Knife Edge by Fergus McNeill Page B

anyway. Her shoulders began to tremble inside the towel, the first involuntary sobs overtaking her small body. That would have woken him, if she’d stayed in the bed, if she’d let herself think about it as she lay next to him, and how would she have explained herself then? She’d barely made it out of the room in time. How long had she thought she could keep a grip on something like this, something so …
    Her imagination tore itself free, running on ahead of her beyond any hope of reining it back in, leading her deeper into the nightmare. Image after image, each more terrifying than the last: red blood on a woman’s pale flesh, eyes rolling back, a host of different deaths. And standing over each one, that same figure, that man whom she had given herself to, his face grim and terrible.
    It was too much.
    Sagging forward, she wadded up a handful of the towel and pushed it into her mouth, crying into the layered material to deaden the sound, just like she used to do when she was a little girl. She couldn’t help herself, but he mustn’t hear her, mustn’t know what she was thinking.
    She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there.
    Sitting up stiffly, she felt exhausted and cold. Her bottom was numb from sitting on the hard wooden toilet seat – she must have been slumped over for a while.
    Sniffing softly, she took some tissue from the roll and carefully dabbed her eyes dry. The crisis was past, the swell of panic had crashed over her like a breaking wave and receded. Now she just felt numb, disconnected from her circumstances, as though they were happening to someone else.
    Weariness enveloped her like a fog and she yawned as she got slowly to her feet.
    For now, she was all cried out. Her emotions wouldn’t betray her.
    For now.
    She slipped off the towel and draped it back over the rail, shivering as her shroud of body heat evaporated. Then, lifting her chin and trying to affect a calm expression, she moved over to draw back the bolt and open the door. The light clicked off, leaving her blind in the darkness, but she knew the way. Part of her was glad, not wanting to see or be seen, ashamed of her feelings, ashamed of playing her part in a horror she couldn’t understand.
    Stretching her hand out in front of her, she tiptoed out onto the landing and walked quietly back to bed.

13
Monday,
16
June
    Naysmith studied an email as he walked up the carpeted steps, then returned the phone to his inside pocket as he pushed the door wide and walked into the reception area.
    ‘Morning, Amy,’ he said, shifting the strap of his shoulder bag so it wouldn’t crease his jacket. ‘How are you today?’
    Amy looked up from behind the large, curved desk and smiled at him. She was in her twenties, plain but professional, always dressed smartly, always courteous. Her straight brown hair was tied back today, which was unusual – he wondered if anyone else had noticed.
    ‘Good morning, Rob,’ she replied. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
    He glanced up at the three clocks on the wall behind her.
    ‘Are Fraser and Gina in yet?’
    ‘Gina is. Fraser called to say he was running late but he’ll be here by ten.’
    ‘No problem,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ve got a few emails to sort through – I’ll grab one of the meeting rooms for now and make a start.’
    He put his hand on the internal door, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
    ‘Your hair looks good like that,’ he told her.
    Amy beamed at him.
    ‘Thanks, Rob.’
    Fraser was a lean, likeable man in his early fifties, with thinning grey hair and a pointed chin. He put his head around the meeting-room door and gave a small nod of acknowledgement.
    ‘There you are,’ he said, as though he’d looked everywhere. ‘Amy said I’d find you in here.’
    ‘Morning, Fraser.’ Naysmith smiled as he got to his feet. ‘Ready to start?’
    ‘Whenever you are.’ Fraser held the door open for him as he gathered up his open laptop and bag before they walked out between the