Lucy screamed and turned to escape, but the alien had already leapt to his feet, and the door of the Medical Centre had closed behind her. In her panic, even her mighty brain couldn’t work out how to open it again.
A powerful arm gripped her round the neck, and a voice that sent a shiver right through her said: ‘Don’t struggle. I can break your neck.’
Lucy went kind of limp. She always claimed she didn’t actually faint, but The Journalist, for this is who had his arm around her neck, later said he dragged her over to the nearest bed and laid her out unconscious for several minutes.
When Lucy came round, she saw her blood-stained assailant bent over a dead body. She realized immediately he was a crazed killer searching through his victim’s clothes – such odd clothes, Lucy noticed: strange colours, strange cut, strange materials… It was at this point that she also realized she was tied down to the bed.
The full horror of her situation suddenly hit her like a forty-tonne truck hitting a shop window: she was shattered and her alarm went off. ‘Aaaaaarggh! Aarrrrrgrh! Arggggggggh!’ screamed Lucy.
The Journalist looked across at her and clicked his teeth in annoyance.
‘Shut up!’ he snarled.
Oh my God! The Murderer had spoken to her! Here she was – a defenceless woman, tied down onto a bed, waiting for this violent sadist to finish rifling the pockets of his last victim and then come across to her and do do what… do whatever he likes! That’s what! To her! To Lucy Webber – a graduate of UCLA law school!
‘Aaaaaaaaaargh! Arrrrrrrgh! Aaaaargggghhh!’ Lucy had never screamed so well or so effectively in her life. Unfortunately the effect was not to bring Dan running to her rescue, but to attract the unwanted attentions of her murderous assailant.
He came across and stared into her eyes. The screams died on her lips as she registered the cruel twist of his mouth and the sadistic glint in those beautiful orange-coloured eyes. The next moment she saw his blood-stained hand move to cover her mouth.
‘Listen!’ said the Psychopath. ‘There’s a bomb on board this ship! It’s going to explode and take us with it unless I can find it quick! So just SHUT UP with the screaming – I can’t think and it makes me crazy!’
God! thought Lucy, it was just like one of those films, where the heroine is captured by the serial killer-rapist and yet finds herself strangely drawn to him. ‘What am I thinking about?!’ Lucy suddenly brought herself up short. ‘Aaaaaah! Aaargh!’ Screaming really seemed the only sensible alternative.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ The Killer-Rapist was now glaring into her eyes once again. Lucy felt her bowels go soft with fear and her breath grew even scarcer than it was. ‘There is a bomb. I have to find the bomb.’
Lucy went quiet, and thought about this. A bomb was clearly not good news.
The murderer returned to his victim and continued examining his pockets – of which there were rather a lot. Scraliontis had always been an expensive dresser, and you could always reckon on his suits having more pockets than anyone else’s – that being the fashion of the day.
‘Suffering supernovae!’ thought The Journalist, I’ve never seen so many pockets!’
‘Why are you doing that?’ Lucy surprised herself with the steadiness of her voice.
‘I’m looking to see if he’s got a plan or anything to show where the bomb is,’ said The Journalist.
‘Why should he have?’ asked Lucy.
‘Stop asking questions,’ snapped The Journalist.
‘I just asked why?’
‘Because he planted the bomb.’
‘Oh,’ said Lucy. ‘Thank you.’ And then thought:
‘Why on Earth am I being polite to someone who’s just about to kill me? Maybe even rape me first! Or maybe he isn’t.’ Maybe there were mitigating circumstances. Maybe the Psychopath wasn’t a psychopath? Maybe he was a caring family man with a flair for initiating excitement, who was resourceful in danger and yet prepared to submit to the will of a strong and loving woman…
‘Is that why you killed him?’ Lucy felt surprisingly childish asking the question. ‘Because he planted the bomb?’