I grab it. I can’t stab him with it. But there is something else I could do.

I run over to the back window, insert it into the groove of a screw. And then I twist. And twist. And twist. And soon my hand is sore but one screw is out. There are five more on this one slat and I don’t know when he’ll be back. Shit.

Adrenaline zings through my veins as I move onto the next screw…

Chapitre Quarante

Chapitre quarante

Around ten minutes later I have one wooden slat sitting on the dusty floor beside me, and am starting on the next. But then, in the distance, I hear the crunching of gravel beneath car tyres. It gets louder and louder, the engine idles for a moment and then nothingness. Silence.

I hear a car door open and close. Then another one opens. I don’t dare look through the space in the window I’ve just created. I quickly stick the black fabric back on and pray he doesn’t notice the missing slat from outside. I imagine him out there, and wonder what he’s doing. What he’s pulling from the back seat? A shovel, knives, rope? There are no good options here.

I pick up the piece of wood and move to the door.

The car door slams. I can hear the creak of the boards outside as he steps onto them. Then the clinking of keys as he puts one into the lock. My legs are wide and set so I don’t fall over. I’m ready.

The door opens, I see the back of his head, and I swing.

Hard.

He stumbles, almost falls. But he stops himself and turns towards me. I hit him again, and his arms don’t move in time to protect the side of his face. He falls to his knees, drops the bag he’s carrying and holds his head. His cigarettes and lighter fall from his pocket and scatter across the floor. But he’s between me and the door now. Shit. He pushes the door so it closes and turns to me and fucking smiles.

My heart is wild but my mind is clear. I grab his lighter and then run to the kitchen and open the cupboard beneath the sink.

He’s standing up now and running for me as I reach past the bleach and pull out the bug spray.

He’s four steps away from me.

Three steps.

Two.

I make a low guttural sound, flick the lighter, aim the nozzle and spray.

A stream of fire hits him in the face and he steps backwards, holding his face. His hair is singed and the collar of his shirt is on fire. He trips. Falls.