“Put the light on damn it!” he snarled. “I can’t see a bloody thing!”
The sudden bark made her jump. Her hand dived for the light switch, flicked it, but nothing happened. She’d forgotten about the dead bulb, something else he’d blame her for. But it did give her an idea. Fingers skipped to the door power switch, flicked it off. Then they were back to the one that operated the light – on, off, on, off... ”It doesn’t seem to work,” she started, then was adding: “Maybe it’s the fuse.”
Michael had somehow managed to retrieve the keys and had worked one into the lock. Ignoring his wife’s words, he jerked the door open and lumbered into the house. “I’ll bring your things, shalI I?” she called after him. No reply. A quick glance at the open roller door seemed to impart a sense of pending freedom, confirmation that her decision to disable it was wise. At least one part of her plan was in place. Much of the rest hadn’t been formulated yet. It all depended on Michael.
She was going for his suitcase and the duty-free's when he bellowed. “Estelle! Bloody get in here!”
The voice was easily loud enough to hear, but there was little doubt that it was from deep within the house. Her hands were outstretched in the direction of the car and had frozen in mid-air as if casting a spell. “ESTELLE!!!” Obviously it wasn’t working. Forget the case and booze - just look after yourself! The street looked even more appealing now. Not yet. Then she was darting into the house.
It was all perfectly scripted, this film noir, too predictably sinister. Where else was there to go but the bedroom? She arrived on cue, breathless, heart pounding and hovered nervously in the doorway. The heavy silence waited for effect. When he finally spoke, it was in a voice which was unexpectedly quiet, knowing. "Where is it, Estelle?” He was beside the walk-in robe, fists clenched at his sides, rage fettered but seething. “Where the bloody hell’s my case?"
Lips flapped and eyes blinked rapidly as she played for time. "Oh, sorry, Michael. It's still in the car.” Worth a try, maybe, if it gave her the second or two she needed. I'll go and fetch it for you." She had psyched herself up to make a dash for it, but he beckoned her with a finger, a demeaning gesture warning of dire consequences if it was ignored. Despite being the worst thing she could do, she felt herself moving into the room towards him.
He was leering, self-satisfied with his power over her. "Quit screwing around with me, Estelle. You know the one I'm talking about. It was in back of the wardrobe next to yours. Now they're both gone. What d'you think you're playing at?"
"I... I d-don't know what you..."
His face shocked her into silence. The smugness had vanished. For a moment it appeared as if he was going to explode. Then a vagueness descended as if something had just occurred to him which was far more important than the loss of his precious suitcase. His arm shot out and an extended finger pointed at her. “Don’t you move!” Turning, he blundered to the cabinet beside the bed and stooped to grab the bottom drawer.
Estelle couldn’t breathe. Neither could she make herself run. This part had to be witnessed, despite knowing how it would end, perhaps in the hopes that divine intervention might produce a quiet miracle. Maybe George Truscott's passport would re-appear in the bottom of the drawer and Michael wouldn’t murder her.
His hand plunged beneath the pile of material. With a bestial growl, he dragged the contents out savagely and turned the drawer upside down. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he pulled out the next two drawers, tipped them out, then tossed them aside. With the final one in his hand, he stood up, emptied it, then threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a splintering crash and flew apart. So much for miracles.
"You sneaky, interfering bitch!" He had begun to advance on Estelle, slowly at first. "You couldn't leave it alone, could you? Had to poke your silly little nose in. Well, you've done it this time."
Estelle's every move as she backed up was being tracked and duplicated by Michael. His hands were claws at his side, and the fingers were flexing continually, exercising, preparing for action. "Michael, I..." The time for displays of innocence and naivety were past. The situation had been grossly underestimated. There was a price to be paid and he intended to claim every last cent. "Don't, Michael. Please!"
He backed her along the hallway and into the dining room, eyes glinting with insane pleasure as she stumbled against the table. She felt her way round it, panic barely restrained, never daring to turn away from him. He reached the first of the chairs and flung it sideways into the front of the china cabinet. Estelle flinched and gasped at the sound of smashing glass. Michael enjoyed that. "You're going to tell me what you've done with my things, Estelle," he warned smugly. "I guarantee it."
"I d-don't know w-where they are, Michael."
"Then I suggest you try to remember. Otherwise you can look forward to a long, painful night!"
"Honestly, Michael__!"
"Are you DEAF?" he roared as he dived for her.
Estelle almost made it clear, but he managed to catch hold of the back of her dress, spinning her off course and into the door frame. He stumbled against her, hands groping and clawing. Terrified, she brought a knee up into his groin. He doubled over and started to gag. She snatched the opportunity and surged into the lounge.
Barking a shin on the coffee table, she continued to hop her way through to the entrance hall and limped hurriedly to the front door, whimpering and sobbing. It was locked! Damn! Damn! The side door would have been a better option, the sensible one. But who was thinking? Then it didn’t matter because he was there, blocking her escape.
He too was limping, stooping slightly, eyes bloodshot, voice a series of panting growls issuing from lips moist and dripping like those of a rabid dog. He coughed. "Last chance," he rasped as he continued to lumber towards her. “Where are my things?” A metre away, he began to straighten. A hand reached out.
"Michael! No, Michael! For God's sake__!"
"Too late for him - and you," he snarled as he lunged for her.
His hand glanced off her cheek, making head and senses reel. Another blow sent her toppling to the floor. A warm void rolled in, whispering promises of everlasting safety and comfort. Consciousness began to fade and with it any good reason to survive. A small inconsistency crept in to mar the perfection, a sensation of growing pain which incited dissension and panic. Her own voice broke the spell, a howl to pierce the deepest slumber. Her hand went to her scalp, could feel his clenched fist - he was pulling her along by her hair! "Bastard!"
"Believe it!" he snarled. "You’ll be calling me a lot worse before I’ve finished. You're a stupid, lying Bitch, Estelle, and very soon you're going to wish you'd never been born!"
He meant it, every word of it. Nothing was more obvious, and it was probably this thought which gave Estelle the courage and strength to do what she did next. As he was dragging her past the telephone table, she grabbed for it and pulled with all her might. The table swung around and toppled. There was a yelp from Michael. The hand grasping her hair had suddenly gone. A second later there was a heavy thump followed by a howl.
Estelle rolled and stood, all in a single movement. There was no time to think, just run - and she chose the wrong way, right past where Michael was lying. A hand shot out and clamped around her ankle. Air burst from her lungs as she landed flat on her face. Michael released his grip and began clawing his way up her legs, making it impossible to drag herself free.
Flesh was pinched and bruised as he turned her over, then he was straddling her stomach. "I want my stuff, Estelle." A swinging backhand smacked across her cheek. "And you are now going to tell me where it is." He sat, rocked sideways to fumble in a trouser pocket and withdrew a cigarette lighter. “In fact...” Fingers gathered in the open panel of her dress and tore it down. The lighter flicked on. It was the kind that gave off a blue flame and roared like a blow-torch, taunting, threatening. “...you’ll be begging to tell me.” Nails raked flesh as he hooked up the bra strap.
If the memory of pain was insufficient motivation, the dread of a higher level not yet