Page 68 of Close to You
David doesn’t flinch and it feels like any warmth I ever saw in him was a mirage. Perhaps I did that to him?
‘You first,’ he says, with steady and terrifying calmness.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re pregnant, but it can’t be mine – so who were you with?’
It feels like the truth doesn’t matter any longer. Things are broken anyway.
‘You,’ I say. ‘Only you.’
‘Whose is it?’
He repeats the line three times, with each time sounding more and more like a growl. I simply stare at him, not sure what to stay. I can see his forearms starting to tremble as his upper body tenses. I’ve never seen him like this before. This is a different person and, perhaps for the first time since we met, I realise how helpless I could be up against him.
‘Tell me.’ His lips move but his teeth are clenched.
‘David—’
‘You’ve destroyed us,’ he says. He should be shouting but his tone is steady, almost calm – which makes it feel so much more dangerous. ‘You’re ruined everything. I’d have done anything for you – but you’re just like all the others.’
‘I—’
I don’t have a finish to the sentence and it’s only now that I remember the knife. The overhead light catches the blade as it sags in David’s hand. He notices it too and suddenly grasps it tighter.
It’s strange how things that happen the quickest can feel as if they’re occurring in slow motion. At regular pace, it’s easy to miss the details. Two people side by side can spot completely different things in the same scene.
Even though everything happens in an instant, I see it all with absolute clarity. David lunges towards the side of the counter, the knife clenched in his hand; the tip angled in my direction. His teeth are bared, like a cornered animal; his arm muscles tensed. In a blink, he slashes the knife towards me. The glint of the kitchen lights flash off the blade as it arcs through the air towards my cheek. My back is pressed hard into the counter and I feel the swish of the air as it passes millimetres away from my skin when I angle away.
I’m acting on instinct as I grab the Tigger head pot from the counter at my side. David’s attempt to cut me has left him slightly off-balance and, as he straightens to come at me again, I throw the pot towards him. Anything to gain myself a second or two so that I can dash towards the door.
I’ve always had some degree of fitness and athletic ability – but I never tried javelin or discus when I was young. I didn’t play cricket or rounders and threw ‘like a girl’ according to the boys I was at school with.
Not today.
The throw couldn’t be more perfect, or devastating. David glances to his own hand, as if surprised he is still holding the knife and, in that millisecond, the pot thunders into his temple. His eyes roll into his head as he slumps to the side, thwacking his other temple on the corner of the counter. His head snaps back and then he drops limply to the floor, surrounded by broken ceramics, unmovingly still.
There’s a sudden second of silence and I’m gasping for breath as I take a couple of steps towards the door. Flight not fight… except that David hasn’t moved.
There’s something else…
When I glance down, there is a drizzle of red across the centre of my top. I’m not sure how I missed it – but there is a throbbing sting as I touch the base of my neck and then remove my blood-soaked fingers.
David’s knife didn’t miss me.
Thirty-Two
THE NOW
Good solicitors have the ability to make grown adults feel like uninformed children. They’re like parents who can explain why the sky is blue with the assurance that the world is in safe hands as long as they’re in charge.
The room at the back of the police station is small and cramped, with barely space for two seats and a table. Some sort of fan is buzzing overhead, as if there’s one giant bee trapped within the walls.
None of this fazes Mr Patrick, because I can’t believe anything would. He’s one of those distinguished middle-aged men for whom first names don’t seem appropriate. I can imagine his wife and kids calling him ‘Mister’.
‘It appears that the man struck by your car has taken a turn for the worse,’ he says, as he peers at me over his glasses.
‘He’s not going to die, is he?’
