Someone Else's Skin by Sarah Hilary Page B

ambulance crew had said it was too soon to start asking questions about the stabbing. ‘Simone? How did she get the knife?’
    ‘It was a test, to see if she dared . . .’ Simone’s voice dropped to a hot whisper. She rubbed her hands at her forearms, hidden by the sleeves of her sweatshirt. ‘She told me things he’d done . . . Things you wouldn’t want to believe. He must have thought he had broken her. That she wouldn’t dare . . . He didn’t think she’d dare . . . He thought he’d broken her in a thousand pieces, but sometimes . . . when you are broken . . .’
    She drew her hands from her sleeves, knitting her fingers into a fist. ‘You mend hard.’

13
     
    The rain had stopped, street lights sitting in flooded puddles in the road. It was dark enough now to remove the cap – I ♥ London – as long as he kept low in the car seat.
    He’d thought when it got dark that it’d be easy to see what was going on inside the refuge, but they’d pinned some thick stuff over the windows and all he could make out were shadows moving in the rooms at the front.
    He couldn’t stay much longer, not today. Things to do and he’d promised he wouldn’t be late. This was his life now: always making promises, most of them to other people, but some to himself. Like this one, here and now.
    Waiting for his chance, with her.
    He chewed at his left index finger until he tasted blood. In the mean spill of light from the street, the hand was ugly, clawed like an old man’s arthritic paw. He balled it to a fist, pictured smashing it into her . . .
    It calmed him down.
    The anger was like a new baby; sometimes you had to let it bawl itself out. When he was calmer, he put the finger back in his mouth and sucked at the blood.
    He’d missed something, when he was avoiding the police cars, waiting for the sirens to shut up. After the ambulance took the big bloke away. It flicked across his mind: Who was that? What happened to him? But he didn’t really care. It didn’t matter.
    What mattered was the unmarked Mondeo.
    When he’d driven back round to the front of the refuge, that was when he saw . . .
    The Mondeo had moved. It was parked in a different spot, facing the other way. Same car; he’d checked the registration.
    What if they got to her before you could?
    While he was skulking around the corner, the Mondeo had gone and come back. What if he’d missed her, if the police got to her first? Just for a second, relief had squirmed in the pit of his belly, before he made himself remember what she’d done and why he couldn’t let it alone; the promise he’d made to himself.
    The police were still here, which meant she was still here. She wouldn’t dare leave the refuge alone, he was sure of that. She knew he was coming.
    He’d had fun writing the warning note.
    You fucking evil bitch your dead.
    Gripping the pen in his left hand – in what was left of his left hand – pretending to be some arsehole who couldn’t spell, in case she decided to show the note to someone. He knew she’d know who’d written it.
    He hoped she was afraid. He hoped she was shitting herself with fear.
    She deserved it. For what she’d done.
    She deserved everything he’d promised himself she’d get.
    You think your safe. Think again.

14
     
    From everything Marnie had said about Ed Belloc, Noah had pictured a big bear of a man, cuddly and capable. Asexual.
    Ed, when he came, was five foot ten. Slim and soaked, rain running down his face, making a skullcap of his dark hair. He shook himself like a dog on the doorstep of the refuge, lifting a hand in greeting at the blurred lens of the CCTV.
    Noah buzzed him into the building, fetching a towel from the nearest bathroom.
    ‘Thanks.’ Belloc scrubbed the towel at his head, offering his free hand. ‘Ed. You must be DS Jake.’ His hand was thin and chilled.
    ‘Noah. Can I fix you a cup of tea?’
    ‘Great. Thanks.’ Ed mopped the back of his neck. ‘Where’s