Not Dead Enough

his right wrist, hit her body somewhere, swung it again, trying desperately to wrench his arm free from her teeth. Hit her again. Then again, crying out in pain himself.

    Roy! she thought desperately, biting harder, harder still, trying to bite his bloody arm off. Please come, Roy! Oh, God, you were on the phone. If you’d just stayed on one second longer. One second—
    She felt the blow on her left breast. Then on the side of her face. Now he had her ear, was twisting it, twisting, twisting. God, the pain was agonizing. He was going to wrench it off!
    She cried out, released his arm, rolling away from him as fast as she could, scrambling for the hammer.
    Suddenly she felt a grip like a vice around her ankle. She was jerked sharply back, her face scraping along the floor. As she turned to resist, she saw a shadow hurtle at her face, then felt a jarring, blinding, agonizing crunch, and she was falling on to her back, giddily watching down-lighters in the ceiling hurtle past above her, out of focus.
    And now she could see he had the hammer again, was on one knee, crouching, levering himself to his feet. And she was not going to let this creep get the better of her, was not going to die, here in her home, was not going to let herself get killed by a madman with a hammer. Not now, especially not now, just at this moment when her life was coming together, when she was so in love—
    A weapon.
    There had to be a weapon in the room.
    The wine bottle on the floor by the sofa.
    He was on his feet now.
    She was by the bookshelves. She pulled a hardback out and flung it at him. Missed. She pulled out another, a thick, heavy Conan Doyle compendium, getting on to her knees and launching it at him in one movement. It hit him in the chest, making him stagger back a couple of steps, but he was still holding the hammer. Moving towards her.
    Now through her pain and anger she suddenly felt scared again. Looking desperately around, she saw Fish’s empty tank on the table. Lunging forward, she seized it, lifted it up, water sloshing. It was so damn heavy she could barely hold it. She swung it at him, hurtling the entire contents – several gallons of water and the pieces of miniature Greek architecture – at him. The weight of the water took him by surprise, knocking him back several steps. Then, with all her strength, she threw the tank at him. It struck him in the knees, bowling him over backwards like a skittle, with a muffled, angry howl of pain, then shattered on the floor.
    Still holding the hammer, somehow, he was already starting to get back on to his feet. Cleo stared around frantically again, trying to work out her options. There were knives in the kitchen. But she would have to pass him to get in there.
    Upstairs , she thought. She had a few moments on him. If she could get upstairs, into her bedroom, lock the door. She had the phone in there!

    Staggering to his feet, ignoring the excruciating pain, the sound of his breathing echoing all around him as if he were in a diving chamber, he watched, with pure, utter hatred, tinged with a degree of satisfaction, as her bare ankles and feet disappeared up the stairwell.
    And a deep stab of lust.
    Nothing up there, sweetheart!
    He knew every inch of this house. Jangling in his trouser pocket, inside his protective suit, were the keys to the roof door and to the locks of all the triple-glazed windows. Her mobile phone was lying on the sofa next to an open folder containing some project she appeared to be working on.
    He was aroused now. She had put up a spirited fight, just like Sophie Harrington, and that had been a very big turn-on. He smiled at the thought of the nights he had slept with Sophie Harrington, when all the time she had thought he was Brian Bishop.
    But the biggest turn-on of all was now. The knowledge that in a few minutes he would be making love to Detective Superintendent Grace’s woman.
    Evil creature.
    You’ll think twice before you ever call anyone an EVIL CREATURE again, Detective Superintendent Grace.
    He limped forward, his left shin in particular hurting like hell, knelt and unplugged the phone jack from the cordless base station. As he stood up again, he saw a jagged rip in his left leg, just below his knee, with blood leaking out. Too bad, nothing he could do about that now. Carefully, he placed his foot on the first tread of the stairs. It wasn’t so easy in this gas mask, as he could not see directly down in front of him very well.
    In addition