Chapter 36
‘Where is he?’ Finbarr Williams mutters, his voice blurry. ‘Where the fuck is he?’
‘Who?’ Eve whispers, backing away.
‘That little fucker Tom.’
‘He’s… They’ve gone away.’
‘So who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m the tenant. I’m—’
‘Show me.’ He grabs her wrist, holding it so tight that she gasps, and forces her towards the kitchen, where he looks around him balefully. His breath stinks so strongly of alcohol that she turns her head. He drags her to the foot of the stairs and releases her wrist. ‘Gimme your fucking phone.’
She holds it out. He snatches it from her, stuffs it in a pocket, and pushes her towards the stairs.
She climbs and hears him lumbering behind her.
Mutely, she indicates the three cramped bedrooms and the tiny bathroom.
After a few minutes he gives up, kicks Philippa’s door shut, and lurches downstairs again. Silently, Eve follows him.
‘So where are they?’ He sways. ‘Tell me right now, or I give you my word, I will really fucking hurt you.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got a phone number, but—’
His face seems to sag. Then he draws back his arm, steadies himself, and slaps her face. It’s so hard, and so explosively painful, that she almost passes out. For several seconds she can’t see anything. It’s as if phosphor has ignited in front of her eyes, blinding her.
‘I said…’ He grabs her by the throat with both hands and starts to squeeze. ‘Where. The fuck. Is he?’
She gags, can’t breathe, and starts to shake uncontrollably.
There’s a rushing sound in her ears and a sickening darkness at the edge of her vision.
Finbarr Williams’s eyes stare into hers, and Eve knows that she’s starting to die.
Then there’s a screeching howl, a thump, and Pyewacket is hanging from Williams’s face by his claws.
The fingers around Eve’s neck loosen, and she falls to her knees, retching.
Through streaming eyes, she sees Williams writhing on the ground, desperately attempting to tear Pye away as the cat rakes bloody furrows across his face.
Eventually, Williams manages to free himself, hurls Pye across the room, and charges at Eve.
But this time she’s ready. This time she’s holding Philippa’s ceremonial dagger, and as he lurches towards her, she drives it hard into his belly.
He falls on top of her, grunting, his torn face inches from hers, his breath foul, but she holds the dagger’s leather-wrapped hilt in a death grip, drives the blade deeper and deeper inside him, then drags it sideways.
Finally, he rolls off her, sighing. He’s on his back now, blood sluicing from his belly, as Eve drags herself to her knees and raises herself up, the knife held double-handed above her head.
She stares at him for a moment, is flooded with intense longing for Oxana, and with all of her remaining strength punches the blade through his right eye and into his brain.