Eye for an Eye

could breathe in the fresh air of a new day, smell the raw dampness of a new morning, see the orange rising of a new sun.
    Dear God, just one more time.
    So she did as he demanded.
    She took off her clothes, folded them and laid them in a neat pile on the chaise longue by the window. Then, with solemn deliberation, lay on top of her continental quilt, naked. She watched him place his knife on her dresser and come to her. She fought back the urge to retch from his sour smell that told her he had not bathed for days, even weeks. He crammed a silk scarf over her mouth, his filthy fingernails almost touching her tongue, then pulled it so tight that it cut into the corners of her lips. His smell was in her nostrils, his taste in the silk, and she forced her thoughts away from his stench, knowing that if she threw up he was cruel enough to watch her choke to death on her own vomit.
    But once tied down, she watched him study her spread-eagled genitalia in uninhibited closeness, felt the warm brush of his foul breath, saw his eyes light with desire at the knowledge of what was to come, and realized the fatal error of her surrender. With a force that almost stopped her heart, the reason he had made no effort to conceal his face struck her.
    He was going to kill her anyway.
    Panic set in then, and as she struggled against the bondage she realized she had been tied with slip knots that tightened the more she fought.
    Then he took himself out.
    She held still then, afraid that struggling would only excite him more, and tried to pull her knees together in a vain attempt to hide her nakedness.
    His head jerked to the side.
    Beth heard it, too.
    The dull crack of a door opening. Then a call.
    She tried to scream, but it came out in a whimper. A sweaty hand smothered her mouth, the hand that had been holding his penis, and she thought she was going to choke when his hair fell into her eyes, dark clumps, thick and clotted. He swore at her, pushed himself to his feet, and rushed to the dresser. He reached for his knife, fumbled it off the edge, and failed to catch it as it fell down the back.
    Beth could not interpret the gamut of emotions that twisted his features then set into a look of cruel determination. He moved toward her and she felt certain he was going to strangle her. Then he reached for her father’s old cricket bat that hung above the headboard ...
    ‘Here we go, love,’ said Browning. ‘I’ve made us both a cuppa,’ pouring weak tea from the pot. She stopped midstream, gave the bags a swirl. ‘Milk and sugar?’
    ‘The knife,’ whispered Beth.
    Browning looked puzzled. ‘What knife?’
    ‘The one he used to threaten me. It fell down the back. Behind the chest of drawers. Next to the wardrobe.’
    Without another word, Browning stood and left the room.
    Beth stared after her. The knife would give the police fingerprints. But what if that was not enough to convict him? What if they needed more? She closed her eyes and felt tears spill down her cheeks. She had almost convinced herself that nothing had happened, had almost convinced Browning, too. But an examination would reveal the truth.
    Saliva.
    They would find his saliva. They would find his saliva on her. They would find his saliva on her when they swabbed her vagina. She could no longer hold back the sobs and felt her head roll into her hands, as if her neck was no longer capable of supporting its weight. A low groan escaped her lips as she recalled black eyes looking up at her, then closing in sick ecstasy as his mouth rested upon her and his tongue pressed and flicked and entered her, slurping and sucking like a starved dog.
     
    Doctor Matthews studied the X-rays and frowned. ‘You’re extremely lucky, Mr Gilchrist. If this man had not brought you here when he did, you could have slipped into a coma.’ He glanced at Stan, who returned a wry smile. ‘As it is, you’ve suffered severe concussion. But nothing seems to be broken.’ He grimaced down at Gilchrist. ‘How do you feel?’
    Gilchrist patted the back of his head where his hair felt short and spiky from being shaved. He fiddled with a plaster of sorts that seemed lumpy and hard. ‘How many stitches did you say?’
    ‘I didn’t. But you’ve got eighteen at the back. And six behind your left ear. We’ll have those out in a week or so.’
    Gilchrist touched his ear.
    ‘You’ve been doped up. You won’t feel much until it wears off. When it does, it’ll hurt. Take one of these in the