Fanquist, giving a strangled cry, turned and stumbled to the door. Myra threw a chair in her way. Fanquist banged her knees against it and went forward, falling across the chair with a thud that shook the breath out of her body.
Myra sprang forward, and driving her knee into Fanquist’s shoulders, she pinned her.
Fanquist screamed, a real terror gripping her. With one hand pushing her face into the carpet, Myra swung the club with the other.
“Go on,” Myra said, “you yell….”
She began to beat Fanquist’s arched back with all her strength. Fanquist wriggled and screamed, but Myra held her. She tried to protect herself with her hands, but the club beat them away, sending waves of pain up her arms as well as through her body. Myra beat her until she drooped over the chair, limp and silent.
Standing there breathless, Myra said, “I guess that’s all.”
Fanquist didn’t move. She was past hearing anything. Myra dragged her off the chair and turned her over on her back. She stood over her, a hard little smile on her mouth. “I guess you won’t pull any more tricks with me,” she said.
Leaving Fanquist lying there, Myra went into the bathroom. Her dress was stained with blood and her hair was like a woollen rug. She poured some water into the hand-basin and bathed her face. She carefully washed her hands and sponged the blood from her dress. All the time she was doing this her mind was active.
Would Dillon start something now? she wondered. She guessed Dillon would be mad about this. A pair of electric hair-tongs caught her eye. She stood looking at them, hesitating. She picked them up and turned them over in her hand, then she took the plug and plugged it into the socket. She turned the switch.
Going back into the outer room again, she stood over Fanquist. Fanquist was lying there, her arms thrown wide and her breath coming in a whistling sound through her open mouth.