Oh Christ, can I do this?

She grasped the thing in her hand and darted forward, not giving herself another moment to even think about it. It was either him, or her. When the huge hand clawed through the gap and fastened over the bolt, she struck hard with the razor blade.

‘BITCH!’ he yelled out.

Almost crying with fear, Angel fell back as blood spurted. The hand retreated. Then it was in the gap again and he was roaring out curses, calling her a cunt and a whore, and the bloodied hand was back, it was going to reach the bolt and then he was going to be in here with her and that would be an end to it, she was finished.

Something vicious gripped Angel then. If she died up here, then the aunts would die too, and would they then go for Tom, finish him too? They might. They would. Summoning all her remaining strength, Angel struck in cold-blooded fury. This time she didn’t hit the back of the hand, she aimed for the underside of the wrist, cutting hard upward.

This time, he howled.

Blood didn’t just spurt; it poured like she’d turned on a tap. The hand jerked back. He was moaning now. From the downstairs hallway, she heard that horrible bastard Pargeter say: ‘What the fuck . . . ?’ and then there came the noise of the front door being knocked off its hinges and someone was shouting.

For a moment Angel was so panicked, so utterly terrified, so enraged, that she didn’t even know what they were saying. She stood there, breath panting out of her, legs like jelly, the dripping-red razor blade still clutched in her fingers, and the humming in her head receded. She gulped in one breath, then another. She was watching the gap, because if he put his hand through there again then her absolute clear-headed intention was to slice the fucker right off.

But now she knew what she was hearing.

Downstairs someone was shouting: ‘Police! Don’t move!’

Then there were heavy footsteps, coming up the stairs. Thundering up them. And away in the distance, she could hear a siren, coming ever closer.

155

‘Stop! Police!’ Cory Farmer shouted at the man trying to bolt out the back door.

The man didn’t stop.

He was an older man, maybe into his seventies. Gaunt around the face, wild-eyed, grey-haired. Dressed in a shabby old beige coat. He took one panicked glance at Farmer and fled down the garden at surprising speed.

‘I said stop!’ bellowed Farmer, haring after him.

But Frank was already scrabbling over the low fence there and running on. Into another back garden, up the side of a house, hitting a dead stop when he clanged up against a wrought-iron gate. Flinging it open, he charged on through. He threw it shut behind him. Then he was out into the road, running fast.

It was busy out here, traffic passing. Farmer got through the gate, seeing Frank, coat tails flapping, surging ahead of him – straight into the path of a car.