Page 38 of Coming Home
‘No!’
He flicked open the top button of her jeans and pushed his other hand under her pyjama top. ‘I don’t think you have a choice really, do you?’
‘I said NO!’ Raising her knee, catching him square between his legs, Rosina pushed him away as he howled and grasped his crotch. But rather than tame him, the pain he was evidently in seemed to fuel Norman’s rage, grabbing her coat with his other hand as she struggled to free herself, punching and twisting, kicking his shins.
Norman held on tight. ‘You fucking bitch. You are going to be so fucking sorry you did that, you slag.’ Lunging, Norman pushed Rosina off balance and they both crashed to the floor, landing between the cars as she scrambled forward on her front, trying to get to the driver’s door.
When she felt his hands grab her left leg, she twisted and screamed. ‘Get off, get off, you fucking pervert.’ The terror inside echoed in her ears, rage and the recklessness of despair fuelling her instinct. Fight or flight.
DO BOTH! DO IT NOW!
Raising her right knee and then with all her might, with everything she had left, Rosina powered her leg forward, her boot smashing into Norman’s face making contact with his nose. And another, for luck.
The howl of a wounded man, then her left leg being freed spurred her into action. In a second she was on her feet but so was Norman, a trickle of blood escaping from his nose and knowing she’d never open her door in time Rosina obeyed the voice in her head.
RUN! GET TO THE ROAD. FLAG SOMEONE DOWN OR JUST KEEP RUNNING.
NOW, GO NOW.
She ran.
Staggering to his feet, Norman growled a threat. ‘Don’t think you’ll get away. You’re fucked, Rosina. One way or another, you are fucked.’
Oh God, he’s mad, he’s going to kill me. I’ll never see the kids again. Lou, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
As she raced ahead, for once she had something in her favour. She was nimble where he was lumbering, he was dazed while she was alert, wired, and even though her fear matched his rage she was still a few metres in front. If she could get to the road, into the open, he might tire, or she could hide, yes, that would work too. The end of the track was only two strides away, and as she raced across the tarmac and into the sun, she saw that the road in each direction was deserted so made the decision to hide, take cover in the trees and undergrowth and wait until he gave up, or a car came by.
Taking a look behind her she saw him, half running, half staggering but still determined, mad as hell and about to cross the road as she thrashed her way through the bushes that lined the route. And then a sound, the roar of an engine as it took the bend, then the screech of brakes and a thud, silence, and then two more thuds.
What the hell?
Stopping in her tracks, Rosina turned and crouched, then crawled forward still hidden from view. The sight that met her – Norman’s body sprawled on the road, blood oozing from his head, the car that had hit him parked at an angle – made her clamp her hands over her mouth, trapping in the horror of the scene.
Oh God, he’s dead, he must be dead.
And then a sound, a car door opening and the legs of what she could tell was a man stood over Norman’s body. He was wearing black trousers that she followed upwards to his white shirt, arms hanging by his side. It was only as she got to his head that the light dawned and Rosina realised who it was, suddenly recognising the car. The urge to call his name, shout for help was smothered by a lightning flash of sense.
No, what would I say? He can’t know you’re here. Don’t move. Breathe, nice and steady. Think. You have to get back to the car. He’ll ring the police, then they’ll find his car, your car. How can you get past him?
Rosina didn’t have to wait long for an answer because he began to walk back to his car, but faster than he’d approached the body and for a second she presumed he was going for his phone, to ring the police but when she heard the door slam and the engine start, the shock of what was happening really hit.
He’s driving off. Oh my God, he’s driving off.
Her horrified brain zapped a message to her quivering hands that grappled in her pocket, trying to grab her phone. Yanking it out Rosina jabbed the camera icon on the screen and tried to hold it still, clicking, clicking, clicking as she watched from her hideout. The car reversed a touch then drove around Norman before moving off at speed, fleeing the scene. The last photo she took was of his number plate.
Rosina was weak, her legs felt funny as her mud-splattered body sagged against a tree while she fought to comprehend the ramifications of what she’d seen and also, what it meant for her.
Norman was dead, so for now he couldn’t collect his debt and her secret was safe, as long as she could get back to her car and away from the area without being seen. Which meant she had to move fast, before another car came along. But that meant passing Norman.
Just do it, just run, don’t look, focus on the track, look ahead not down, think of your family, think of getting away with it. Get up, get up now.
Standing, Rosina listened for a car. Nothing. Darting forward she pushed aside bushes that had concealed her then checked to her right and saw that there were no vehicles in sight, she couldn’t see around the bend so on legs like Bambi, slightly wobbly but raring to go, she sprinted across the road and obeying her brain, didn’t look at Norman, just straight ahead.
Seconds later she was in her car, starting the engine and thanking Bern for suggesting they had a one-way system when they designed the trail car park. It enabled her to exit further along the road, leaving the body of Norman and her guilt behind her.
She glanced in her rear-view mirror only once to make sure nobody had found him and before she met any oncoming traffic, took the first turning on her left, off the main road and alongside the forest.
Taking deep breaths to calm herself, Rosina forced herself to concentrate. She had to get to her kids. They would be home from school, probably in the kitchen raiding the fridge, making a mess but she didn’t care. All she had to do was sneak in, shout hi as she ran up the stairs. Take a quick shower, put on clean clothes, stick the muddy jeans and jacket that was stained with Norman’s groping fingerprints in the washer. Act normal. As normal as anyone could when they’d been propositioned, almost raped, threatened, chased, then to top it off, witnessed a hit-and-run.
