Chain of Vengeance: Chapter One - Part Five

9

 

 

Jack was on his knees, head turned down until it almost touched the rug, sweat rolling down his back and arms, catching in his shirt. His jeans cut into his waist. He tried to focus; failed; tried to focus.

Jack summoned his feelings, trying to picture the love he had felt for Lucy but only the hate was there now.

There was a knock. At the door.

He lifted his torso up, bringing his foot round so that he was crouching. His eyes flicked to Lucy’s body... to her corpse. The knock came again. Jack was on his feet. He stepped back, away from the fireplace, away from the door. A voice called through, muffled: a man. “Lucy?”

Jack looked at the window.

Here, far quicker than he had expected, was the choice of which version of the future he would follow: killer, convict or fugitive.

His eyes to the door, Lucy’s corpse, the window, back again to the door.

His life was over. That was indisputable. It was only a matter of choosing which way it would end.

Another knock and suddenly a fourth option came to mind and Jack realised with absolute conviction that it was the only choice he could make. The suspension bridge was not one hundred yards away. He could see the struts through the warped glass. He started to move toward the window.

He had taken a life and now he would give one back. There would be no humanitarian imprisonment; no rehabilitation; no fugitive life or cover-up. He was going to pay – now – with the only currency he owned that was worth a damn. He would pay for his crime WHATEVER THE COST.

The knock came again. Jack steeled himself. He had made his choice. Nothing could stop that now. He was ready.

But he couldn’t go out through the door. The window was the only way, even though he was two storeys up. He marched toward it then stopped. There was no catch built into the frame; it was sealed. He remembered now how hot he and Lucy had been the night before with no way to bring fresh air in. There was no way to open it at all.

The handle rattled in the door. Jack looked back at it, desperate; then he turned again and looked at the window.

 

 

10

 

 

The sound was breaking glass: in the room; too much of it to be something small; the window? Sam raised his hand to the door but stopped short of knocking.

“Lucy!”

No answer. He rested his palm flat against the wood. Dark in the corridor; no more sound from the other side of the door.

“Lucy!”

Nothing.

Sam glanced down at the handle; the dog-eared do not disturb sign with a tear half-way across the middle. He stepped back a metre and raised his knee then kicked next to the lock. It didn’t budge. He kicked again; some give this time; kicked a third time and the frame splintered. The door cracked open six inches. He pushed it back slowly, tilting his body into its shadow to provide cover.

Breeze on his fingers. The window was smashed open. No glass on the carpet.

He cleared the door. Bed; single armchair; second hand books in a slanting shelf unit; ornate fireplace.

Then he saw her.