Fully English

CHAPTER 2

"Get out," I hiss. I don't know why but my voice won't bellow any louder than an angry whisper; I am suddenly out of breath, the world is swirling and I cannot centre myself.

"I'm not here to–"

I repeat my previous demand, my voice suddenly hoarse and unfamiliar to even my own ears. I bury my hands in my pocket and feel for my phone, unlock it, press the bottom right corner of the screen on what I hope is the number 9 three times. I need to call the emergency services – police or ambulance I'm not sure.

"Karma, I'm not –"

"Stay away from me!" My fingers drag the cutlery drawer open of their own accord and before I know it I am clutching the handle of a knife and pointing the blade to this man. This serene, stranger of a man. I hope I dialled 999 correctly and they hear this exchange. The yelp of a distressed woman at the mercy of a quiet, unknown assailant. She is in danger and in need of urgent attention right now. "Leave me alone!"

"Karma!" Damon outdoes me with his yell. His voice quakes off the walls and into my very bones. "Calm the fuck down!"

I've riled him up. The sight of my knife and my mighty tone have done the trick in getting him to yell at me and verify the story I will tell the police.

I found a strange man in my flat, we got into a heated verbal exchange and I feared for my life so I stabbed him in self-defence.

That sounds about right. He fits the description of an intruder – young, black, male, suspicious. I only hope the cops don't think we know each other. In an area where minorities are few and far between, it was easy to assume that two black individuals in a room together in the same flat must be friends, family, lovers or acquaintances at least. And those keys. I needed those back. They couldn't be found on his person when they did the post-mortem.

I hang up the phone and stalk towards him. I can't corner him or it won't look like a struggle. I run the knife under some water so it splashes about, push the plate-laden dish rack onto the floor and watch the ceramic smash into pieces. It had to look like a struggle. I grab the orange juice I was drinking and pour it over my blouse, throw the glass so it misses Damon's head and disintegrates into shards when it hits the wall.

His eyes bulge and the realisation that I am crazy sinks in but he's no longer stunned by my behaviour. Almost as if he expected this. I walk past the kitchen counter, kick out a leg so it tips the coffee table and everything on it. The flowers, unanchored from the soil, scatter across the rug to produce a mosaic. The soil, like sand, spreads in all directions to surely ruin the carpet and I lunge at Damon so he steps in it, the base of his shoe leaving an impression that even the most virgin of detectives cannot miss.

Should I yell for help?

The tell-tale sound of sirens should be coming any minute now. Need I make a ruckus? My account of events may not serve as enough for the jurors that will hear this case. I need witnesses, onlookers, passers-by to recognise that something disastrous is happening on Floor 3, Block A of Jupiter Terrace. Sucking in a breath, I reveal my stomach and swipe it with the knife, unleash a scream, knock my head on the wall behind me, scratch my neck until it draws blood and dart for Damon. With a look of horror he flings his body back, swerves and tries to get past me. I match his step but his stride is wider and he manages to get a head-start to the door.

I almost throw the knife at his back. With my immaculate aim I could easily sever his spinal cord. I was the favoured pitcher whenever we played rounders at school: I knew how to strike out any batsman with a slanted throw so this was hardly a challenge. The nape of his neck was probably the best place to aim – it was bare so no material would disrupt the journey of the blade into his body. It was too easy. So easy that I stopped mid-stance and let him flee.