Secret Prey

worst of the beatings she’d taken from him. But she gave him the finger and he ran toward her and when he was close enough, she swung the phone at his head like a hammer. He deflected it with his forearm, then grabbed it, but she held on, screaming, ‘‘Let me go, Wilson, let me go,’’ while he shouted, ‘‘Let go of the fuckin’ phone . . .’’
    He was trying to twist the phone free, and when she held on, he stepped back and slapped her hard, knocking her down. She went facedown, slamming hard into the floor, closing her eyes just an instant before impact, deliberately letting her head snap forward; felt the crunch of her nose, the taste of blood in her nose and mouth.
    ‘‘Oh, Christ . . .’’ She tried to get up and McDonald kicked her and she went down again, and he was shouting into the phone, ‘‘You keep your nose out of this, Helen, this is between Audrey and me, if you stick your nose into this I’ll kick your ass too . . .’’
    Audrey launched herself toward the living room, blood streaming from her nose; the blood left long trails across the gray tile floor and onto the rug. McDonald had hung up the phone, and was coming: she got to her feet, spotted the crystal golf trophy, picked it up and threw it at his head. He ducked, and it bounced off a bookshelf, and he turned and tried to catch it as it bounced across the floor; it was unbroken until the last bounce, when it hit the tile of the kitchen and an arm shattered.
    McDonald groaned and picked up the biggest chunk of it and began blubbering: ‘‘You fuckin’ broke it, you broke my golf man . . .’’
    He came after her hard then, with a balled fist. She screamed at him, ‘‘Wilson, don’t,’’ but he clubbed her with a balled fist, and she crashed into the music stand on the Steinway; more blood spattered across the music books, and she went down again.
    ‘‘Get up!’’ he screamed. ‘‘Get the fuck up . . .’’
    Instead, she tried crawling under the piano, where she wrapped her arms around the pedal mechanism: and a very small part of her mind assessed the damage she had taken, and was pleased.
    ‘‘Get out here,’’ McDonald screamed. He’d fallen to his hands and knees, the golf trophy set to one side, and grabbed her ankle and pulled. She hugged the pedal housing, kicking at his face; he dug his fingernails into the skin of her leg, holding on, pulling, and she jerked her leg up sharply and kicked again, connecting with his hands.
    ‘‘You fuckin’ bitch!’’ he screamed, and he pivoted and began kicking her legs with his heavy bare feet, the kicks landing on her calves and thighs. She abandoned the pedals, crawled toward the other side, where a row of silk plants lined the edge of a low window. Behind her, she left traces of blood; when she kicked his hands off her legs, he’d peeled two-inch strips of skin away and her legs were bleeding profusely; and she was still bleeding from her nose, blowing bubbles of blood out on the beige carpet.
    ‘‘Oh no you don’t,’’ McDonald said, as she crawled toward the plants. He stood up and lurched to the far side of the piano, kicked one of the fake plants out of the way, and stooped over to meet her.
    But she’d already reversed herself and squirted out the other side of the piano; she spotted the broken golf trophy on the floor, picked it up, and turned to face him.
    ‘‘This what you want to do, Wilson?’’ she shrieked. She hit herself in the face with the trophy, and the edge of it cut her cheek from the corner of her left eye almost to her jawline. McDonald had been trying to get across the jumble of plants; now he stumbled, stopped.
    ‘‘What the hell are you doing?’’
    ‘‘I’m beating myself up, so you won’t have to do it,’’ she screamed. ‘‘Here, I’ll do it again,’’ and she hit herself again, slashing back at her skull with the broken edge. This drew real blood, and McDonald gawked at her.
    ‘‘Now,’’ she said, more quietly, ‘‘you take your turn . . .’’ And she pitched the trophy at him, hitting him square in the chest.
    McDonald, reflexes working, trapped the trophy against his chest, still gawking at the bloody hulk of the woman ten feet away. Audrey turned and ran toward the back bedroom, and McDonald, carrying the trophy in one hand, drunk but struggling now for self-control, said, ‘‘Jesus Christ, Audrey, I knew you were fuckin’ nuts, but what the hell is this?’’
    Audrey pushed back out of