Shooting in the Dark

like this, the same sense of foreboding. The silence of the house seemed to deepen and the tiny sounds that are usually buried in the everyday took on a new significance. The ticking of a clock, the cracks and creaks of expansion and contraction, the movements of water draining through the heating system, all gave cause for concern.
    Was there a footfall on the path outside or was it something else? Could her mind be playing tricks? She walked around the house, checking each door and window, locking herself away. She rang Sam at home but he didn’t answer and she was about to try his office or the police when the ringing of the front doorbell rocked the house.
    The sound seemed to take hold of the fabric of the building, to undermine the walls and the floors and penetrate through her feet and fingers up into her heart.
    Angeles felt herself sway. For a moment it was as if she could see herself objectively, look down at her own body standing in the middle of her living room. There were two of her: the blind woman standing, terrified, with her mouth open, and another being equipped with seeing eyes and who lived at some higher vantage point, way above floor level.
    The bell rang again, longer this time, causing the two aspects of Angeles to collide and merge back together. She took a step, wiped her brow, relieved that she was no longer split, fragmented. She recollected Aristotle’s doctrine of courage as the right mean between cowardice and temerity.
    She put her face close to the door and spoke. ‘Who is it?’
    Silence.
    She asked again, louder this time, so there could be no doubt that whoever rang the bell would hear her. ‘Yes, who is it?’
    There was no reply. Angeles let out a long breath and strained to hear any sound or movement from the other side of the panelled door.
    There was a rapping sound, knuckles on glass, but some way off. She thought it might be at a neighbour’s house. Whoever had rung her bell was now checking next door.
    But no, it couldn’t be that far away. The sound was coming from her own house. It was coming from the rear of the house. And she’d been right first time, it was the sound of knuckles on glass. Knuckles on the glass of her patio door.
    Angeles had no intention of going to answer it. She had no intention of going back to her sitting room. The memory of the man coming through that patio door, his hands on her throat, was too close, too vivid. She let her weight sink against the front door but kept her legs rigid, making sure she didn’t slip down to the floor. It was far too tempting to adopt a foetal position.
    The rapping came again, but this time there was an accompanying sound, not unlike the wail of a cat. Something grabbed hold of Angeles’ consciousness and twisted its focus. The cry was not a cat but a human sound.
    It was a baby.
    Echo.
    She rushed through to the sitting room and over to the window. ‘Echo?’ she said through the glass. ‘Janet, is it you?’
    ‘Open up, it’s freezing out here.’ Janet’s voice was faint through the triple-glazing. Indistinct and yet undoubtedly friendly.
    Angeles scrabbled at the lock and pulled open the door. She brushed away a hot flush of unwanted tears from her face. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ she said. ‘Janet, come in, I’m so glad to see you.’
    ‘Has something happened?’ Janet asked.
    ‘No, nothing. I’m being hysterical.’
    Janet pushed Echo’s pram through the patio door and closed it behind her. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘And I’m not leaving here until you tell me to.’
    Angeles went upstairs to the lavatory. When she’d finished she flushed it and listened to the gulp as it consumed the water. She smiled; it was as if all of her portentous imaginings had been sucked into the plumbing.
     
    Janet answered the second knock on the door and showed Detective Superintendent Rossiter and Detective Sergeant Hardwicke through to the sitting room.
    ‘He’s free, isn’t he?’ Angeles said, not giving the police time to speak. ‘You’ve let him go.’
    ‘We’ll catch him,’ Rossiter said. ‘It’s only a matter of time.’
    Angeles took a deep breath. ‘Janet, will you ring Sam and ask him to come and get me.’
    ‘I’d prefer it if we took you into protective custody, Ms Falco,’ Rossiter said. ‘Just for a few hours. We have a safe house and you’d be under the protection of DS Hardwicke.’
    Angeles imagined Hardwicke’s professional demeanour. Janet said: ‘Sam’s not