Jeopardy

©2010 Ian Hobson

Hazel reached the sink just in time; shaking violently, she gagged and then vomited before turning to face the horror once more. The breakfast bar blocked the view of her mother's body, and she momentarily tried to convince herself that she had imagined what she had just found. But, as her eyes focussed on the pale-green vinyl flooring, she saw that she had stepped in the blood, leaving several footprints matching the pattern on the soles of her trainers.

Telephone! In the hallway! Dial 999!

Still shaking, she took two steps forward and then froze as a floorboard creaked overhead. Oh God! Was the killer still in the house? She tried to think, but her mind was almost blank. The house was old; it would often creak or groan, especially at night. But this was daytime. Perhaps her father was upstairs? No, not on a Sunday morning; he would be at the golf course for at least a couple of hours yet.

Unless... no, he was devoted to her mother. She pushed the thought from her mind.

Her heart had begun to pound, adrenalin surging through her veins, giving her a sudden feeling of invincibility. Fight or flight; just as she had learned at university. Instinctively, she turned and reached towards the knife-rack beside the sink. Disregarding the bread-knife, she took the longest of the remaining three; it would be sharper.

Fight or flight? She must get to the phone in the hallway; or at least to her handbag, with her cellphone and car keys. But they were in the hallway too. Think! What would her father do? He had been a fireman in his younger days, and was forever reminding her to always know the escape routes from a building. She tiptoed over and checked the back door; unlike the front door, the way she had entered the house a few minutes ago, it was locked, but the key was hanging in its usual place. She reached for it and then quickly unlocked the door, before slipping the key into her jeans pocket.

The house was quiet; she could hear birdsong beyond the door, but nothing else. Perhaps she had imagined the creaking floorboard. But she couldn't be sure. She crossed the kitchen once more, stepping around her mother's body and the pool of blood. She had thought at first that her mother must have had an accident; cut herself and then fainted or something. But her throat had been cut and, as if that wasn't enough, there were stab wounds in her chest, one of them with a knife still buried deep, its handle bright red with her mother's blood. Who could have done such a thing?

She shuddered then looked away, fighting the urge to vomit again; she had to get to her handbag. If she could retrieve it, she could escape through the front door, or retrace her steps to the back door, run around the side of the house to her car, lock herself in and make the 999 call. Deciding that stealth was better than speed, she opted for the slightly longer way back to the hall, via the dining room. The floor in there was carpeted, unlike the passageway between the hall and kitchen.

But it was in the dining room that she discovered her father's body. She screamed. He lay on his side, with his back against the door to the hallway, his shirt red with blood and his throat viciously cut. She heard floorboards creak again. Someone was coming down the stairs. Shit! She turned and ran back into the kitchen. She had to get out; the killer was coming for her; she could hear him running along the passageway. She reached the back door and opened it just as a tall man with straggly, blond hair burst into the kitchen. He was blood-stained and had a wild, animal-like look in his eyes.

Biting back another scream, Hazel kept moving, slamming the door closed and almost dropping the kitchen knife as she pulled the door key from her pocket. The upper half of the door was glazed with small rectangular panes of patterned glass, and she saw the man reach for the handle just as she inserted and turned the key. The door rattled as the man tried to wrench it open and, through the glass, she could see his face; distorted, angry. Then the pane of glass closest to the lock cracked as he punched it; then it shattered as he punched through it and reached for the key.

Acting instinctively, Hazel slashed with the kitchen knife at the man's hand, and he half cursed, half screamed, as he withdrew it, raking it against a shard of broken glass and leaving skin and blood behind. She grabbed the key and ran and, not daring to try for the front of the house and the road leading down into the village, she headed for the bottom of the garden, hoping that the gap in the corner behind the greenhouse, where the fence met the hedge, would still be there.

It wasn't. The conifers had had almost ten years of growth since she had last been down here. And she was no longer a child, able to slip though a narrow gap and into the field beyond: she was trapped. Still clutching the knife, but stuffing the door key back into her pocket, she ducked down behind the greenhouse, screened by a row of tomato plants. Where was the killer? He must have seen her run down the garden. Turning her head and bending low, she saw that there was a gap, of sorts, between the trunks of the conifers. There was some fencing beyond, but it looked old and rotten.

She threw herself into the gap and wriggled forward. It was dry and dusty under the hedge, and its tiny lower branches scratched her face and tugged at her hair as she reached through to push against the fencing. A post to her right refused to move but, using the heel of her hand, she struck the lower rail until it gave way, allowing her to duck her head under the one above and scramble forward.

She was almost through when she heard a grunt behind her and then felt a hand grasp her right ankle, pulling her back through the hedge. She grabbed the fencepost and kicked at the hand with her free foot until its grip loosened and she was able to pull free. Then, clawing at the earth, she scrambled forward, only to feel the hand take hold of her ankle again. The wooden rail, that she had knocked free from the fenceposts, was just within reach and, dropping the knife, she grabbed the rail, slid it down beside her body and, tilting her head to see her attacker, she rammed it into his face as hard as she could.

