Chapter 45 Damon
Damon
My neck ligaments stretch like he is trying to rip my head off.
But unlike the last time he attacked me, my awkward positioning weakens his grip, so he isn’t strong enough to completely overpower me.
I dig my fingers into the tendons of his arms and he loosens his hold ever so slightly.
Enough for me to reach out and press the car’s ignition button.
‘I told you last time, this isn’t a game, but you didn’t fucking listen,’ he snarls, throwing his body towards me inside the car to try to undo my seat belt.
I still have no idea what he means, but I don’t have time to figure it out.
I know I’m no match for his brawn, so instead of trying to push him off me, I push the gearstick paddle on the steering wheel into reverse, then slam my foot on the accelerator.
The car shoots backwards, as does my confused attacker as he is pushed along by the driver’s door, until there’s a crack of bones and crunch of metal when his body and the door collide with a concrete post. He crumples to the ground like a bag of bricks.
I scramble to close the door, but for an excruciating moment my savaged ribs won’t allow me to do anything but shriek in pain.
And when I do finally get hold of it, I learn the door’s hinges must have overstretched because the damn thing won’t shut.
‘Shit!’ I scream and shift gears instead, this time lurching forward.
But I know I won’t be able to get the vehicle out of the narrow car park with a wide-open door, so I hit the brakes again.
I desperately try to close the door again, but it won’t budge.
A movement in the rear-view mirror catches my eye.
My dazed attacker is slowly climbing to his feet.
It’s him or me.
A new sensation comes over me. One that I’m unfamiliar with. Panic and fear have made way for anger. I want, I need, to hurt this man.
I slip the car into reverse and floor the accelerator.
He can’t move quickly enough. The rear bumper hits him with such force that he vanishes from view – under my wheels, I can tell by the way the car heaves beneath me.
My knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel and shoot forward again, my tyres bumping over him before I manage to stop the car.
My stare is fixed on the rear-view mirror and the reflection of the motionless heap lying on the ground. I can’t leave here without knowing if he is alive or dead.
Slowly, I exit the car. I’ve watched enough films to know this is the part where the bad guy springs back to life, but I can see from here the unnatural twist in his neck and part of his cracked-open skull. Not even the toughest Hollywood bad guy could survive the damage he’s suffered.
My rage slips away and I return to myself.
But I’m conscious I don’t have time to dwell on what I’ve done.
It’s far too late for me to call an ambulance, and I know the police will say I’ve gone beyond what constitutes self-defence.
Also, if any of my neighbours in the flats above suddenly appear to pick up their cars, then I’m done for.
I need to save myself and dispose of his body right now.
I look around me and clock the bin storage section in the corner of the car park.
I grab him by the ankles, but one of them is broken and moves like jelly.
My stomach churns when I realise we are not alone.
Someone is watching me. I turn, and see my mum.
It’s a relief, as if she’s here to assure me I’ve done the right thing.
That I had no choice. However, she makes no attempt at communicating this.
Instead, she watches as I set to work covering my tracks.