by John Nicholl
Cynthia cried out. She was stunned, dazed, her head swimming, but she didn’t let go. As he shook her off and raised his foot to stamp down on her head, she grabbed the cloth of his trousers, extended her free arm, and plunged the blade deep into his thigh for a second time. He swivelled and span, freeing himself from her fragile grip, and kneed her hard in the face, leaving her close to unconsciousness. He looked down at her prone body and savoured the moment.
Galbraith hobbled across the kitchen and fetched a white tea towel from a kitchen drawer, tied a tight tourniquet high on his thigh above his injuries, and limped towards the steps with blood seeping down his leg and soaking into his tailored trousers. He clutched repeatedly at his head with anxious probing fingers. It was time to kill the boy. Time to destroy the evidence. He’d force the interfering bitch to help him with that particular task, before he killed her.
Just as he was approaching the bottom step, Cynthia dragged herself to her feet on punch-drunk legs. She stumbled in the direction of the steps, and took a full two minutes to reach the bottom, with the knife held tightly in her right hand.
When she finally reached the cellar, she saw the doctor standing at the medicine cupboard drawing a clear liquid into a syringe, turning away, and fast approaching the boy with a determined expression on his face.
As Cynthia stumbled towards him with her knife hand behind her back, he stopped, suddenly aware of her presence, and surprised by her rekindled determination. Maybe he should revisit his thesis at some future date. The bitch had spirit despite the hopelessness of her situation. Interesting. Pathetic, but interesting.
Galbraith refocused on the present, met Cynthia’s eyes, and smiled. ‘Your timing couldn’t be better, my dear. You’re just in time to watch the boy die. And then, once you’ve helped me dispose of the body, it will be your turn. I suspect it may well prove to be a welcome release. But, don’t be under any misapprehension, you won’t die easy. I’ll take my time, and you will suffer. Oh yes, you’ll suffer. But not to worry, that’s for later.’
Cynthia dragged one foot forwards, then another, then another, and reached her husband’s side just as he was about to insert the needle deep into Anthony’s swollen abdomen. He seemed strangely oblivious to her presence as she took the knife in both hands, gripped it tightly, raised it high above her head, and brought it down into his upper back with all the force her eight-stone-three-pound frame would allow.
Galbraith dropped the syringe, lurched forward, lost his footing on the soiled floor, collided with the wall immediately next to Anthony’s shackled wrists, and crashed face down onto the hard white tiles, with Cynthia straddling him and clinging on for life itself. He was stunned, he was slow to react, and Cynthia seized her opportunity. She raised the knife high above her head for a second time, and plunged it down into his right shoulder muscle with all her strength, rendering the arm useless.
Cynthia pulled out the blade, rose slowly to her feet, and stood above the incapacitated body of the man who had brought so much pain and misery into her world. Was he dead? He was, wasn’t he? Surely he was dead.
She knelt down at his side, summoned the strength to roll him over onto his back, and stared at his seemingly lifeless face for a minute or more, before reaching out nervously to feel for a heartbeat. Was it over? Was it really over? Surely it was over. But, she had to be sure. Like it or not, she had to be sure.
As Cynthia bent forwards, and placed her face close to his, listening for any sign of breathing, he suddenly opened one eye, then the other, and snatched at her left earlobe with flashing white teeth. But she reacted quickly, lurching backward and causing his attack to fall fractionally short. As he reached up in an attempt to grab her throat, she jumped to her feet, lifted the knife high above her head in both hands, and brought it down forcibly, before repeating the process time and time again. When he was totally, utterly unrecognisable as the man who had tormented her, she stopped, and flopped blood-soaked and exhausted next to his corpse.
As Cynthia lay there, in that awful place, that monument to evil, panting, gasping for oxygen, it dawned on her… it was over. This time it really was over.
All fear suddenly left her, and in that instant all was calm. She was safe. The child was safe. The monster was no more, and her world was a better place.
Cynthia was oblivious to her pain, and unaware of the weapon clasped tightly in her right hand as she walked back up the steps, across the family kitchen, and into the hall. The knife clattered to the tiled floor and made her jump as she picked up the phone and dialled nine-nine-nine.
She stumbled into the lounge, slumped heavily to the floor next to an old dark oak sideboard, and dared to unlock a cupboard with bloody outstretched fingers that she noted were no longer trembling. She took her favourite LP from the collection she had not seen, let alone played in years, and pulled herself unsteadily to her feet. Cynthia took the record from its colourful atmospheric sleeve, lifted the record player’s clear plastic lid, placed the disc gently on the turntable, waited for the needle to make contact with the black vinyl, and turned up the volume. She sat back down on the luxurious soft carpet with a new vitality, and listened contently to the glorious sweeping medley of Bowie’s visionary songs, while waiting for the emergency services to arrive.
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Readers who enjoyed White Is The Coldest Colour will also enjoy:
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A Cold Cold Heart
Are you looking for a dark and totally gripping psychological thriller? Then try John Nicholl's unmissable A Cold Cold Heart today.
DI Gravel and his daughter Emily are oblivious to the terrible danger she is in when she accepts a job working for the solicitor Charles Turner.
Meanwhile, Gravel is on the hunt for a serial killer. And when Emily becomes the killer’s latest obsession, the murderer will stop at nothing to make his grotesque fantasies reality.
But as further bodies are discovered, the killer seeks to befriend DI Gravel and misdirect his investigation.
How can you catch a killer who is hiding in plain sight? Can DI Gravel and Emily come away from this case with both their lives intact?
Sometimes evil wears a suit…
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A Cold Cold Heart is a dark and disturbing serial killer thriller, it will appeal to fans of authors like Joy Ellis, Mark Edwards, KL Slater and John Marrs.