Page 11 of Fortune's Ashes
I tried to move past her but a cyclist was blocking the way.
‘The first Madame Tussaud’s museum was located here.’
I pushed myself up on my tiptoes. The man was undoing his coat.
‘Dusty Springfield lived here in the 1960s.’
Was he reaching inside his coat? Was he going to pull out a knife? I lurched forward, knocking into the woman. She let out a surprised cry, stumbled and dropped her bag. I finally had a clear line of sight to Mr Trenchcoat and began moving towards him with grim intent.
He shrugged off his coat, folded it over his arm and raised his arm to hail a taxi that was slowly driving past. Goddamnit.
‘If you didn’t want to listen to what I had to say you could have just told me,’ the woman muttered behind me. ‘You didn’t need to be so rude.’
I turned towards her. She was scooping up a few strewn belongings from her bag. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I thought…’ I shook my head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Let me help you.’
I knelt down – then I froze. A few feet away, alongside a half-finished packet of mints and a compact mirror, there was a small flag. ‘That’s yours?’ I asked in a strained voice.
‘You’re going to make fun of me for having it?’ she snapped defensively. ‘It’s a very useful tool of my trade.’ She raised her head long enough to glare at me before reaching for the flag. Before she could grab it, a heavy, black boot stepped onto it. It was a mirror of what I’d seen in my mind less than thirty minutes ago.
My gaze flicked to the mud-encrusted seam between the rubber sole and the leather upper section of the boot and I immediately spied the glint of metal. The boot had a concealed blade controlled by some sort of spring-loaded mechanism. Oh, shit. Here we go.
I wasted no more time. Springing upwards, I barked, ‘Police! Stay where you are, sir, and do not move!’ I glanced at his deerstalker hat and realised with dim horror that it was the very same man that Buffy had pointed out. Unbelievable.
The man bared his teeth in a snarl. With one swift movement, he drew out a knife with a lethal-looking edge from the bag slung on his shoulder. A few people nearby spotted the danger, screamed and darted away for cover.
‘Drop the weapon!’ I shouted.
The man raised the knife and waved it in front of my face. ‘Make me!’
Alright then. I reached forward, preparing to grab his wrist, but before I could the woman at my feet stood up and swung her bag. She hit him on the side of his head and he let out a loud roar before turning and swiping the knife at her. The edge of the blade sliced into her cheek and blood welled up.
He shifted his weight and pressed down on his toes. The concealed blade in his boot snapped forward; it looked even more lethal in real life than it had in my vision.
I rushed at him and knocked him down before he could do the woman any more damage. Although he fell, he didn’t give up. He raised his leg with the boot blade extended towards me and kicked me on my thigh. I twisted and managed to block the worst of the attack, but the blade still slashed through my trousers and scored my flesh. I hissed with pain.
The man aimed his foot higher and I felt a flash of fear. He was going to kick – and pierce – my belly. I sprang back to avoid the second blow but, as soon as I did, he pulled himself to his feet and turned on the tour guide again. She was frozen, her bag by her feet and her hands at the wound on her face.
The man roared. Brandishing the knife in his hand, he threw himself at her.
I knew the instant the blade slammed into her chest.
There were more screams from the terrified onlookers. I lunged forward yet again, grabbed the man’s right arm and hauled him back. While he stared with shock or exultation –or perhaps both – at his bleeding victim and the knife embedded in her body, I threw him to the ground. Staying well away from his feet and the blade that still protruded from the toe of his boot, I flipped him onto his front. I snagged his wrists, ignoring his attempts to free himself, and reached into my pocket for the zip ties I always kept there. Once I had secured his wrists, I hauled him upright and looked over his shoulder at the woman.
The knife in her chest had been plunged in almost to the hilt. Her eyes were wide open and staring up at the sky. Oh no. Oh God, no. But then she blinked once and gurgled a long, difficult breath. She was still alive – she might still make it.
‘Call an ambulance!’ I shouted. At least two people close by were ahead of me and had their ears pressed to their phones.
‘She’s going to die,’ the man muttered. ‘She’s going to die. I did it. I killed her.’
I looked at him coldly. ‘I am arresting you for attempted murder,’ I said. ‘You do not have to say anything.But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.’
‘Let me go!’ he shrieked in my ear almost drowning out the squeal of the siren from the police car that was hurtling towards us. About fucking time.
A man came running out of the museum door with a first-aid kit. He dropped by the woman’s side and started tending to her wounds. Her lips moved as she tried to say something.
I could do little more than watch as I held onto the man. I was aware that it was my presence that had led to her involvement; if I’d not been here, she might not have been hurt. Her little tour flag had fallen to the ground because of me – and that same flag had been part of my Cassandra vision. Had I inadvertently caused this attack? He hadn’t pulled the knife until I’d announced myself. Would she have been fine if it weren’t for me?
I grimaced. I’d probably never know the answer. What I did know was that almost everything about this soothsaying business was absolute, utter shit.
