Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘Call me Laura.’ Her eyes lingered over his, then she hurried out, grabbing a white coat from a hook as she went.

Brook looked after her. ‘Laura — beautiful name.’

Denise Ottoman had blinked in disbelief at the crowds outside the police station. There were journalists screaming questions at her, including that pushy one from the Telegraph with the yellow teeth. Then photographers and cameramen pointed bright lights in her face and shouted ‘This way, Denise’ or ‘Over here, Mrs O’. She hadn’t given a comment, not from choice but from sheer befuddlement. Even more bewildering were the dozens of people gathered outside the gates cheering, some carrying hastily produced placards with various slogans: ‘Go Jo Den. You got the X Factor.’ ‘Scum in fear, the Reaper’s near’ and the cryptic ‘Sugar and spice, all throats sliced’.

Even at home there were well-wishers and back-clappers, though the two uniformed officers managed to get her inside unmolested. Hours later, she was sitting up in bed with a mug of cocoa, pulling her legs into her chest as hard as she could. It was nearing midnight — the telephone was off the hook and the freshening wind had dispersed the crowd who had gone to their own beds. Denise took a sip of lukewarm cocoa. No sleep without John.

She put her cup on the floor and just lay in the dark with her eyes closed. A creaking noise above opened them. A prolonged scrape followed a second later. She switched on the bedside lamp. It didn’t come on. She peered at it in the gloom. The bulb was missing so she jumped out of bed and reached for the bedroom curtain, yanking it brusquely to let the moonlight in. A small column of dust falling from the ceiling sparkled in the lunar radiance and Denise followed it to its source. The trapdoor to the loft was shifting as though being lifted from above, and Denise Ottoman wondered if the wind had dislodged more roof tiles.

Then a foot in a black shoe dropped down, followed by a second. Denise shrank to the ground, wrapping the curtain around her, daring neither to look nor look away. Her scream of shock emerged as a mouse-like whimper and her heart skipped as black-clad legs, torso and head fell to the floor.

From the black ball a figure began to unravel like a newborn foal slowly clambering to its feet. Once upright, new lungs inflated with oxygen and new hands mimicked the sensation of first touch. Inch by tiny inch, the figure rotated the half circle to lay eyes on the squirming Denise, her bare feet pushing at the carpet, trying to force herself through the wall behind her.

A black-gloved palm was crossed with flashing steel and Jason’s grinning teeth followed suit.

‘I’m ready, bitch. Are you?’