Land of the Living by Nicci French Page B

with the tips of my fingers.
    I looked in the direction the man had always come from. There was a closed wooden door with no handle on the inside. I tried to grasp it with my fingers but I couldn’t get any purchase. I needed something quick. On the other side of the room there was a dark doorway. I walked across and looked through it. I couldn’t see anything. The idea of walking into the dark seemed horrible. The only way out I was sure of was the closed wooden door. Maybe it was the only way out. Was there any sense in getting further away from that possible means of escape?
    I was panting and shivering and sweating. The beating of my heart was echoing in my ears but I tried to stop and make myself think. What could I do? I could hide somewhere in the darkness. He might think I’d gone and run out, leaving the door open. It seemed hopeless. He would probably just switch a light on and catch me straight away. I could find some weapon. I could hide by the door and really smash him when he came in. That was so tempting. Even if it failed, and it surely would fail, I would have a chance to damage him and that was what I wanted to do more than anything. I wanted to rip the flesh off his bones.
    No, the best chance must be to try to get out through that door while he was away. I didn’t know if the door was actually locked. I felt around on the floor for something I could use to lever it open. I touched some useless pieces of wood and then felt a strip of metal. If I could hook that on to the door, I could pull it. Or if there was a latch on the other side, then I might be able to push the strip through the crack in the door and raise it. I came close to the door and felt for the crack. I was about to slip the strip through when I heard a sound. I stopped breathing and listened. There was no doubt. I heard the rattle of a door opening, footsteps. I almost sank down on the floor in tears.
    The whole idea of staying by the door and wrestling with him was just stupid. I tiptoed across the room into the awful darkness. If it were just a closed storeroom I would be trapped like an animal. I ran through into what seemed like a corridor. There were entrances on either side. Get further away. Buy myself some time. He might have to search them. I ran along to the back where there was a wall. There was a doorway on either side. I looked through the left. Nothing but dark. Through the right. There really was something. I could see a light. Up in the wall across the floor. Through some sort of glass. Behind me, far behind me in the darkness, I heard a noise, a shout, a door, footsteps, and from then on everything was like one of those nightmares in which things happen in the wrong order, in which you run as fast as you can but the ground has become like soup and you don’t get anywhere, you are pursued and don’t get away. I left it to some primitive, instinctive part of my brain to make the decisions and save my life. I know that I grabbed something and there was the sound of shattering glass and I was pushing myself through a gap that felt too small for me but I was through and there was a raking pain along my body and there was something wet. There was a banging noise somewhere. It was behind me. And shouting.
    I ran up some steps. I could feel wind. Air. I could feel outside. There were lights in the distance. I ran and ran towards them. Running in a dream. Running past objects and not seeing what they were. Running because if I stopped I was dead. My feet, in their socks, stumbled and tripped on the cold ground. Pebbles and sharp objects bit into them. He would be fast. I had to run randomly in different directions. I wasn’t able to see properly. Those days underground. The lights hurt my eyes like a flare through frosted glass. I heard my own footsteps, unnaturally loud even without shoes. Just keep on running. Don’t think about where it hurts; don’t think about anything. Run.
    Somewhere inside me I knew that I needed to