Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

There wasn’t any pain, just a coldness and a sense of shock. And an awful sense of violation. This isn’t happening. But it was. I sucked in air to shout or scream, but managed only a choked gasp. I clutched hold of the knife’s handle, feeling the hot sticky wetness of my blood smearing both our hands, gripping it as tightly as I could as Grace tried to pull it out. I held on even as my legs sagged under me. Keep hold. Keep hold or you’re dead.

And so is Jenny.

Grace was grunting as she tried to tug the knife free, following me down to the floor as I slid down the wall. Then, with a last frustrated gasp, she gave up. She stood over me, panting, her mouth contorted.

‘He let me go!’ she spat, and I saw the tears running in parallel tracks down her cheeks. ‘He killed himself but he let me go!’

I tried to say something, anything, but no words would form. Her face hung above me for a moment longer, ugly and twisted, and then it was gone. The doorway was empty, the sound of running feet a fading echo on the street.

I looked down at my stomach. The knife handle protruded from it, obscenely. My shirt was soaked through with blood. I could feel it under me, pooling on the tiled floor. Get up. Move. But I no longer had any strength.

I tried to shout out. All that emerged was a croak. And now it was growing dark. Dark and cold. Already? But it’s summer. There was still no pain, just a spreading numbness. From a nearby street, the chime of an ice-cream van drifted cheerfully on the air. I could hear Jenny moving around on the terrace, the tinkle of glasses. It sounded friendly and inviting. I knew I should try to move, but it seemed like too much effort. Everything was growing hazy. All I could remember was that I couldn’t let go of the knife. I didn’t know why any more.

Only that it was very important.