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He put the slat under his arm and, using it as a makeshift crutch, clumped slowly towards the bedroom door, holding his bad foot off the floor.

Mary listened to the slow, heavy tread as he made his way to the front of the cabin.

Now she was alone.

He’s Getting Away

Mary waited, the room now fully dark. Outside she heard movement in the kitchen; that must be Ryan, her husband, a man she now realized she had barely known at all.

She thought about her life. Born in Barrow, her childhood and teenage years spent in the same neighbourhoods that she now lived in, four years at a liberal arts college in Vermont, then a law degree and eight years working in Boston before she met Eddie and embarked on their short and unsuccessful relationship.

Unsuccessful as a relationship, yes, but it had left her with Otis and Sally and she had realized quite early on that that was enough for her. It was not easy to be a single mom, but she was happy. She enjoyed it being the three of them, enjoyed the tightness of their bond. Yes, the kids would complain about brushing their teeth, or tidying their rooms, or having to go to bed at a reasonable time, but at the root of it all was a deep and abiding love. They were a unit. Unbreakable and always there for each other.

There had been boyfriends and dates and brief relationships, but before Ryan, they had never amounted to anything. Mary had not wanted them to.

The three of them were enough. Her and her two kids: a hard, unbreakable triangle of love. That was all she needed, all she would ever need. It was perfect.

So she had been reluctant to bring Ryan in, reluctant to accept that he – or anyone – was needed, but he had tried so hard, made such a convincing case, spent so much time demonstrating how much and in how many ways he loved her, that she had given in, and in doing so she had made the biggest mistake of her life.

It was hard to understand what had happened, but she could look back on all this later, try to figure it out.

If there was a later.

In the kitchen she heard Ryan move around, opening and shutting cupboards. The noises stopped, and then she heard his footsteps growing louder as he approached the bedroom.

The doorknob turned.

The bedroom door opened and the light blazed on. Ryan stepped inside.

Ryan looked at Mary, then at the empty space next to her.

‘What the fuck?’ he said. ‘Where is he?’

She ignored his question. Her attention was taken up by the knife he was holding.

She recognized it immediately. Ryan’s Japanese meat cleaver. She remembered him demonstrating how it could cut through a tomato or steak or an onion or anything you put in front of it with a minimum of pressure.

It was a beautiful knife, and in her husband’s hand the blade gleamed, wickedly sharp.

‘Why do you have that?’ she said. ‘What do you need a knife for?’

He looked left and right, his expression puzzled. ‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes, you do. And you’re going to tell me.’ He hefted the knife in his hands. ‘I’ll start with your arms. But not to hurt you. To show you how it will feel for your kids. Now, where is he?’

‘I don’t know. How would I know?’

He took a step forward and raised the cleaver.

‘Left arm, or right? Doesn’t matter much, though. You’re dead anyway.’

As he pulled the knife back above his head, there was the sound of the front door opening, and the thudding of Carl’s crutch.

She wondered what Carl was doing, why he was not out on the fire lane.

‘He’s getting away,’ she said. ‘Shame.’