by Ann Evans
“You were wonderful!” Julia exclaimed, as Lucy scrambled off the school stage, and ran to her parents at the end of the nativity play.
The audience of rapt mothers, fathers, and grandparents were all congratulating their talented offspring, as the children were allowed to mingle with them, before being herded back into class.
Lucy was radiant in her angel's gown, and sparkling wings and halo. But, the thing that brought tears to Julia's eyes was the look on her little girl's face, as if the last threads of the nightmare were gone forever.
“You were brilliant!” Ian added, hugging her. “You outshone everyone.”
“We're having a party in our classroom,” Lucy said excitedly. “Miss has brought cakes and fizzy pop.”
“Lovely,” Julia smiled, trying not to think about Shelley de Main being hit over the head, right outside her house last night. She was desperate to know if she had regained consciousness. Hopefully, she hadn't died. Surely, they would have heard from the police if she'd died. She hugged her daughter, forced a smile. “Have a wonderful time, Lucy, sweetheart. Have fun.”
The teacher clapped her hands to round up her class. With a final kiss for her parents, Lucy skipped back to join her classmates. Ian squeezed Julia’s hand. “Time to go.”
She nodded, getting up, and waving to the line of children making their way out of the hall. In the doorway, Lucy turned, hesitated, and then, ran back to give her mummy one last kiss.
Ian laughed. “Come, love. I'll run you back home, and then, get into work.”
With her arm through his, they left the warmth of the school, and stepped out into the fog. She shivered. “I hate the fog, Ian. Take care driving, won't you?”
“I will,” he promised, kissing her, “and I'll be home early. No more late nights, I promise.”
“I know,” she murmured, trusting him, loving him.
The drive home was slow, the swirling fog making progress almost impossible. Eventually, they reached Sycamore Drive. Julia kissed Ian again, as she got out of the car.
“Will you be alright?” Ian asked. “You're not going to fret and worry over what happened last night. The two things aren't connected.”
“Don't worry. I'll be fine. Drive carefully.”
As he drove away, Julia went indoors, glad to be out of the icy cold fog. She hated the smell and the feel of it, hated the way it isolated you.
The state of the lounge and hall made her stop in her tracks. She shook her head. Lucy had got up early, and with time on her hands, had managed to get about every toy she possessed out to play with, even her doll’s house, which she'd brought downstairs, only to leave in the hall. With a sigh, she set about her first chore of tidying up before she tripped and broke her neck.
Gathering up all the little things first, and loaded with as much as she could carry, she went upstairs, and deposited the toys in Lucy's toy box, then picked up last nights discarded dungarees to hang in the wardrobe.
Pulling open the wardrobe door, the smell of leather swept out. Thick black leather filling her nostrils, swarming through her head, chilling the blood in her veins.
Heart stopping, she slammed the wardrobe door on the smell, her skin crawling with terror. But, a force – an invisible force from the inside of the wardrobe, pushed against her. The door flew open. And out stepped a nightmare.
Vincent Webb stood there, smiling. Wide, pale, insane eyes glittered, as brightly as the long-bladed knife in his hand.
A choking sensation swelled up in her throat, stopping her from screaming. But, her limbs still obeyed her, and she turned and fled from the room, pulling the door shut after her. Racing down the stairs, her feet skidded on the carpet. Her spine bumped against three steps, before she was back on her feet, terror numbing any sensations of pain. She reached the front door, cursing herself for putting the safety chain on, but then a long vicious blade was slammed against her hand, burying itself into the wood, skimming the skin from her finger.
He towered over her, smelling of leather and sweat. Cold, pale eyes filled with loathing and anger. She brought her knee up into his groin as hard as she could. It wasn't hard enough, she knew that, but in the second he took to wince, she was under his arm, leaping Lucy's doll’s house like a hurdle. The kitchen held some sort of defence – knives, pans, and the back door – escape. But, it was locked, double-bolted to keep him out. The irony of it made her sob. Reaching the kitchen, she heard his yell, as he tripped over the doll’s house, and stumbled headlong at her.
With all her might, she slammed the glass door in his face.
The top of his skull hit the cracked glass panel, and his blond head smashed clean through it. She raced to the back door. It had been prised open. She flung it wide, glancing swiftly over her shoulder to see where he was. Far off in the distance, she could hear police sirens wailing. You're too late, she screaming inside her skull. Within two seconds, she would feel that blade.
But, she saw he was on his knees, his head sticking through a hole in the glass door. Jagged pieces of patterned glass littered the kitchen floor, other pieces jutted up towards his throat. A triangular slither hung above his neck. The needle-sharp points were already sticking into his skin, trickles of blood dripping onto her floor.
He didn't move, couldn't move. To move meant forcing the glass deeper into his flesh, into his veins. He turned his merciless pale eyes up to her, wide with terror. “Help me,” he pleaded.
Julia could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She stood mesmerised. Now, he wasn't so terrifying. He looked pathetic, stuck there, too afraid to move, begging her to have mercy on him.
As the police sirens grew louder, her thoughts flew back to the terror he'd put her and Lucy through, even to the diabolical way he'd treated Nash. And now, he wanted mercy.
“Please...”
She spoke calmly, so he understood. “You murdered a harmless old man.” She walked slowly towards him, her eyes fixed on his. Wanting him to see she was no longer afraid. “You tried to kill his dog. Bessie survived, you know. She's well again, and has a new home. Not that you care. You care about nothing, and no one, do you? You even killed your own accomplice.”
“Need ambulance,” he uttered, not able to form the words properly, as that would entail moving the muscles in his throat, and shards of glass were already pressing against his jugular.
“Yes, you do,” she agreed, standing over him. She touched the top of his blond head, as if she cared.
The sirens were closer now, probably at the end of the street.
She placed both of her hands on the top of his head, confident in what she intended doing. Because, really, there was only one thing she could do.
She pressed down slowly, so he knew.
His feet skidded frantically against the hall flooring, his fingers clawing at the door from the other side of the glass. “No!” he screamed. “I'm sorry, okay. I'm sorry.”
Julia eased back on the pressure on his head. She spoke softly, without emotion. “That's good. I'm glad you're sorry. But, frankly, Vincent, it's far too late.”
And with one downward thrust, she rammed his throat hard down onto the shards of glass.
A gargling sound blubbered from Vincent Webb's mouth.
Outside the sirens wailed to silence. Car doors slammed. She wondered vaguely how the police knew. She would ask them later. But, for now, she walked calmly towards her back door. Once more, she turned around. A pool of dark red was spreading across her kitchen floor.
Quietly and confidently, she stepped outside into the fog.
THE END
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