Hand in Glove

Chapter One There it was: the same sound again. And this time she knew she was not mistaken. Sharp metal on soft wood: the furtive, splintering sound of the intrusion she had long foreseen. This, then, was the end she had prepared for. And also the beginning. She turned her head on the pillow, squinting to decipher the luminous dial of the clock. Eight minutes to two. Darker--and deader--than midnight. A muffled thump from below. He was in. He was here. She could no longer delay. She must meet him head-on. And at the thought--at the blurred and beaming clock-face before her--she smiled. If she had chosen--as in a sense she had--this would, after all, have been the way. No mewling, flickering fade from life. Instead, whatever was about to follow. She threw back the covers, lowered her feet to the floor and sat upright. The drawing-room door had been opened--cautiously, but not cautiously enough to escape her. He would be in the hall now. Yes, there was the creak of the board near the cupboard under the stairs, abruptly cut short as he stepped back in alarm. "No need to worry," she felt like calling. "I am ready for you. I will never be readier." She slid her feet into their waiting slippers and stood up, letting the night-dress recover its folds about her, letting the frantic pace of her heart slacken. There was probably still time to pick up the telephone and call the police. They would arrive too late, of course, but perhaps . . . No. It was better to let them believe she had been taken completely by surprise. He was on the stairs now, climbing gingerly, keeping to the edges of the treads. An old trick. She had used it herself in times gone by. Another smile. What use was reminiscence now, far less regret? What she had done she reckoned, on the whole, she had done well. She reached out and picked up the torch from the bedside cabinet. Its barrel was smooth and cold in her grasp, as smooth and cold as . . . She set off across the room, concentrating on action to deflect any doubts that these last moments might bring. She had left the door ajar and now, raising it fractionally on its hinges, swung it open in absolute silence, then stepped out on to the landing. And froze. For he was already rounding the bend near the top of the stairs, a black hunched shadow visible only because she had known he would be there. Her heart pounded in her throat. For all the preparation--for all the rehearsal--she was frightened now. It was absurd. And yet, she supposed, it was only to be expected. As he reached the landing, she raised the torch, holding it in both hands to stop it shaking, and pushed the switch with her thumb. And there, for an instant, like a rabbit in a headlamp, he was caught, dazzled and confused. She made out jeans and a black leather jacket, but could not see his face clearly past the object he was holding up to shield his eyes. Not that she needed to, because she knew very well who he was. Then she recognized what he had in his hand. One of the candlesticks from the drawing-room mantelpiece, his fingers entwined in its brass spirals. It was upside-down, with the heavy sharp-rimmed base held aloft. "Hello, Mr Spicer," she said in as steady a voice as she could command. "It is Mr Spicer, isn't it?" He lowered the candlestick an inch or so, struggling to adjust to the light. "You see, I knew you were coming. I've been waiting for you. I could almost say you were overdue." She heard him swear under his breath. "I know what you've been paid to do. And I know who's paid you to do it. I even know why, which is more, I suspect, than--" Suddenly, time ran out. The advantage of surprise expired. He launched himself across the landing and seized the torch from her grasp. He was stronger than she had supposed and she was weaker. At any rate, the disparity was grGoddard, Robert is the author of 'Hand in Glove ', published 2006 under ISBN 9780385339216 and ISBN 0385339216.