SIXTEEN

 

Frank went back into the bathroom and ran some hot water into the sink. He found some cotton wool in the cabinet and gently dabbed at the wound at the back of his head. It was not too bad. More blood than wound. Enough to give him a slight headache. Nothing he could not cope with. All the same, his head felt a little fuzzy, and one of his eyes would not focus properly and kept watering.

            Ten minutes later he was dressed and downstairs. Joanna stood at the stove with her back to him. There was a plate with bacon and fried bread on it. In the pan were two fried eggs. He put his hands around her waist then moved them up to slide over her breasts. The nipples were hard but she pushed him away.

            'No!  You had me your way! If you want to have me again you'll have to do as I say!'

            Every fibre of his being wanted to smack her hard across the mouth, rough her up, work her over again, but he managed to restrain himself. Somehow. This bitch was surely asking for it, wasn't she, though?

After they had eaten she tried the telephone again. Frank listened. The line was totally dead. He checked the cable. It was secure. There was nothing obviously wrong with the overhead telephone lines that served the houses in the lane. The bizarre thing was, he let her try the telephone when he should have stopped her. It was as though he wanted to be caught. He didn't, but even so he could not work out what was wrong. It was as though his brain, as well as his eye, would not focus properly.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, and at the same time wondering why on Earth he was checking the telephone cable when what he should be doing was punching the shit out of her, blacking her eyes, breaking her arms —

                 Abruptly Joanna put on her anorak and shoes.

'Where are you going?'

            'I'm going to the shop.'

'For what?'

'Coffee. Milk.'

He glared suspiciously at her.

'You're going to look for another phone,' he accused her. He had left the gun upstairs, in the bedroom, foolishly. But then, he was Frank Hartford, rapist and murderer. He did not need a gun, for Christ's sake! All he needed was his fists —

Abruptly the room swayed a little and he lurched forward, bumping into the wall. A wave of nausea rose within him. Joanna watched him from the doorway, coolly, smiling, making no attempt to come to his aid.

'You'd better sit down. I won't be long.'

And in that split second, Frank realised that she had hit him much harder than he had first thought. Hard enough to make him start to have doubts about himself. God knew he liked his women to put up a fight, but this was the first time a woman had put up enough of a fight to make him feel dizzy and nauseous. He shot her a venomous look, which served only to make her smile even more, and staggered past her into the lounge, where he collapsed into an armchair, resting his head against the lace antimacassar. The wound to his head felt sticky. He was sure it had started to weep again.

You are gonna pay for this, bitch! You are gonna pay. His eyes held a clear warning, but as they met hers he realised that she was his equal. She was laughing at him, her eyes were laughing at him, laughing —

But there was nothing he could do. His legs had gone to jelly, his head was swimming. He knew she was going to phone the police, knew he should stop her from going out of that front door, but he could not do it. He did not have the strength to get up out of that armchair right now, and now she was standing in the doorway, smiling —