Ruth Rendell: A Demon in My View

He stood shaking, his back to the door, his hands creeping to shield his face. Out here what chance had he when Stanley came with the new tenant, when trouble broke out between Anthony Johnson and H’s husband? And now the man had reached the head of the stairs and was facing him. Arthur looked into the barrel of a small gun—a pistol or a revolver, he didn’t know which. Television hadn’t taught him that.

“Open that door!”

“I can’t. I’ve no key. I’ve left my key inside.”

“My wife is in there. Open that door or I’ll shoot the lock off. I’ll give you thirty seconds to open that door.”

His front door shattered, swinging on its hinges, would be worse than his front door locked against him. Arthur, who had moved aside when he saw the gun, brought his gaze first to the smooth circle of metal surrounding the keyhole, then, with greater dread, to the smooth metal cylinder pointed at that keyhole. A voice like a woman’s, a victim’s, screamed out of him.

“I can’t! I tell you I can’t. Go away, get out, leave me alone!” And he threw his body, arms upraised, against the door.

Something struck him a violent blow on his back, on the lower left side. The pain was unimaginable. He thought it was his heart, a heart attack, for he felt the pain long long before he heard the report as of a bursting firework, and heard too his own cry and that of another, aghast and terrified. Arthur fell backwards, his hands clutching his ribs. The pain roared in a red stream out of his mouth.

Heavily he rolled down the stairs, blood wrapping his body like a long scarlet scarf. The momentum flung him against Brian Kotowsky’s door and there he felt the last beat of his heart in blood against his hand.