had vanished. For a moment it appeared as if he was going to explode. Then a vagueness descended as if something had just occurred to him which was far more important than the loss of his precious suitcase. His arm shot out and an extended finger pointed at her. “Don’t you move!” Turning, he blundered to the cabinet beside the bed and stooped to grab the bottom drawer.
Estelle couldn’t breathe. Neither could she make herself run. This part had to be witnessed, despite knowing how it would end, perhaps in the hopes that divine intervention might produce a quiet miracle. Maybe George Truscott's passport would re-appear in the bottom of the drawer and Michael wouldn’t murder her.
His hand plunged beneath the pile of material. With a bestial growl, he dragged the contents out savagely and turned the drawer upside down. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he pulled out the next two drawers, tipped them out, then tossed them aside. With the final one in his hand, he stood up, emptied it, then threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a splintering crash and flew apart. So much for miracles.
"You sneaky, interfering bitch!" He had begun to advance on Estelle, slowly at first. "You couldn't leave it alone, could you? Had to poke your silly little nose in. Well, you've done it this time."
Estelle's every move as she backed up was being tracked and duplicated by Michael. His hands were claws at his side, and the fingers were flexing continually, exercising, preparing for action. "Michael, I..." The time for displays of innocence and naivety were past. The situation had been grossly underestimated. There was a price to be paid and he intended to claim every last cent. "Don't, Michael. Please!"
He backed her along the hallway and into the dining room, eyes glinting with insane pleasure as she stumbled against the table. She felt her way round it, panic barely restrained, never daring to turn away from him. He reached the first of the chairs and flung it sideways into the front of the china cabinet. Estelle flinched and gasped at the sound of smashing glass. Michael enjoyed that. "You're going to tell me what you've done with my things, Estelle," he warned smugly. "I guarantee it."
"I d-don't know w-where they are, Michael."
"Then I suggest you try to remember. Otherwise you can look forward to a long, painful night!"
"Honestly, Michael__!"
"Are you DEAF?" he roared as he dived for her.
Estelle almost made it clear, but he managed to catch hold of the back of her dress, spinning her off course and into the door frame. He stumbled against her, hands groping and clawing. Terrified, she brought a knee up into his groin. He doubled over and started to gag. She snatched the opportunity and surged into the lounge.
Barking a shin on the coffee table, she continued to hop her way through to the entrance hall and limped hurriedly to the front door, whimpering and sobbing. It was locked! Damn! Damn! The side door would have been a better option, the sensible one. But who was thinking? Then it didn’t matter because he was there, blocking her escape.
He too was limping, stooping slightly, eyes bloodshot, voice a series of panting growls issuing from lips moist and dripping like those of a rabid dog. He coughed. "Last chance," he rasped as he continued to lumber towards her. “Where are my things?” A metre away, he began to straighten. A hand reached out.
"Michael! No, Michael! For God's sake__!"
"Too late for him - and you," he snarled as he lunged for her.
His hand glanced off her cheek, making head and senses reel. Another blow sent her toppling to the floor. A warm void rolled in, whispering promises of everlasting safety and comfort. Consciousness began to fade and with it any good reason to survive. A small inconsistency crept in to mar the perfection, a sensation of growing pain which incited dissension and panic. Her own voice broke the spell, a howl to pierce the deepest slumber. Her hand went to her scalp, could feel his clenched fist - he was pulling her along by her hair! "Bastard!"
"Believe it!" he snarled. "You’ll be calling me a lot worse before I’ve finished. You're a stupid, lying Bitch, Estelle, and very soon you're going to wish you'd never been born!"
He meant it, every word of it. Nothing was more obvious, and it was probably this thought which gave Estelle the courage and strength to do what she did next. As he was dragging her past the telephone table, she grabbed for it and pulled with all her might. The table swung around and toppled. There was a yelp from Michael. The hand grasping her hair had suddenly gone. A second later there was a heavy thump followed by a howl.
Estelle rolled and stood, all in a single movement. There was no time to think, just run - and she chose the wrong way, right past where Michael was lying. A hand shot out and clamped around her ankle. Air burst from her lungs as she landed flat on her face. Michael released his grip and began clawing his way up her legs, making it impossible to drag herself free.
Flesh was pinched and bruised as he turned her over, then he was straddling her stomach. "I want my stuff, Estelle." A swinging backhand smacked across her cheek. "And you are now going to tell me where it is." He sat, rocked sideways to fumble in a trouser pocket and withdrew a cigarette lighter. “In fact...” Fingers gathered in the open panel of her dress and tore it down. The lighter flicked on. It was the kind that gave off a blue flame and roared like a blow-torch, taunting, threatening. “...you’ll be begging to tell me.” Nails raked flesh as he hooked up the bra strap.
If the memory of pain was insufficient motivation, the dread of a higher level not yet experienced was overpowering. There was an object in her hand - the telephone receiver. Her grip tightened on it. The bra strap slipped off her shoulder and was being dragged down. The lighter flame ignited again and moved closer. Gritting her teeth, she lashed out with every single ounce of strength she could muster. If there was a sound, it was secondary to a stabbing pain as the force of impact transferred to her wrist, jarring it, knocking the plastic receiver from her grasp.
She rolled, wriggled and heaved herself from beneath Michael who had become a ton weight. Not dead weight, surely? Please God, not that! Freedom might have been won, but it meant nothing if one prison had merely been exchanged for another. She had to see, had to know.
Michael was laying face down on the hall carpet, blood trickling from a gash on his temple, soaking into the light-coloured pile. He looked dead! But it wasn't a heavy blow, not as heavy as some he’d inflicted on her. Then again, he had always used his hands, never a blunt instrument. That particular object had broken in two and only half of it remained visible. She must have struck him harder than she thought!
Estelle advanced cautiously, ready to dart away if he should even twitch. He continued to lay still. Kneeling, she extended a trembling hand towards him, not wanting to touch him, stifling a whimper as fingers contacted flesh clammy and lifeless. There was no pulse. The fingers walked and pressed, walked and pushed harder. Was the procedure just like the hairs across doors, a Hollywood lie? Then she could feel a tickling on the back of her hand, warm breath fanning soundlessly, yet unmistakably from his nostrils.
Releasing the breath she had been holding, Estelle pulled the hand away and rose quickly. "Thank God," she was whispering on her way through to the kitchen. Snatching her handbag from the table, she swept on to the side door and out into the garage. The open roller-door yawned, a sight both welcoming and heavy with foreboding. What had just been endured might be nothing compared to the unknown that awaited. Teeth sank into a lip as her eyes darted one last time at the entrance to the house. A long blink later, she was throwing herself onto the driver’s seat.
The key turned, the engine fired. She sat for a moment, foot pressed hard on the brake pedal, eyes closed tightly in prayer. “Please be there, Jason,” she murmured softly. Then Estelle’s
