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Authors: Luis Miguel Rocha
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with his fists. Her heart was racing. Slippers in hand, she crept to the second floor, while the stair planks creaked, giving her position away.
When she reached the second floor, she heard the front door screeching, being forced open. Going to her room, all her senses alert, she was overcome by fear.
The intruder was ambling around the first floor, not even trying to hide his presence. Sarah felt totally helpless, panic-stricken. A red curtain, identical to the ones downstairs, filtered the light, giving the room a surreal feeling. She opened it noiselessly. The black car was still down there. Its sinister stillness contrasted sharply with her agitated state. Don’t let fear take over, she told herself. “Come on, use your head.”
What could she do? “There’s always a solution. If you can’t go out one way, try another,” her grandma used to say, “Try another way. . . .” In her grandma’s house she could get out through a window on the second floor because of the short hop to the hillside in back, but in this house, in the absolutely flat capital of the UK, it wasn’t the same, the jump was too high. There’s always a solution, she kept thinking, and recalled a standard British regulation, the mandatory emergency exit. Since the great fire of 1666, when everything was made out of wood. There had to be an emergency exit. But where? This floor had no doors to the outside. The windows did not open enough and were too high. Maybe . . . from the bathroom, that’s it. She knew that the bathroom window opened wide, and had next to it, anchored to the wall, a wrought-iron ladder—the emergency exit!
“Thanks, Grandma,” she muttered.
Taking a deep breath, Sarah looked toward the bathroom, right there in front of her. All she had to do was get across the hallway and in, past the door. Just moments away from salvation.
One, two, three, she counted mentally, and started running. The intruder was climbing the stairs fast. She went in and tried to open the window. Not easy. It hadn’t been open for years and there was no way she could unlock it. Applying all her strength, making a superhuman effort was of no use. Or so it seemed, while she kept desperately trying. The footsteps were getting closer. The intruder was now walking slowly. In the hallway, the man in a black overcoat put the silencer on his gun.
Sarah stood against the bathroom wall. Perhaps there was still time for something. If she could break the glass . . .
One more step, then another. The floor planks creaked, her teeth chattered, she was about to lose control. Fear was tearing her apart. The bathtub seemed safer. She thought she heard the would-be murderer breathing. He’s used to this kind of thing. He’s a professional, she thought.
“There’s always a solution . . . for everything.” Sarah felt she could hear her grandma repeating. “For everything. Except death.”
With a sudden inspiration, Sarah quietly slipped out of the bathtub. Her eyes had fully adapted to the dim light. She searched about for something. The dryer? No. The shower spray? No good. Towels, perfumes, creams. No, no, no. Helpless, she leaned against the wall by the basin. Next to her, at eye level, she saw the extinguisher. That was it. If you think there won’t be a struggle, you’re dead wrong, she told herself. He had to be about three yards away from her. One step, two yards . . . another step, only one yard . . .
She quickly shot a cloud of foam. The intruder did not seem to react instantly, perhaps waiting for the haze to dissolve. But Sarah again squeezed the extinguisher lever. And waited for the intruder to show himself, to let himself be heard.
“Where are you?” he whimpered.
It all ended very quickly. Through the vanishing vapors, Sarah saw a black-gloved hand holding a gun. She threw the fire extinguisher directly at the man’s head. But he ducked.
Sarah heard two shots. She let out a muffled cry. Is this what being shot twice feels like? No
When she reached the second floor, she heard the front door screeching, being forced open. Going to her room, all her senses alert, she was overcome by fear.
The intruder was ambling around the first floor, not even trying to hide his presence. Sarah felt totally helpless, panic-stricken. A red curtain, identical to the ones downstairs, filtered the light, giving the room a surreal feeling. She opened it noiselessly. The black car was still down there. Its sinister stillness contrasted sharply with her agitated state. Don’t let fear take over, she told herself. “Come on, use your head.”
What could she do? “There’s always a solution. If you can’t go out one way, try another,” her grandma used to say, “Try another way. . . .” In her grandma’s house she could get out through a window on the second floor because of the short hop to the hillside in back, but in this house, in the absolutely flat capital of the UK, it wasn’t the same, the jump was too high. There’s always a solution, she kept thinking, and recalled a standard British regulation, the mandatory emergency exit. Since the great fire of 1666, when everything was made out of wood. There had to be an emergency exit. But where? This floor had no doors to the outside. The windows did not open enough and were too high. Maybe . . . from the bathroom, that’s it. She knew that the bathroom window opened wide, and had next to it, anchored to the wall, a wrought-iron ladder—the emergency exit!
“Thanks, Grandma,” she muttered.
Taking a deep breath, Sarah looked toward the bathroom, right there in front of her. All she had to do was get across the hallway and in, past the door. Just moments away from salvation.
One, two, three, she counted mentally, and started running. The intruder was climbing the stairs fast. She went in and tried to open the window. Not easy. It hadn’t been open for years and there was no way she could unlock it. Applying all her strength, making a superhuman effort was of no use. Or so it seemed, while she kept desperately trying. The footsteps were getting closer. The intruder was now walking slowly. In the hallway, the man in a black overcoat put the silencer on his gun.
Sarah stood against the bathroom wall. Perhaps there was still time for something. If she could break the glass . . .
One more step, then another. The floor planks creaked, her teeth chattered, she was about to lose control. Fear was tearing her apart. The bathtub seemed safer. She thought she heard the would-be murderer breathing. He’s used to this kind of thing. He’s a professional, she thought.
“There’s always a solution . . . for everything.” Sarah felt she could hear her grandma repeating. “For everything. Except death.”
With a sudden inspiration, Sarah quietly slipped out of the bathtub. Her eyes had fully adapted to the dim light. She searched about for something. The dryer? No. The shower spray? No good. Towels, perfumes, creams. No, no, no. Helpless, she leaned against the wall by the basin. Next to her, at eye level, she saw the extinguisher. That was it. If you think there won’t be a struggle, you’re dead wrong, she told herself. He had to be about three yards away from her. One step, two yards . . . another step, only one yard . . .
She quickly shot a cloud of foam. The intruder did not seem to react instantly, perhaps waiting for the haze to dissolve. But Sarah again squeezed the extinguisher lever. And waited for the intruder to show himself, to let himself be heard.
“Where are you?” he whimpered.
It all ended very quickly. Through the vanishing vapors, Sarah saw a black-gloved hand holding a gun. She threw the fire extinguisher directly at the man’s head. But he ducked.
Sarah heard two shots. She let out a muffled cry. Is this what being shot twice feels like? No
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