Eye for an Eye

he had spoken in a foreign language, but she picked up the remote from the arm of the settee and the picture disappeared.
    Rain whispered against the window.
    ‘I’ve come for something,’ he said.
    ‘What?’
    He stepped closer.
    ‘Stop.’ She held up her hand.
    ‘You never used to tell me to stop, Alice.’
    ‘Dieter’ll be back soon,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘He won’t like you being here.’
    ‘Dieter?’ Sebbie let out a forced laugh.
    Then her mouth twisted in a thin grimace of disgust. ‘What have you done?’ she said. ‘You look awful. Your hair.’ She screwed up her face and eyed the length of him. ‘You’ve lost so much weight. And your clothes. Oh, my God.’
    Sebbie reached for her.
    ‘Stay away,’ she shouted. ‘I mean it, Sebbie. Stay away from me.’ She placed her hands over her mouth. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘What’s that smell? Oh, my God.’ She closed her eyes.
    ‘Look at me.’
    She shook her head.
    ‘Look at me.’
    ‘Go away, Sebbie. Just go away.’ Then she peered at him through half-opened eyes. ‘Oh, my God. You’re disgusting. Just look at yourself.’
    It may have been her hurtful words that did it. Or her ugly look. Or the pain in his gut that had returned and now burned like a raging fire. But things seemed to happen then, almost out of body, as if he was watching some other person walk forward and take hold of her hair and pull her head back so that he could see the bobble of her throat as she tried to swallow her fear. And it puzzled him that he felt no anger toward her, despite her comments. He had loved her once. A long time ago, it seemed. When things were different. But he felt no love for her now. No anger. No love.
    Nothing.
    Her gaze was transfixed on something by his waist, and he looked down at the black-handled knife in his hand and wondered how it had got there.
    ‘Don’t, Sebbie.’ She shook her head. ‘Please don’t.’
    She was begging him. Alice, who lived in this house with that poncy prick Dieter, was begging him not to hurt her. Something surged through him then, and he pulled her head farther back so the sinews in her neck stuck out in thin cords. Her hands were no longer over her mouth, but raised by the side of her face, as if wanting to tear his grip free but somehow unable to do so.
    ‘Please don’t, please don’t, please.’
    He leaned toward her, and her eyes closed, as if she could not bear the sight of him.
    ‘Open your eyes.’
    Her head shivered.
    ‘Open them.’
    She opened her eyes and stared at the knife in his hand.
    He squeezed her hair, jerked her head. ‘Look at me.’
    She peered at him from behind the pain. ‘I’ll scream,’ she tried. ‘I will. I’ll scream.’ But her words came out in a strangled choke.
    ‘You won’t,’ Sebbie said. ‘You never scream. You like it too much. You’ve always liked it. Haven’t you?’
    He watched realization shift across her face with the slowness of a vanishing smile, pleased that she seemed no longer concerned with his looks or personal hygiene.
    He brandished the serrated blade by her throat, swishing it left then right. Her eyes followed, tried not to lose it, then widened as he brought the blade closer and pressed it against her skin. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
    ‘Please don’t,’ she whispered.
    ‘If I don’t, will you tell anyone about me?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Not even Dieter?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Don’t lie to me.’
    ‘I’m not lying honest I’m not.’ Her voice livened with the glimmer of hope.
    ‘You used to lie to me, bitch.’ He paused, to see if his words triggered her memory. ‘Do you remember?’
    ‘I won’t tell anyone. Cross my heart and hope to die.’
    He turned the knife so that the blade lay flat against her skin. Her carotid artery pulsed with fear. He slid the gleaming metal across her neck and raised a drop of blood from the tiniest of nicks.
    ‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’
    ‘Please. Sebbie. Please.’
    ‘You lied to me about Dieter.’ He ran the blade up her neck and across her jawline so that her tears found their way onto the shining metal.
    ‘I’m sorry—’
    ‘What are you sorry for?’
    ‘I’m sorry for ... for, lying.’
    ‘You lied to me?’
    She hesitated, as if trapped by his question, knowing that any response would only worsen her predicament.
    Then she whispered, ‘Yes.’
    ‘Why tell me now, bitch? Why tell me now that you’re sorry? You weren’t sorry then. Were you?’
    ‘I