A Lovely Way to Burn by Louise Welsh Page B

against the blackness. A hand reached out and grabbed her satchel. Stevie snatched it free and ducked his blow, hooking the bag’s strap over her head, stringing it fast across her body. She spun in the direction of her Mini and ran, reaching into her pocket for her keys, but her assailant was swift. He caught her by the shoulder. Stevie dug her elbow backwards, aiming at the vulnerable point in his stomach, letting out a yell that stayed in her throat, sudden and airless, held there by a pair of strong hands twisting her scarf tight around her neck. Her heel made contact with her attacker’s shin and he swore: ‘You fucking bitch.’ Her kick seemed to spur him on. He wrapped his arm tight around her neck and leant backwards, still gripping her scarf. His free fist slammed into her solar plexus and he lifted her from the ground, taking her weight on his chest and raising her up, Stevie realised, so that he could let her drop, and allow gravity to do the work of breaking her neck. She kicked out again, but he had levered her free of the range of his body and her legs pedalled uselessly in the air. Her face was touching his. She felt his breath, warm and ragged, close as a lover’s. Wool bristled against her cheek and she guessed that he was wearing a balaclava. She wanted to pull it free, but her hands were intent on scrabbling against his arm, desperate to tear his grip from her throat.
    The muscles in her legs were screaming. Stevie kicked out again, summoning all the stamina wrung from years of spin classes and Pilates sessions. White spots flashed on her retinas. She bucked and buckled, hearing the man’s heavy breathing, knowing that he was growing tired too, and that her only chance was to unbalance him and bring them both down. She was losing consciousness. The laptop battered against her groin and she wished she had surrendered the bag rather than fastening it around her body. She had survived the sweats only to die for Simon’s secret, without ever discovering what it was.
    Stevie hit the tarmac hard. The man’s weight was upon her and she wriggled like a netted fish, struggling to pull herself loose. Someone was shouting in a language she didn’t understand. A boot hit her in the ribs and something gave, but she knew somehow that the kick had been meant for her assailant. Stevie grabbed the balaclava, dragged it off the man and rolled free of the fight. She scrambled to her feet. One of her shoes had got lost in the struggle. She tore the other one off and threw it at the man on the ground.
    Jirí was on top of him now, putting his fist into her attacker’s face. The security guard’s body interrupted her view of the man, but she got an impression of broad, pale features beneath a shock of bright hair. Jirí looked up at her, ghost-white in the dark, and shouted, ‘Run!’ Stevie held on to her battered ribs and made for her car, pressing the key fob in her pocket, sobbing with relief at the electronic beep that told her the doors were unlocked. Someone was shouting behind her, but Stevie didn’t look back. She scrambled behind the wheel, locked the door and fumbled her keys into the ignition, swearing at her own clumsiness. The engine caught. Stevie shifted the Mini into gear, reversed out of the space and skidded across the car park, turning the headlights to full beam.
    The security guard was alone on the tarmac, clutching his bloodied face and trying to get to his feet. Stevie swerved around him and caught her attacker in the shaft of her headlights. She saw his face, his open mouth and panicked eyes, and knew she had never seen him before, but that she would recognise him again. Stevie pressed her foot hard on the accelerator, hearing the engine whine as she ripped through the gears. ‘Fucking bastard.’ Her lips moved but her throat was raw, and no sound came out. The man was zigzagging now, trying to evade the beam of light. Stevie lost him for a second, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck , and then caught his