vibrating
rhythm that sent it skittering slowly across the bedside table as if the caller
was willing it to his ear.
He threw the fresh, white linen
shirt into the laundry basket, its collar speckled with blood from his attempt
at a close shave. It fell short and wrapped itself around his feet as he
lurched for the phone. He kicked the shirt into the air, noticed his socks were
mismatched, caught the shirt, clasped it to the blood seeping from the nicks on
his chin and grabbed the phone as the call cleared. The number had been
withheld, which meant work and probably someone or something important. An
accusing list of other missed calls over the last fifteen minutes confirmed his
suspicion that he’d succumbed to a micro-nap in the shower.
He’d needed more of a cleansing
than the scalding hot water had given him, but the pelting of water had drowned
out all other thoughts and sensations for a few welcome moments of oblivion,
the power shower proving itself again one of the few pricy mod cons he knew he
couldn’t give up easily. He knew this for what it was; a parting thought. Gone
was a yearning to make things right with Hayley, replaced by the first draft of
an exit strategy.
Every book, CD, DVD, electrical
item, canvas print and floor cushion now begged to be inventoried, allocated
and labelled, an agreeable if rueful exercise for a lazy Sunday, as if the
division of a shared life could ever be so simple and anaemic. Yet the first
draft had failed to list the messy carving up of intertwined friends and
finances; the junking of shared intimacies and experiences; the admission that
love had dwindled into wishful thinking; the knowledge that it was his fault,
his passion for delusion the only one that still burned; the need for a
conversation that was honest rather than expedient; the need to scratch the
itch beneath his skull.
He pushed it all to the back of
his mind, three soot-choked murder victims more of an excuse than he usually
needed, dabbed at the beads of blood still welling from his chin and set about
making himself presentable. Five minutes later, he prowled the kitchen, already
glistening with sweat beneath the lightest suit he owned, having dumped the bin
bag containing the sulphurous remains of his usual suit in the garage. He
stopped suddenly, as if slapped, and drew in a deep breath. He would go to the
car, make his calls, sketch out a plan of attack, untangle his thoughts, get
underway and become a professional again.
A movement caught his attention
from the front garden, a flowing curve of sly and sinuous grace. He stood in
the shadow of the door between kitchen and lounge and the sun beat down on the
lounge window, so the generally twitchy tabby from next door but one failed to
see him as it scanned enemy territory with amber eyes and glided across the
turf. Neither man nor beast would pay a guiltless visit in this manner and
Harkness felt compelled to take a minute to prevent an all too familiar crime
which generally resulted in proud mounds of glistening excrement in the centre
of his lawn.
He kicked off his shoes, took
the plastic lemon from its place near the patio door, slipped outside and
jogged lightly down the side passage. Knowing his foe was alert to danger and
fleet of paw, he came out shooting. As he rounded the corner, he squeezed the
plastic lemon, sending the stinging liquid arcing towards the cat which had
parked on its haunches, back curved and tail quivering in excremental ecstasy.
It started and turned just in time to blink lemon juice into its own eyes,
hissed, sneezed, span blindly and rocketed into the street, trailing shit.
The cat died in the same
continuous, spastic movement. The nearly new Renault Scenic carrying a mother
and her three young children swerved to avoid it, breaking its back with one of
its wheels rather than hitting it squarely with the radiator. Harkness knew
precisely what kind of day he was having as the Renault smashed into the boot
of the Mondeo
rhythm that sent it skittering slowly across the bedside table as if the caller
was willing it to his ear.
He threw the fresh, white linen
shirt into the laundry basket, its collar speckled with blood from his attempt
at a close shave. It fell short and wrapped itself around his feet as he
lurched for the phone. He kicked the shirt into the air, noticed his socks were
mismatched, caught the shirt, clasped it to the blood seeping from the nicks on
his chin and grabbed the phone as the call cleared. The number had been
withheld, which meant work and probably someone or something important. An
accusing list of other missed calls over the last fifteen minutes confirmed his
suspicion that he’d succumbed to a micro-nap in the shower.
He’d needed more of a cleansing
than the scalding hot water had given him, but the pelting of water had drowned
out all other thoughts and sensations for a few welcome moments of oblivion,
the power shower proving itself again one of the few pricy mod cons he knew he
couldn’t give up easily. He knew this for what it was; a parting thought. Gone
was a yearning to make things right with Hayley, replaced by the first draft of
an exit strategy.
Every book, CD, DVD, electrical
item, canvas print and floor cushion now begged to be inventoried, allocated
and labelled, an agreeable if rueful exercise for a lazy Sunday, as if the
division of a shared life could ever be so simple and anaemic. Yet the first
draft had failed to list the messy carving up of intertwined friends and
finances; the junking of shared intimacies and experiences; the admission that
love had dwindled into wishful thinking; the knowledge that it was his fault,
his passion for delusion the only one that still burned; the need for a
conversation that was honest rather than expedient; the need to scratch the
itch beneath his skull.
He pushed it all to the back of
his mind, three soot-choked murder victims more of an excuse than he usually
needed, dabbed at the beads of blood still welling from his chin and set about
making himself presentable. Five minutes later, he prowled the kitchen, already
glistening with sweat beneath the lightest suit he owned, having dumped the bin
bag containing the sulphurous remains of his usual suit in the garage. He
stopped suddenly, as if slapped, and drew in a deep breath. He would go to the
car, make his calls, sketch out a plan of attack, untangle his thoughts, get
underway and become a professional again.
A movement caught his attention
from the front garden, a flowing curve of sly and sinuous grace. He stood in
the shadow of the door between kitchen and lounge and the sun beat down on the
lounge window, so the generally twitchy tabby from next door but one failed to
see him as it scanned enemy territory with amber eyes and glided across the
turf. Neither man nor beast would pay a guiltless visit in this manner and
Harkness felt compelled to take a minute to prevent an all too familiar crime
which generally resulted in proud mounds of glistening excrement in the centre
of his lawn.
He kicked off his shoes, took
the plastic lemon from its place near the patio door, slipped outside and
jogged lightly down the side passage. Knowing his foe was alert to danger and
fleet of paw, he came out shooting. As he rounded the corner, he squeezed the
plastic lemon, sending the stinging liquid arcing towards the cat which had
parked on its haunches, back curved and tail quivering in excremental ecstasy.
It started and turned just in time to blink lemon juice into its own eyes,
hissed, sneezed, span blindly and rocketed into the street, trailing shit.
The cat died in the same
continuous, spastic movement. The nearly new Renault Scenic carrying a mother
and her three young children swerved to avoid it, breaking its back with one of
its wheels rather than hitting it squarely with the radiator. Harkness knew
precisely what kind of day he was having as the Renault smashed into the boot
of the Mondeo
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