By Lucy Baker
Last night, my creative partner tried to kill me. He invited me over, ostensibly to work on NatWest children’s accounts, and when I was setting up my laptop on the kitchen table, he disappeared downstairs to ‘go to the toilet’, but something wasn’t right.
‘I’m just coming!’ He called all too cheerily from the basement lair, but his call couldn’t mask the blood-curdling screech of stone on metal, I knew what was coming. If only someone had been there that day. The blood drained from my face the moment I realised what was about to happen. But I was alone. There was nobody to help.
I lunged for the kitchen drawer, scattering cutlery in my frantic and fruitless search for a weapon with which to defend myself. There was nothing more substantial to be found than a cheap breadknife. I glanced at it desperately, and tossed it away in exasperation. It was useless.
The breadknife clattered off the lino and came to rest at the foot of the recycling bin. ‘Everything alright up there?’ he called. The sound of scraping knives had stopped, and I could hear his soft footsteps ascending the stairs.
‘All jolly!’ I replied, hoping that my voice could hide my fear. He quickened his pace. Shitbags. Why does he mean to kill me? What have I done? It must be because of that goddamn Lucozade campaign. I should have just agreed to have a pack-shot. It’s only a pack-shot. Why had I held out for a logo? To be slain over such a thing.
Knowing that I only had seconds before Edward appeared I grabbed what mattered most in my life, the portfolio. He could take my life, but not my legacy.
I froze as the kitchen door was pushed open. There he stood, machete in hand, and some strange object sticking out from his trousers. Disgusting I thought. We regarded each other silently for moment, both comprehending the gravity of the situation.
Just as Edward made to advance, I saw an opportunity and flung myself through the balcony window, crashing through the glass and disappearing over the railing, where I bounced lightly on the patio. Righting myself I then sprinted away as fast as my athletic legs could carry me. His murderous plot had failed, and the meat cleaver which was hurled in my direction missed me by a good few yards. I heard him whimper in frustration.
That was the last I saw of him.