John Harvey - Ash & Bone

In the hallway, Kennet kicked the front door closed. It was dark: not black but muted dark. Free newspapers and unwanted mail lay all down one side and underfoot. The air was stale and cold. When Vanessa opened her mouth to shout, Kennet narrowed the angle of his arm against her throat and a constricted choking sound was all that emerged. The knife was steady against the curve of her chin.

'Up!' he hissed. 'Up, up. Upstairs.'

Something seemed to have happened to Vanessa's eyes. The contours of everything – stairs, banisters, the electric flex that hung down to a bare bulb – were blurred. And then she realised she was half-blinded by tears.

Kennet's knee nudged against the back of her thigh.

Again, harder this time.

'Get moving. Go on.'

On the first landing she slipped and her footing almost went, but he held on to her, hauling her back upright. His breath, smelling of beer and tobacco and something else she couldn't make out, was warm and raw against her skin.

'Move. Come on, come on.'

The television was on in the first-floor flat, the sound of laughter muffled and brief. One of the things she'd always liked about the building was that people kept themselves to themselves. If ever she did bump into one of the other tenants a quick nod was all that usually passed between them, occasionally a brief word. Some bland remark about the weather or complaint about the bins was the most any of them had ever exchanged.

She knew she had to get away from him before they reached her own flat and he got her inside. Get away or raise the alarm.

On the final landing, she dug her elbow into his chest as hard as she could and wriggled as she kicked her heel back against his shin, but all that happened was he laughed and increased the pressure on her neck until she was afraid the flow of blood might stop and she would faint.

'Inside. Come on, inside.'

Her fingers couldn't fit the key into the lock until he withdrew the blade from her face and his hand slid smoothly over hers. 'There.' Steadying her until the key slipped in and turned.

'Good girl.'

Vanessa's eyes closed tight.

They were inside.

'Don't switch on the light,' he said. 'Not yet.'

His arm was no longer at her neck and she moved a few stumbling steps away, her hand against her throat. Heard him turn the key in the lock and slip down the catch.

The curtains were open and when she turned there was light enough to see the shape but not the detail of his face. The knife was back in his hand, held low against his side. She thought he was smiling but she wasn't sure.

'Anything to drink?' he said, the ordinariness of the question taking her by surprise.

'What?' A croak of sound and little more.

'A drink. You know, wine, some beer. Vodka, that's your thing.' As if this were normal now, some kind of date. Calling round after the pub. Want to come in for coffee, both knowing what that meant. The features of his face were clearer now and yes, there was a smile playing at the edges of his mouth and around his eyes.

'Look,' Vanessa said, her voice no longer recognisable as her own. 'Why don't you just go? Leave. We'll forget about it, okay?'

'Forget? I don't think so. Not once we've finished. Not once we're through.' He was tapping the knife against his leg. 'Now, what about that drink?'

The bottle was on the shelf unit in the alcove to the left of the gas fire. Stolichnaya, four-fifths gone. A couple of shot glasses alongside. Books, not many. CDs. David Gray. Damien Rice. Norah Jones. Magazines. The telephone was on a low table to the right; her mobile in the inside pocket of her coat. She could hear her own breath reverberating inside her head, against, it seemed, the inside of her skull.

'Just a small one for me,' Kennet said, a smirk just visible on his face.

Unsteady, Vanessa poured vodka into the glass and it spilled over the rim.

'Nerves,' Kennet said. 'Don't worry. Soon take the edge off those.'

She was thinking about Maddy, about what had happened to her. She knew she had to do something now, before it was too late. The vodka bottle still tight in her hand, glass cold and smooth against her palm. Her eyes flicked back towards the door, the key still in the lock.

'Here,' Kennet said, leaning forward. 'Why don't you let me put that somewhere out of harm's way?'

And he lifted the bottle clear and, with a smile, returned it to the shelf.

'That's better,' he said. 'Now we can relax a little. Get to know one another better. What do you say?'

How long they had been sitting there, Vanessa didn't know. Sitting opposite one another, the small table pushed aside. Knees touching. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? More? Kennet talking about this and that, about his work, his holiday in Spain, and all the while easing his hand between her legs, slowly, slowly, forcing them apart, his fingers pressing hard, then soft, before switching his attention to her breasts, and all of this happening, this unwonted fondling, almost casually, without remark.

When he squeezed, finger and thumb, her uncovered nipple, she cried out with a start.

'Sorry,' he said with an apologetic smile. 'Hands too cold. Warm them up a little, eh?' And slid both hands between his thighs, legs closed tight.

Vanessa threw what was left of her vodka in his face, aiming for his eyes, and as she did so lurched sideways, reaching for the bottle on the shelf.

'You bitch!' he said, grabbing at her arm.

Shaking him off, Vanessa swung the bottle as hard and fast as she could against his face. The base struck the temple, just above the eye, and as he staggered back she swung again, teeth gritted, full force, and the bottle shattered against his cheek, driving him sideways through a quarter-circle, left leg folding beneath him, blood streaming from below his eye.

Vanessa dropped the bottle and dashed for the bathroom, feeling for her mobile as she ran.

Two bolts, top and bottom, and she slid them across, leaning her weight back against the door as she dialled 999.

'Emergency. Which service do you need, caller?'

She gave the details as precisely as she could, waiting all the time for Kennet to hurl himself against the door and break it down.

When it didn't happen she began to cry and when she heard the sirens, distant at first, then closer, closer, and then feet loud and heavy on the stairs, she cried louder and couldn't stop, not even when the first officers to respond had convinced her it was safe enough to unbolt the door; not even when she saw the glass, some of it smeared with blood, upon the floor; not till the fresh-faced young PC, barely out of training, so young he looked more like a boy, led her firmly, not roughly, over to an easy chair and sat her down, sat with her holding both her hands and telling her it was all right, it was okay, they'd only got the bastard, hadn't they? Legging it across the Holloway Road and he'd run smack into the side of a bus and cannoned off. On his way to A & E now, most likely, cuffed inside an ambulance. That's it. Go on, cry. Let it out. This kid with bum fluff on his cheeks, still holding her hand while other officers secured the scene.

'The knife,' Vanessa said. 'He had a knife.'

'We'll find it. Don't worry.'

And they did, an hour later, where Kennet had thrown it, in the front garden of the house closest to the main road, hard up against the wall.

The doctor had checked Vanessa over, pronounced her bodily sound, waited while an officer took Polaroid photographs of the marks on her neck, then given her something to help her sleep. But of course she'd hardly slept at all. For half of what remained of the night she lay in bed, knees pulled up close to her chest, trying to blank out the sound of Kennet's voice, the coarse warmth of his breath. For the rest, she'd sat up in her old dressing gown, a blanket pulled round her, staring at the images that moved across the television screen. ITV Nightscreen. Skiing on 4. A signed edition of the Antiques Roadshow, especially for the hard of hearing.