Page 3 of A Dark Fall
Eddie shrugs. “Yeah, but I know it. I could go out of my way.” He pulls his shoulders back, and his mouth lifts into a smirk. I’ve no fucking clue what he’s trying to do, but it doesn’t fucking matter. He’s already lost.
“What the fuck did you say to me?” I feel my face contort, my breathing quicken, my blood begin to boil.My question makes out as if I didn’t hear him properly, but I did. That’s why my feet carry me across the room toward his pasty, lying fucking face. It’s why he backs into the kitchen, arms spread out in a fighting stance. His misplaced smirk is still there, but it’s fading. He thinks he has something on me, that he’s taken back a bit of control. He hasn’t. Not even fucking close.
I watch as Eddie reaches into the knife stand and pulls out a black-handled blade, thrusting it out toward me. He’s not quick enough though. I stamp on the side of his right calf hard, and he goes down on it, the sound of bone crushing beneath my feet a comfort to my ears.The knife stand topples uselessly out of reach on the vinyl floor, spilling knives everywhere, but nowhere near him. He shouts something, but I can’t hear him because the pounding rage in my ears and behind my eyes is way too loud. I can’t see anything except his cowering body as my feet pound into it again and again.
He’s not that small, but he looks tiny as he cowers under my feet now, holding his leg while he shouts in agony. What the fuck did he think was going to happen? Did the piece of shit actually think he had an inkling of leverage over me?
Kevin is somewhere to my right, no doubt watching, waiting for his chance to jump in, but he knows not to come near this now. Now, he’ll need to stand there and enjoy the show. The kind of show I know he enjoys.
I hear Sharon’s high-pitched scream, but it’s faraway, and there are a lot of louder noises now. My foot cracking Eddie’s ribs and face, for example. His groans of pain at each thrust of my boot on his body.
Then I feel something pinch at my neck. I ignore it initially. My red rage isn’t even partly penetrated by it. But then it gets really quiet all of a sudden. Sharon stops screaming. Eddie stops shouting—and moving. I look around at Kev who stares at me wide-eyed as he holds Sharon tight against his chest, one arm around her throat, the other around her body to restrain her arms. She looks terrified, but she’s not looking at Eddie who’s silent and still on the floor; she’s looking at me.
Suddenly, I feel heat and warm wetness begin to spread down my back and chest. Then I feel a draft on my neck as if someone’s blowing on it. When I look down and see a dark stain growing wider and brighter on the front of my top, I bring my hand up to my neck. The drafty sting there is hot and wet.
“I ... didn’t ... You were going to kill him. You wouldn’t stop ...” Her voice is panicked, barely-there. I snap my eyes up to find her looking very pale and very, very sorry.
The next ten minutes happen in a haze, as though I’m drunk, which I’m not. I’m losing blood though—fast. Because a woman I slept with and didn’t call afterward just stabbed me in the neck. I’ve also most likely kicked her husband into a coma. It’s probably fair to say I’m off the Cartwrights’ Christmas card list.
This is not how the night was supposed to turn out. I’m normally the calm one—in comparison to Kev anyway. I’m the yin to Kevin’s yang.
Paul gets called in from the car. He drives Eddie to the hospital before he dies and I make even more of a mess. Then Kevin and I stumble the short distance to the doctors’ surgery two streets over from Eddie’s place. I can’t go to the same hospital as Eddie and explain why I’ve got a hole in my neck, and the next closest is too far away. Sharon assures us the surgery runs a late drop-in, and by the sound of her terrified voice, I’m inclined to believe her.
She stabbed me. Unbelievable. I almost respect her for it. She protected her man. A woman prepared to kill for her man ... or maim at least. From her perspective, I guess I deserved it.
I feel a bit sick and cold too, my legs shaky as though I’ve done a few hours on the weights, but the adrenaline still pumps as Kevin helps me up the front steps of a converted townhouse that has a sign reading “Eastwoode Surgery” on the window. There’s a light on inside, but the door is locked when we try the handle. Great. Though, I guess the hole in my neck can’t be too bad. She couldn’t have nicked an artery, otherwise I’d be dead by now.
Kev bangs on the door as I hold my hand to my neck to stop any more blood from escaping. It’s not flooding out, but it’s a slow, consistent pour.
“We’ll get them to fix you up, and then we’ll fuck off before they get a chance to call anyone,” he says. He sounds relaxed, not in the slightest bit concerned by the hole in my neck. It can’t be that bad then. But Kev has a habit of looking relaxed in the face of utter destruction, so I can’t exactly use it as a measure.
Vaguely, I wonder how the fuck Sharon managed to stab me in the neck while he was standing there eating his fucking crisps. That’s a conversation for later though.
“And what if there’s only a cleaner inside?” I choke out.
This was a bad idea. I should have gone to the fucking hospital. I should have called Sharon after I fucked her.
“We’ll see if she has superglue and masking tape.” He barks out a laugh, relaxed as ever. It’s comforting. He bangs again before I finally hear the lock turn from inside.
When it opens, I decide not to risk looking up and having anyone see my face. I need to get fixed and out of here before this shit gets any messier. It’s already far too messy. I shouldn’t have lost it like that. I’ve normally got way more control. I need to have more control.
Then she speaks. My body relaxes instantly, a weird calmness settling over me.
She confirms she’s a doctor before ushering us both inside. Her voice is calm and low and sort of husky, and it reminds me of the soft, contented purr of a cat. She sounds young from what I can tell, and well-spoken. Her tone is professional but somehow still manages to be sexy. From money, I reckon. I want to look up and see the face that goes with the voice, but I don’t want to risk her seeing me or at least being able to identify me with any certainty later on. Safer for everyone that way. Instead, I look down at my hands, which are covered in blood, the knuckles aching and throbbing. They’ll be worse later once the adrenaline fades away. Everything will be worse later. Fred is not going to be happy about how this went down. I still don’t regret kicking the lying shit’s head in though.
I keep my eyes down and see creamy, smooth bare legs leading into what look like designer purple heels. They’re suede, I think. I seriously must be half-dead because I’m not thinking straight—what the fuck do I know about women’s shoes? Though, the legs make me wonder if the face is as fit as the body. She says something about an ambulance, and I shake my head and say no, and Kev clarifies it in his distinct growl. Ambulances lead to police, especially in this kind of circumstance. The knife wound to the flesh circumstance.
Plus, for some reason, I want her to fix me.
She sits me on the table and presses something soft, a scarf maybe, into my neck. It smells of flowers and soap powder, and it feels soothing and warm against the draft at my shoulder. She orders Kev to hold it tight against me and goes off toward another room.
“No calling anybody. No cops, no ambulance, no one. You fucking hear me?” Kev says harshly. Way too harshly. Not fucking on.
When I hear her walking away, I glance up and see the back of a tall, dark-haired woman with an amazing arse walk into an office across from us.
“Watch the tone, Kev, yeah?” I choke out. “She’s helping. No need to fucking terrify her to death.”
“Making sure she doesn’t call the pigs, Jay,” he grunts.