The Stranger, Mark Ayre [microsoft ebook reader .TXT] 📗

grip on the bannister and railing. Ronson was too strong. The force of his yank tore free her hands. A second later, she was above his head. Then he tossed her into the living room door.

Which burst open as though keen to get out of her way. As best she could, Abbie twisted her body as she landed, trying to roll into the crash to soften the impact and to ready herself for instant counter-attack. She came up on her knees beside a coffee table as Ronson came through the living room door. Behind him, she could see Kline composing himself and preparing to enter the fray.

She had to end this fast.

On the coffee table was a glass. Abbie grabbed and hurled it at Ronson.

The coffee table was long and thin, on narrow metal legs. At its centre was a glass panel encased in slim wood.

With cat-like reflexes, Ronson lifted a hand and batted the glass. His face was obscured for a second. Once the glass was gone and his hand began to drop, he saw Abbie swinging the table by two of its legs. Then it smashed him in the head, glass shattering and flying past his face and cutting his cheek.

He was spinning. Off-balance. Abbie carried the momentum of the table through then released, letting it fly into the wall. While it was still in the air, Abbie was following Ronson as he stumbled. She put her hands behind his head and moved in close. Pulled him into her as she lifted her knee with all her might into the balls. As air exploded from his lungs out his mouth, she edged back, brought the knee up again, this time into the kidneys.

Like a bull that’s seen red, Kline burst into the room. Abbie took a step back, still holding Ronson’s head. From this new position, she grabbed the back of his skull, raised her leg and bought his face crashing into her knee.

Blood on her jeans. Some on her shoes. Droplets on her top. Ronson’s nose had exploded, but he didn’t scream. Dazed or unconscious, he went to the ground as Abbie stepped away.

And Kline grabbed her. Tossed her across the room. She rolled again, came up again. He was charging. He swung a fist. Which she ducked. Swung again. Which caught the side of her head and sent her off balance. He came in close, grabbed the back of her neck and bent her towards him while swinging his fist towards her stomach.

It was a similar move to the one she’d used on Ronson. She handled it better. Bending her knees, she jumped. Her stomach rose away from the first. He still caught her, but the blow’s impact was far weaker than it might have been.

Hand and stomach fell together. Abbie raised a palm to smack his tree trunk arm and, at the same time, jerked backwards.

Her neck was yanked from his hand, and she collapsed onto her behind. He was quick to react. He hopped forward, raised a leg and stomped.

She rolled to the side. Kline’s boot missed by an inch. The floor seemed to tremble under the force of it. He turned to have another go and found her rising, her arm shooting out, her palm flat and coming for him.

He grabbed her wrist. Punched for the head.

Abbie dodged. Because of Kline’s hold, her range of movement was reduced. He boxed her ear, and a shock of pain shot through her head.

Abbie didn’t let the pain unbalance her. While he held her good wrist, she fired the palm of her weak hand at him. This time she caught the mark. The base of her palm smashed his chin and forced back his head in a rapid jerk, rattling his brain against his skull. If he had one. Causing him to see stars. To release her wrist. To stumble.

She followed up. A kick to the stomach forced Kline to bend at the waist. He tried to grab her ankle as she pulled back her leg. Missed.

Like a cymbal crashing monkey, Abbie put one spread hand on either side of Kline’s head. Fast and hard, she brought them together over his ears. Then she bent one arm, grabbed the back of his head with the other and smashed her elbow into his face.

More blood. This time it soaked Abbie’s top and splattered her jeans. From the rain, her shoes were mercifully spared.

Kline dropped. Abbie raised a boot and stomped his skull, rendering him unconscious.

Woozy, dazed, Ronson was rising.

Abbie turned to the mantlepiece. Pictures of the parents. Pictures of Travis and his sister. Pictures of the family.

And an ornate clock set into a heavy wooden frame.

Ronson was up straight, was trying to compose himself.

Abbie took the clock, stepped across the room, swung back her arm, and smashed it across his skull.

Before Ronson hit the ground, he was unconscious.

“100% chance if you’re two vs one, eh?” Abbie said. But it was a pointless comment, seeing as he wasn’t awake to listen to her.

Abbie stepped into the corridor to warn Travis to stay away from Francis and stay away from Michael. Despite Ronson’s beating, Abbie knew she might need to throw the teen into a wall and get into his face to get her point across. She was happy to do so. That was the thing about fighting. Much later, it might make you feel grubby and ashamed, but in the immediate aftermath of the bout, you were pumped with adrenaline. You didn’t want it to stop. You wanted to find someone else and go again.

It was a lot like fast food. Not like a one night stand where self-loathing was much quicker to arrive.

Given this adrenaline, this need to keep fighting, perhaps it was lucky she returned into the hall to find Travis had scarpered. Lucky for him but lucky for her too. Sometimes, she scared herself.

Didn’t matter. Travis was gone for now. Abbie would catch him later.

Closing the door on the unconscious men, Abbie made