Heathen/Nemesis

Seventy-Eight

Farrell lunged at her, his face contorted in an expression of pure hatred.

His grunt of anger mingled with Donna’s own shout of surprise and Julie’s scream.

Donna jumped back, pulling the book with her, allowing it to fall to the floor with a crash.

Farrell leapt over the desk, not sure which to grab first, Donna or the Grimoire. He launched himself at Donna, who managed to avoid his rush, seeing him crash into the figure holding the castrating irons. An arm broke off and the metal implement went skidding across the dusty floor. Donna snatched it up as she saw Farrell reaching inside his jacket, pulling the .45 free.

She swung the castrating iron with all her force and caught him across the back of the hand, the clang of metal on bone reverberating through The Torture Chamber.

The gun flew from his grasp, but instead of trying to retrieve it Farrell came at her again.

Donna swung the iron again. This time she caught him in the face with it.

The blow split his cheek almost to the bone and blood burst from the wound and ran down the side of his face. Grabbing the book, Donna dashed past him towards the door where Julie was waiting.

‘Get them,’ roared Farrell. As if from nowhere, Ryker and Kellerman appeared from the shadows. Like two spectres rising from the umbra they rose up before the women.

Donna pulled the .22 Pathfinder from her handbag, thumbed back the hammer and fired twice. The first shot carved a path through the shoulder of Ryker’s jacket without touching flesh; the second missed both men and blew the head off the model of Torquemada.

Ryker dived to one side but swung his foot at Donna and managed to trip her.

She pitched forward, the gun falling from her grasp and skittering across the floor. As she hit the ground, she fell on top of the Grimoire.

Ryker leapt on her, trying to wrestle the book from her grip.

Julie kicked out at him, catching him in the groin, but then she felt powerful hands fastening around her throat as Kellerman grabbed her.

‘You cunt,’ he hissed, squeezing until his fingers pressed deep into her windpipe.

White stars began to dance in front of Julie’s eyes; no matter how she scratched at his hands she could not break his grip.

She was helpless, supported by the hands but dying because of them.

Donna pushed Ryker off her and scrambled to her feet, seeing that Farrell was now about to free himself and join the fight, blood pouring down his face. But it was Julie she was concerned with.

Kellerman was tightening his grip on her throat, squeezing until Julie’s eyes bulged madly in their sockets as she fought for breath.

Donna looked around for the gun and saw it. She dived onto the floor, snatched up the Pathfinder and rolled over. She fired once, and more by luck than judgement the bullet hit Kellerman in the shin, just below the left knee. The sound of the pistol was deafening inside the chamber, but even above the roar she could hear the strident crack of splintering bone as the tibia was shattered by the bullet.

Kellerman shrieked and released his grip on Julie, clapping his hands to the wound. Blood ran through his fingers as he crashed to the ground, clutching the ragged hole.

Julie, too, had fallen to the ground, barely conscious. Donna tried to help her up but felt herself grabbed from behind by Ryker.

She pushed herself backwards and both of them went hurtling over the low chain that separated them from the exhibits. Donna landed on top of Ryker, winding him as he took her elbow in his chest. Again the gun slipped from her grasp.

Farrell was out of the cage by now, racing towards Julie, the .45 out and lowered at her.

He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her to her feet, the barrel of the pistol pressed to her temple.

‘No,’ Donna shouted, trying to struggle away from Ryker, ‘leave her alone.’

Kellerman was groaning loudly, his lower leg smashed by the bullet.

Ryker made a grab for the book but missed and overbalanced, crashing into the guillotine display. He cracked his head on one of the sharp corners and went down in a heap, clutching his throbbing skull.

‘Stop.’

The voice boomed out, filling the chamber.

Both Donna and Farrell turned towards the entrance.

Francis Dashwood moved slowly into the chamber, closely followed by Richard Parsons.

Dashwood was smiling.