‘Hey, fuck-head,’ Bridget said suddenly from across the room. ‘Why don’t you just shut up and get on with it?’
Bishop froze for a moment, then slowly looked over at her. She hadn’t moved yet, she was still sitting on the floor with her hands behind her back, as if she was still tied to the radiator. Only now, unbelievably, she didn’t look scared or shocked … she just looked utterly disdainful.
‘I mean, Christ, all this talking,’ she said, sneering at him. ‘Yack, yack, yack … it’s just so fucking boring.’
Bishop’s face visibly darkened, as if shadowed by a passing cloud, and as he turned away from me and began heading over to Bridget, I could have sworn that the room got colder. He didn’t hurry, he just walked silently across the room, pausing only to pick up the carving knife from the coffee table. Bridget watched him all the way, her eyes never leaving his, and I knew that she had to be scared to death — she had to be — but there was no sign of fear in her eyes.
Bishop stopped in front of her — the knife in one hand, the pistol in the other — and for a moment or two he just stood there, glaring down at her, his eyes unblinking, his body unnaturally stiff.
‘God,’ Bridget sighed, staring back at him and shaking her head. ‘You really are pathetic, aren’t you?’
His lips drew back over his teeth and an awful hissing sound came from the back of his throat, and just for a moment I thought that she’d left it too late, but just as his body tensed and he raised the knife to strike, she whipped out her hand and buried the lock-knife deep into his thigh. As he let out a shriek and staggered backwards, Bridget jumped to her feet and lunged furiously at him again, stabbing the knife into his belly. He groaned and sank to his knees, dropping the gun and the carving knife from his hands, and then — with a scream of rage — Bridget drove her fist into his face.
‘Bastard!’
And again.
‘Fucking BASTARD!’
And as he toppled over, collapsing to the floor and covering his head with his hands, she just went berserk — kicking him, stomping on his head, punching him, slashing him with the knife … all the time screaming at him like a banshee. ‘YOU! DIRTY! FUCKING! DIRTY! FUCKING! BASTARD!..’
She was killing him.
He’d killed her dog.
She was going to kill him.
And I knew exactly how she felt. He deserved to die, he needed to die … he would die. Just like Anton Viner. But I also knew what killing Bishop would do to her, how it would take something away from her, how it would leave her — like me — with a ruined soul … and she didn’t deserve that.
‘Bridget!’ I called out.
She stamped on Bishop’s head.
‘Bridget!’
She kicked him viciously in the balls.
‘BRIDGET!!’
She paused, momentarily confused, and looked over at me. Her teeth were bared, her hands covered in blood. Her eyes were white and wild.
‘It’s all right,’ I said softly. ‘You can stop now.’
She shook her head. ‘He killed Walter.’
‘I know, but — ’
‘He killed Walter.’
‘Yes, I know. But right now I need you to help me.’
She looked down at Bishop. He was curled up on the floor at her feet, beaten and bloodied, not moving … it was hard to tell if he was alive or not.
‘Bridget?’ I said gently.
She looked back at me, her eyes unfocused.
‘Can you come over here and cut me free?’ I said.
She nodded, but didn’t move.
I smiled at her. ‘Please?’
She started walking towards me, stumbling slightly on the way.
‘It’s OK,’ I said to her. ‘Just take it easy …’
‘I’m all right,’ she muttered, crying now.
‘I know.’
‘I just … he killed …’
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘It’s over now … it’s over. I just need you to cut me free, all right? Can you do that?’
She stopped in front of me and looked down at the lock-knife in her hand. She seemed puzzled, as if she couldn’t understand why she was holding it, or why it was covered in blood.
‘Come on, Bridget,’ I said. ‘Please …’
She looked at me, blinking slowly. ‘Yeah, sorry … sorry …’
As she moved round the back of the chair and began cutting the cords from my wrists, I looked over at Bishop. He hadn’t moved. He was still just lying on the floor, a bloodied mess, but I could see now that he was breathing. He was still alive.
I could feel Bridget sawing away at the cords on my wrists.
‘How’s it going?’ I asked her, wincing slightly as the knife nicked my hand.
‘Yeah …’ she muttered. ‘Sorry …’
‘It’s all right. Just keep going.’
I felt one of the cords snap, and then another … and then, at last, my hands were free. As I brought them round in front of me and began rubbing them together, trying to get the blood flowing again, Bridget came round from the back of the chair, crouched down at my feet, and started cutting at the cords round my ankles. There was an unsettling obsession to her movements, a traumatised concentration in her eyes … and I knew she was suffering badly.
I reached out and gently placed my hand on her shoulder.
She flinched.
‘Hey,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s all right. It’s me …’
She hesitated for a moment, then looked up at me. Her face was streaked with blood and tears. ‘He killed Walter, John,’ she said, her voice a broken whisper. ‘He killed Walter …’
I sensed rather than heard the sudden rapid movement behind her, but even as I looked up and saw Bishop lunging towards us, I already knew I was too late. Before I could do anything to stop him, he’d grabbed Bridget by the hair, yanked her away from me, and was dragging her violently across the room. He looked monstrous — soaked in blood, beaten and battered, totally insane — and as he manhandled her across the floor, he was snarling at her like an animal.
‘Fucking bitch … cunt … fucking whore …’
I went after him, throwing myself across the room, but my feet were still tied to the chair and I crashed down heavily to the floor. I quickly scrambled to my knees and reached back to my feet, yanking desperately at the half-cut cords, but they wouldn’t give. I looked across the room and saw that Bishop had stopped by the far wall. He still had hold of Bridget’s hair, and as I started crawling towards them, pulling myself along with my arms, dragging the chair behind me, I saw him lean down and spit in her face.
‘Open your mouth, cunt,’ he hissed at her.
‘Fuck you,’ she said, spitting back at him.
He stared insanely at her for a second, and then — with a savage grunt — he swung her head back and slammed it hard against the wall. The impact was sickening, a shuddering crack of bone on brick, and I watched helplessly as Bridget dropped to the floor in a lifeless heap.
I was still only about halfway across the room, and as Bishop turned away from Bridget and began looking around, I thought he was looking for me. I stopped crawling and stared at him, expecting him to come after me, but when I saw him look my way, his eyes passed over me as if I wasn’t even there. And then I got it. He wasn’t looking for me — he didn’t give a shit about me — he was looking for the carving knife. He wanted to finish off Bridget with the knife. And as his eyes widened and he set off across the room — hunched over, clutching his belly, limping heavily — I knew that he’d found it. I could see the knife too — half hidden behind the settee — and I knew I couldn’t crawl fast enough to stop him getting to it … or to stop him getting back to Bridget with it.
I had to free my legs.
If I didn’t …
I sat up and started pulling frantically at the cords, yanking at the knots … but the cord was made of nylon, the knots too tight … I glanced over my shoulder and saw Bishop bending stiffly to pick up the carving knife. He paused for a moment, stepped behind the settee, and leaned down again to pick up something else. When he straightened up and turned back towards Bridget, I saw that he had the carving knife in one hand and the pistol in the other.