Ruthless - [35]

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Layla glanced over her shoulder – and felt a bolt of terror shoot up through her entire body.

He was only a couple of metres behind her, and accelerating. He was reaching out to grab her.

Layla jinked like a thoroughbred refusing a fence, swerving left, out of his reach. He stumbled forward, swearing, wrong-footed.

She ran on, fear giving her extra speed, a voice inside her head repeating, I can’t keep this up.

Would she make it home, get to her front door?

And – oh Christ – where was the door key? It was in her trainer where she always put it. She was going to have to stop, get it out, stick it in the lock, open the door… and he was so close. Too close.

Her pulse was hammering. She was sweating and straining and her legs felt like lead. She was tired. Nearly done for. And having been wrong-footed once, he had stepped up the pace, determined not to let her escape him next time.

This was what happened to people, they were snatched and never seen again.

A memory stirred: a cellar, a knife, hostile strangers who had hurt her.

No. Not again.

He was close behind her as she tore out of the park and on to the pavement, so close that she could hear his every breath. Any minute now, and he would make another grab for her. The road they were on was lined with parked cars. If he succeeded in dragging her into a car, that would be it.

She could see the house now, the big William and Mary mansion with its dark blue door. Lengthening her stride, she willed herself to keep going. Every step jarred her body, and he had closed the gap still further, his hand was snatching at her shoulder. Sobbing with panic, she was almost at the bottom of the steps, but he was snatching at her, she could feel his fingers on her shoulder, trying to get a grip.

Layla knew that she would never make it up the steps, would never get the key in the door.

She was finished.

Except…

She stopped dead. Dropped to her knees, curled into a tight ball. Felt a huge impact on her back, heard a loud ‘Feck!’ and then her pursuer went flying over the top of her.

Irish?

She couldn’t even pause to consider that. Scrambling to get her trainer off, trembling fingers fumbling to fasten on the key, she saw him hit the pavement hard. There was a dull thud and she heard all the breath go out of him in one almighty whoosh.

Gripping the key tightly, she dropped the trainer. He was getting to his knees, cursing with a steady monotony that unnerved her. She stumbled to her feet. He was glaring at her with murderous eyes. There was blood around his mouth. He spat out a tooth, broken in the impact when he hit the pavement.

He lurched towards her, grabbed her ankle.

Layla shrieked and hit his face with the key. He let out a yell. Released his grip. She bolted up the steps, flung herself at the door. Tried to get the key in the lock. Her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t get the damned thing in.

And he was coming up the steps.

She could hear him, so close now, she had nowhere left to run.

Panting like a hunted animal, she found the keyhole at last, turned the key, pushed, shoved the door open and fell inside, then smashed the door back, hard as she could against his body.

He was too big for her, too strong…

He was pushing the door open, she was trying to get it shut, they were both heaving and swearing and straining.

Layla still had the key in her hand. She took a sobbing breath and reached round the door and stabbed him straight in the eye with it. He screamed and floundered back, losing his footing.

Layla slammed the door shut.

Locked it. Slapped on the chain.

She slid, quivering and panting, down the wall beside the door and sat there on the cold marble of the hall with one trainer on and the key in her fist. He hammered on the door once, hard.

Layla scuttled away from it with a shriek of fear.

Then there was silence.

What the hell was that?

Slowly she pushed herself to her feet. She wasn’t going out to collect her other trainer. No way. She limped up the stairs, shaking like an old woman, heading for the shower.

‘What the fuck happened?’ Dickon asked when his companion flung the driver’s door open and fell into the seat.

Rufus slammed the door shut and sat there, blood trickling down his face, one eye scrunched shut.

‘Little fecker got away,’ he gasped, touching a hand to his watering eye. ‘How does my eye look? Hurts like buggery. She hit me. Is it OK?’

‘You were meant to grab her – what went wrong?’

‘She was too fecking fast.’ Too fast and too clever. He wasn’t about to say that, though. He had some pride. He was mopping at his bloody mouth with a handkerchief. ‘Shit, I’m bleeding.’

‘She hit you, did she? So you were close enough to grab her.’

‘Look,’ snarled Rufus, ‘it didn’t work out, that’s all. We’ll do it next time.’

‘Yeah, but next time she’ll expect it.’

‘Shut the feck up, will you?’

‘And I tell you, she ain’t going to be happy about this.’

That evening, Layla opened the front door, peering nervously up and down the road before venturing on to the steps. No one ran at her, no one shouted. She sprinted down and grabbed the trainer, shook the rain from it. As she did so, a tiny green paper four-leaf clover fell out, and fluttered to the ground. She picked it up. Stared at it. And then she raced inside, locked the door and put the chain on.