Free Mondays are Murder by Tanya Landman Page B

soon as I felt the grass beneath me, I let go of Graham and flung myself at Richard’s head, tugging at his ears while he lashed out with fists and feet.
    We couldn’t hold him for long. He’d already prised Graham’s fingers from his skull and was bending them backwards with vicious relish. Graham was yelling in agony and there was a horrible cracking sound. I lunged at Richard’s nose, but he turned on me and I felt his fist hit me in the mouth. Before we knew it, he had us both by the scruff of the neck like a pair of kittens.
    We were done for. This was it. My mouth throbbing with pain, I struggled as hard as I could, hitting and scratching him, but it was useless. The sea crashed on to the rocks below. Any second now we’d both be down there. Claimed by the sea. Lost for ever.
    I screamed, hard and high, going on and on without drawing breath until I felt my chest was going to burst.
    And then I felt someone’s hands ripping us both from Richard’s clutches and pushing us back to safety. Mike!
    “Bruce…?” he gasped. “What the…?”
    “He’s not Bruce,” I screamed. “He’s Richard Robertson!”
    Mike looked at me, disbelieving. But then he stared once more into Richard’s hate-filled eyes. “Richard? You survived! Oh dear God! Mate, I’m so sorry—”
    The noise that came from Richard’s throat was barely human. He leapt at Mike and they rolled together, over and over, a tangle of flailing fists, kicking feet and biting teeth. There was nothing we could do but stand and watch, horrified, rigid with shock and fear.
    Mike was strong, but Richard was propelled by an anger that gave him superhuman strength. Mike was down. Carried by the speed of his fall halfway over the edge. He was hanging on to tufts of grass, scratching desperately for something to cling to, but they were coming away in his hands. Richard was standing over him. Lifting a booted foot to stamp on his hands.
    But then a stone cracked against Richard’s skull. He jerked forward. Half turned. Saw Cathy, with her upraised hand. And fell.
    I don’t want to think about what I saw when we hauled Mike back from the edge. Richard’s body was lying, smashed and broken, on the rocks below. As we’d pulled Mike up, the incoming tide had taken Richard again, only this time it was for real.
    Graham was nursing a broken finger, I had a loose tooth and a split lip, and Mike’s nose was bleeding. But we were alive.
    “Where did you come from?” I asked the injured Graham. “I thought I told you to keep an eye on Cathy.”
    “I couldn’t keep eating toast for ever,” he replied, looking faintly green. “I had sixteen slices as it was. Sixteen slices! I’m surprised I wasn’t sick. She kept sharpening that knife. And then she said she was going off to help Mike. It sounded highly suspicious to me, so I thought I’d better come and find you.”
    “And how did you get here, Mike?” I asked.
    “I was coming back for breakfast,” Mike replied. “I heard you screaming.”
    “It was lucky you came when you did,” I said, “or we’d both have been toast.”
    “More toast? No thanks!” Graham flashed one of his blink-and-you-miss-it grins and then snorted with laughter, and we both sniggered, light-headed with relief, until the sight of Cathy and Mike’s serious faces made us pull ourselves together.
    We began to hobble back along the cliff path towards the warmth of the centre, Mike breaking it gently to a white-faced Cathy that she’d sent her own cousin toppling over the cliff.
    “I didn’t know who it was. I didn’t want to hurt him,” she whimpered miserably. “But he was trying to kill you!”
    “The fall finished him,” said Graham cheerfully. “Not you. I think they’ll call it manslaughter. If we were in America they’d probably say it was justifiable homicide. From a legal perspective I would have thought it extremely unlikely they’d hold you criminally responsible.”
    “It’s not like you woke up this