He wasn't tired. He was thinking, trying to concentrate, locked in the process of making a difficult decision. Weighing up the pros and cons for what was easily the tenth time that night, he concluded once again that it was all over for Carol. It had to be. After all, what did he have to lose now? The newsreader answered him, speaking with utter detachment: "The woman stabbed by a robber in an Edinburgh post office yesterday has died of a wound to the throat. Mrs Hilda Pearce—"
Two words repeated in his head. Has died.
Scores of scented leeches clung to his face. He stumbled to his feet, stomach muscles contracting. Leeches crawled down his throat, squirmed in his oesophagus, lodged in his lungs, choking him with the scent of Hilda Pearce. He couldn't breathe. His heart thumped. He was dizzy, sick, scared. Was he scared? Really? Yes, he was bloody terrified.
Hilda Pearce had really fucked him up. There was no turning back now.
No more doubt, then. No more denial. Who cared that it wasn't his fault? Accident or not, he was a killer.
The newsreader confirmed it: "—is now a murder investigation."
A killer. Fat black perfumed slugs bloated his belly.
He scurried to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet bowl for minutes on end. His stomach cramped with each spasm, pain causing his eyes to water. When his stomach was empty he puked bile, shivering from head to foot. Afterwards he leaned his sweating forehead against the wall and hugged himself. His gut felt like it had been tied in a knot.
Bile coated his tongue and each time he swallowed, tiny balls of fire scorched his throat. And those words pounded in his head like a second heartbeat.
Has died.
Suddenly he realised his head was hurting where it rested against the wall. He jolted upright. Maybe he'd fallen asleep for a few minutes. But, no, he couldn't have. Not with this much adrenalin shooting through his bloodstream. He wasn't tired. Definitely not. His watch read twenty past seven. An hour and fifty minutes had passed since the news report.
He got to his feet and turned on the shower. If he wasn't asleep, then where had the time gone? Oh, God. Maybe it was happening again. He must have been asleep, if only because there was no other explanation. Clumsily, he started to undress. Naked, he stepped into the shower cubicle and closed the door, standing under the spray, head bowed, hands clasped in front of his chest, while hot needles jabbed the back of his neck. The smell was stronger now. He squirted liquid soap into his palm and lathered his body. He shampooed his hair. Rinsed it.
After he stepped out of the shower he brushed his teeth. He shaved. He lined his nostrils with aftershave. It stung like a bitch.
9:16 am
"What is it?" Ailsa Lillie held the door open with one hand. With the other she shielded her bruised eye.
Pearce ignored her question. "You dyed your hair." Today, her hair was dark brown with a reddish tinge. Yesterday, he seemed to recall, it was uniformly grey.
"Gold star for observation." Her mouth tensed.
"What I meant to say," he said, "is that I like it. You look ten years younger."
"Christ, I must have looked old before." She was dressed in faded blue jeans and a burgundy halter-top. Her feet were bare. Not exactly a winter costume, he thought. He glanced at his bare arms. Who was he to speak? "You going to tell me what's going on?" she asked him.
As he stepped inside, his arm brushed against hers. He said nothing.
Her eyes widened, asking the question again. She rubbed her arm where he'd touched it.
He couldn't look into her eyes for long. His gaze dropped. Shit. Straight to her tits. And guess what? She wasn't wearing a bra. He looked up and discovered two cracks running along the ceiling, forming a jagged X where they crossed. He felt her hand warming his bicep.
When he lowered his head she jerked her hand away. "How's your daughter?"
"Becky's doing okay," she said, moving quickly down the hall. She turned. "She
Two words repeated in his head. Has died.
Scores of scented leeches clung to his face. He stumbled to his feet, stomach muscles contracting. Leeches crawled down his throat, squirmed in his oesophagus, lodged in his lungs, choking him with the scent of Hilda Pearce. He couldn't breathe. His heart thumped. He was dizzy, sick, scared. Was he scared? Really? Yes, he was bloody terrified.
Hilda Pearce had really fucked him up. There was no turning back now.
No more doubt, then. No more denial. Who cared that it wasn't his fault? Accident or not, he was a killer.
The newsreader confirmed it: "—is now a murder investigation."
A killer. Fat black perfumed slugs bloated his belly.
He scurried to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet bowl for minutes on end. His stomach cramped with each spasm, pain causing his eyes to water. When his stomach was empty he puked bile, shivering from head to foot. Afterwards he leaned his sweating forehead against the wall and hugged himself. His gut felt like it had been tied in a knot.
Bile coated his tongue and each time he swallowed, tiny balls of fire scorched his throat. And those words pounded in his head like a second heartbeat.
Has died.
Suddenly he realised his head was hurting where it rested against the wall. He jolted upright. Maybe he'd fallen asleep for a few minutes. But, no, he couldn't have. Not with this much adrenalin shooting through his bloodstream. He wasn't tired. Definitely not. His watch read twenty past seven. An hour and fifty minutes had passed since the news report.
He got to his feet and turned on the shower. If he wasn't asleep, then where had the time gone? Oh, God. Maybe it was happening again. He must have been asleep, if only because there was no other explanation. Clumsily, he started to undress. Naked, he stepped into the shower cubicle and closed the door, standing under the spray, head bowed, hands clasped in front of his chest, while hot needles jabbed the back of his neck. The smell was stronger now. He squirted liquid soap into his palm and lathered his body. He shampooed his hair. Rinsed it.
After he stepped out of the shower he brushed his teeth. He shaved. He lined his nostrils with aftershave. It stung like a bitch.
9:16 am
"What is it?" Ailsa Lillie held the door open with one hand. With the other she shielded her bruised eye.
Pearce ignored her question. "You dyed your hair." Today, her hair was dark brown with a reddish tinge. Yesterday, he seemed to recall, it was uniformly grey.
"Gold star for observation." Her mouth tensed.
"What I meant to say," he said, "is that I like it. You look ten years younger."
"Christ, I must have looked old before." She was dressed in faded blue jeans and a burgundy halter-top. Her feet were bare. Not exactly a winter costume, he thought. He glanced at his bare arms. Who was he to speak? "You going to tell me what's going on?" she asked him.
As he stepped inside, his arm brushed against hers. He said nothing.
Her eyes widened, asking the question again. She rubbed her arm where he'd touched it.
He couldn't look into her eyes for long. His gaze dropped. Shit. Straight to her tits. And guess what? She wasn't wearing a bra. He looked up and discovered two cracks running along the ceiling, forming a jagged X where they crossed. He felt her hand warming his bicep.
When he lowered his head she jerked her hand away. "How's your daughter?"
"Becky's doing okay," she said, moving quickly down the hall. She turned. "She
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