Only then do I see the blood on my hands, and trembling racks my body.
***
Neville
I try to dodge him, but my foot catches the edge of the rug. I hit the floor hard, the hammer man looming over me. I brace for the blow, but instead, he staggers and falls backwards.
Joanna stands behind him, the broken neck of a wine bottle clutched in her hand.
I scramble to my feet, my arm throbbing.
‘The hammer,’ I yell. ‘Get the hammer!’
She glances around, panic in her eyes, spots it, and grabs it. I snatch it from her.
The man groans on the floor; I can see shards of glass embedded in his scalp. ‘We need something to tie him with. Quick.’
She bolts to the living room and returns with two curtain tie-backs. ‘It’s all I could think of,’ she says breathlessly.
‘We need a chair.’
She doesn’t argue.
‘Help me get him up. I can’t do it alone.’
Together, we haul him into a chair. By the time we’re done, we’re both gasping for air. I tie his hands and legs tightly. ‘Watch him,’ I say, heading for the kitchen.
I rip off my shirt, press a tea towel to my bleeding arm, and knot it tightly. When I return, Joanna’s still standing guard, trembling so hard that I’m amazed she’s still upright. I ease her into a chair.
‘I should fix your shoulder,’ she says, pushing herself up. ‘There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom.’
Before I can stop her, she’s gone and back again with bandages and antiseptic.
I keep my eyes on the man. He’s awake now, glaring at me with pure hatred. The restraints look flimsy and I’m not sure they’ll hold.
Joanna peels off my makeshift bandage and begins cleaning the wound. Even with danger hanging over us, the warmth of her hands sends a shiver through me.
‘It’s deep. You’ll need stitches.’
‘Do what you can,’ I say, watching the man strain against the ties.
She works fast, wrapping a tight bandage around my arm. I reach for my shirt just as the man jerks violently. A groan escapes him, followed by a wet, gurgling sound. He slumps forward.
We both freeze.Is he faking?I glance at Joanna. She studies him closely.
‘I think he’s had a heart attack,’ she says.
She’d know. She’s a doctor.
‘He could be faking,’ I mutter, though even I can see how still he is.
‘I need to check. Give me your phone.’
I hand it over. She shines the torch in his eyes. He’s lifeless. Then she presses two fingers to his wrist. His limp arm flops backwards.
‘He’s dead,’ she says quietly. ‘It was a heart attack.’
‘Jesus.’