The man howled with rage as the timber did its damage: breaking something, his teeth or his nose, Hazel didn't care, he had let go of her ankle again and she clawed her way out into the field, got to her feet and ran.

Half way across the field, she dared to look back, there was no sign of the murderer but she kept on running, heading for the woods beyond and the footpath that led to the nearest properties on the outskirts of the village. But what if the man was local? What if he knew the area and would be able to guess in which direction she would go? She was the only witness. The only one who could identify him.

She had to keep going; get to the nearest house at the end of Shires Lane, where her friend Pauline used to live. There was a young couple living there now; a friendly couple her mother had said. Hazel's eyes filled with tears as a vision of her mother, lying in the pool of blood, came back to her. She sobbed aloud and almost stumbled as she reached the spot where the ground fell away close to the field boundary. There was a new fence there now; smelling faintly of wood preserver. She clambered over and made her way between the trees, soon finding the footpath and turning left. Birdsong filled the air, making the day seem normal; but it wasn't normal: her parents had both been murdered.

She sobbed again, but kept on running. Suddenly a grouse leapt out in front of her, calling loudly and taking to the air, and she almost collapsed with the shock of it. Her heart was racing and her breath ragged. She took a moment to compose herself and then set off again. It would not be much further; another minute or two and she'd be at the end of the lane. In fact, she could just see the house through the trees. Would anyone be at home?

She heard a car in the distance and quickened her step and, as the footpath widened and became a lane, she was glad to see that the car was coming towards her. It was a pale blue car, like her own; in fact... Oh, shit! It was her car, and in the driver's seat was the killer.

His face was bloody and there was a cloth wrapped around his right hand; the one Hazel had cut with the kitchen knife and, as he saw her, he accelerated, giving her no choice but to turn and flee back into the woods. Her only hope was to reach the spot where the trees were too close together to allow a car to pass. But the car was gaining on her, the engine noise so loud, so close; she was not sure that she could make it. There was a gap between a tangle of bramble bushes and saplings to her left, and she leapt into it, almost tripping but managing to stay on her feet and negotiate a large, moss-covered rock that lay in her path.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the car swerve towards her, the killer ignoring the brambles and saplings, his face a mask of shear rage. But he had not seen the rock and, with an ear-splitting crash, the car slammed into it, its front end rearing up. And, for a heart-stopping moment, Hazel thought that it was going to take flight and come tumbling down on her. She screamed and fell backwards onto the ground, but the car had shuddered to a stop and the killer's face had disappeared behind the airbag that had exploded from the steering wheel.

The engine wined, spinning the front wheels, until it stalled as the car slid back to horizontal.

The driver's door swung open then and, no more than eight feet from where the car had come to rest, Hazel pushed herself upright, her heart pounding. But as the killer's right foot appeared beneath the door, something inside her snapped: this man had killed both of her parents and was clearly intent on killing her too. Oblivious to the consequences, she leaped forward, and with every ounce of force she could muster, she kicked at the car door with the sole of her right trainer. At that moment the man's blood-smeared face appeared, and the door slammed into his jaw, knocking his head back and cracking it against the door frame.

With a curse, the man fell back into the car seat. But Hazel wasn't finished with him: she kicked again, and this time it was the man's right shin that took the full force of the slamming door. He let out an agonised cry and then, with blood dripping from his mouth, he again tried to thrust open the door; but hazel kicked again and, as the man made one more attempt to get out of the car, the door hit him full in the face, shattering the window and knocking him out cold.

***

Hazel sat in the Police Station, nursing a cup of tea and staring into space. She had found her handbag in the car, retrieved her phone, and made the 999 call. The man was known to the police. He was an ex-farmworker whose mother lived in the village. After assaulting a farm manager, he had spent time in prison, where he had become addicted to drugs. In his pockets were money and jewellery stolen from her parents' house.

In her mind, Hazel went back over the events of the day. Including what had happened after she had summoned the police and an ambulance. On the floor of the car, beside her handbag, she had found the large kitchen knife that she had discarded as she escaped into the field; the killer must have found it and brought it with him, along with her bag. As she made the call to the police, she had begun to walk back towards the lane but, realising that the killer might regain consciousness and escape, she returned to the car, retrieved the knife, and stood over him, ready to defend herself.

As she waited, every second dragged, but she was determined not to let the killer escape justice. Finally she heard a siren and turned her head towards the sound. But the man must have regained consciousness while she was standing over him, because it was then that he grabbed her ankles, pulled her off her feet and leapt on top of her with murderous intent in his eyes.

But that was his undoing because, as his face came down to meet Hazel's, she thrust the knife at him, and his expression turned to shock as the blade sliced deep into his throat, severing his windpipe and lodging against his spine.