Eye for an Eye

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    ‘Because I failed you,’ he whispered. ‘Because I failed all of you.’

CHAPTER 24
     
    He reached This and That around 9:40. The tinny rattle of the overhead bell and the fragrance of pot-pourri put him at ease through its familiarity. The shop was deserted, except for Cindy.
    She looked up. ‘Hi, Andy.’
    ‘Is Beth in?’
    ‘No-oh.’ Cindy frowned. ‘I haven’t heard from her. It’s so not like her.’
    Gilchrist pulled out his mobile.
    ‘I’ve already tried calling her,’ Cindy said. ‘And left two messages. I even tried your number, but I couldn’t get through.’
    ‘Switched off,’ said Gilchrist. He placed a hand on Cindy’s shoulder and squeezed. Beth’s phone rang six times, then her recorded message cut in.
    He slapped his mobile shut.
    ‘Do you think she’s all right?’ asked Cindy.
    ‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,’ he said. ‘Probably just overslept.’
    ‘I hope so,’ Cindy said, and put her hand to her mouth. ‘I’ve been so worried about her, what with that creep in here the other day. You read about these things, but you don’t think they’re ever going to happen to you.’
    ‘Cindy, I’ll check it out. Okay?’
    She seemed to collect herself. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a spare key to her flat.’
    Outside, he ran down South Street, his mind clattering in time with his feet. In the two years he had dated Beth, she had never missed a day, was never sick, never late, always arrived at her shop at least five minutes early.
    When he reached her apartment, he stabbed Cindy’s spare key into the lock.
    The hallway was redolent of wood polish, its perfume warm from the central heating.
    Heavy silence stilled the rush of his breathing.
    ‘Hello?’
    Nothing. Only the steady ticking of the grandfather clock at the end of the hall, a wedding present to Beth’s parents from her Uncle Alex.
    ‘Beth?’
    The pendulum swung like an inverted metronome.
    ‘Hello?’
    Then Gilchrist caught it, a hint of something out of place, an undercurrent of something sour, a tainted smell that reminded him of a school gymnasium. Stale sweat. His right hand slid to his chest and he wished he had a gun.
    He eased forward. The floor creaked.
    He stopped, listened, was about to take another step when the floor creaked again. Was someone in the living room?
    The door lay open. Not there. Beth’s bedroom?
    He cocked his head, straining to hear. On full alert now. If the creak had been caused by Beth, she would have heard him calling, she would have called back. He passed the spare bedroom door on his left. Ahead, Beth’s bedroom door lay ajar, just a fraction.
    He reached for the handle, heard the rush of movement behind him, lifted his arm in time to deflect the blow to the back of his head.
    Another blow, this time to his shoulder.
    He stumbled against the wall, saw a lump of wood flash at him, felt something explode against his side. He swung his arms for balance, scattering ornaments off an antique table, then fell to the floor.
    He lay there, stunned.
    Legs. Jeans. Tattered and frayed. New trainers.
    He twisted to his side, caught a leg as it swung past his face. He gripped hard, heard a cry, felt the floorboards shudder as a body landed by his side. He fought to hold on but something crunched against his mouth and he lost his grip. Then another hit to his head, as hard as wood.
    His fingers clawed, clutched for some grip, found it.
    Then arms flailing at a casual jacket. Shit. The body moved away from him.
    He followed it up, dropped the jacket.
    A hit to his ribs stole his breath and almost felled him. He saw the next blow coming. A cricket bat. Christ.
    Ducked. It hit the wall by his ear.
    Ducked again. Glass exploded as the mirror shattered.
    And again. Ducked lower. Skimmed off his back.
    He fell to the floor, rolled to his side. The bat thudded the carpet, once, twice.
    He bumped against the wall. Nowhere to go. Lifted his legs.
    Hard wood cracked against his calves.
    He gasped with the pain, shouted, ‘You’re under arrest.’
    The bat hesitated for no more than a second. But long enough.
    He rolled the opposite way, into the far wall, pulled his legs up and over in a backward roll, and jumped to his feet as the bat clattered against the radiator then dropped to the floor. It had been thrown.
    Escaping. Oh no you’re not.
    He dived at departing legs in scruffy jeans that slipped through the doorway and back-heeled the door shut, missed catching his