with an agility that surprised him. He clumsily scrambled after her, his feet still caught in the sheets on the floor, and managed to roll to one side as she brought the bedside lamp crashing down towards his head. He gasped as it struck his already injured shoulder, crying out her name as though it would bring her to her senses. Swinging his feet round, dragging some of the bedclothes with them, he crouched on the floor beside her. She kicked him in the face, catching his jaw, stunning him. He fell back against the side of the bed, the restraint of not wanting to hurt her now completely gone from his mind. He would have to fight her as he would fight a man – or a mad dog. He saw her grab for something on the floor and realized it must be the knife. As she came towards him again he pushed himself off the bed and backed away, never taking his eyes off her, fighting down his emotion for her, regarding her as the crazed stranger she now was. She advanced slowly, no longer chuckling, but the smiling grimace still there on her face, the look of hatred still distorting her features. Their movements were slow, measured, the movements of a cat stalking a terrified mouse. Suddenly, she ran forward, raising the knife high for the death strike, a scream of anticipation escaping from her lips. He ducked beneath the descending arm and was behind her. As she whirled, he made for the bedroom door, feeling terror of the blade he knew was a few feet from his exposed back. He reached the door, grabbed the handle and twisted his body to slam it shut behind him. He heard the thunk of the knife as it sank into the wood then the thud of her body as it followed through and struck the door. He immediately pushed the door open again, all his strength behind the thrust, the whole action in one fluid movement. It slammed into the girl, knocking her back violently, causing her to lose her grip of the