Back-Slash by Bill Kitson Page A

view of his past, few people would believe he hadn’t murdered Moran.
    The one thing he had going for him was that nobody knew his true identity. Nobody apart from DC Andrews knew his past. How long that would remain secret he couldn’t be sure, but for the moment he had to act normally.
    The lunch dragged, the afternoon dragged, but eventually they completed the final drive before the light began to fade. The guns thanked the gamekeeper and his staff. Sir Maurice paid them, and added the customary brace of pheasant for those who wanted them.
    Myers reached the cottage without knowing anything about the drive home. As he let the dog out of the car she bounded towards the house, then stopped. She began to cast about, scenting. Myers frowned. She normally headed straight inside. Straight for the food bowl. ‘What’s matter, Nell?’
    The dog barked, then began sniffing at the ground. As they neared the cottage door she barked again. Myers looked round. Everything seemed normal. He opened the door and stepped inside. The sitting room looked undisturbed; except for one thing. Myers stared at the armchair; it had been moved. Not much; and not far enough to be apparent to the casual glance. But he’d spent so many hours in that room, he knew to an inch where everything should be. He looked at the carpet. Sure enough the indentations where the chair legs had been were visible. Someone had been in the cottage.
    He got no further with his speculation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a blur of movement. He turned and ducked. The knife that was intended for his throat sliced the air close to his ear.Myers tried to grapple with the intruder; tried to reach the knife hand which was arcing towards him. Suddenly, the assailant’s wrist was grabbed, vice-like; a powerful set of teeth sank deep into his flesh. The attacker wrestled furiously in a vain attempt to loosen the dog’s grip. He swung his fist, and hit the animal on the head. The dog let go and dropped to the ground, stunned. The intruder turned back, sliced again at Myers and made contact. Myers reeled back and fell across the chair, blood oozing from his chest. His assailant saw the dog lumbering to her feet, snarling and baring her teeth. The knife was thrown at the dog, narrowly missing her, as he bolted through the door, slamming it behind him. He ran round to the back of the building, where he’d hidden his car. He reached over into the back seat, grabbed a plastic carrier bag, which he tossed into the thick brambles and put his foot hard down on the accelerator. As he raced past the front of the cottage his eyes were on the narrow, bumpy track. He failed to see Myers stumbling through the cottage door, staring after him.
    Myers stared down at the blood seeping through his shirt. He gently eased the shirt clear and examined his chest. The knife had partly re-opened the gash caused by the chainsaw. The flesh had barely knitted. Now the damage looked even worse. He walked slowly through to the bedroom, trying not to stretch the wound-site. He gingerly peeled the shirt free, using a handtowel to mop the blood from the cut. Another sheet would have to be ripped up to provide a dressing, if only as a temporary measure. One thing was certain. There would be no emergency dashes to hospital this time. Hospital staff would have to report such injuries. Besides which, if what Myers had heard that lunchtime was accurate, it wouldn’t be long before he was being sought by the police. For Stuart Moran to have been murdered in such close proximity would never be seen as a coincidence.
    He needed time, time to think. He also needed to be away from the cottage. Once it had been his refuge against the world. Now it was anything but safe. Above all he needed space to try and work out what was happening. Why had he been attacked? And why had these figures from his past come back to haunt him?
    His first priority was his dog. He had to ensure she was safebefore he could think of