‘I never asked how you got by money-wise?’ I say as we walk, thinking about how much it would have cost to hire Jason Mercer for three weeks.
‘The travel insurance payout helped,’ he says.
‘And do you work any more?’
‘I continue my endeavours in tech,’ he says.
‘I remember your commitment toAssassin’s CreedandGrand Theft Autowell.’
‘I moved into AI coding and started another company,’ he says, which means little to me, but my almost inaudible murmur doesn’t stop him. ‘I was quite good at it. AI was growing at the time, and I got in early.’
‘Interesting,’ I say. Just what the world doesn’t need – another bedroom tech warrior calling himself a CEO because he spent £50 to register a company.
Our conversation doesn’t improve much as we eat overcooked pizza in a chain Italian (his choice) and drink in an incredibly busy Wetherspoons (again, his choice). If I had any qualms about committing murder at the start of the evening, I have none at all by the time we’re walking along Victoria Embankment beside the river.
I’m entranced by the oily surface of the Thames and the glistening lights. I feel a Dickensian thrill at the prospect of a Gothic ending. We head to a romantic spot by Waterloo Bridge. Why not give him a pleasing view before he’s snatched away for eternity?
We reach the metal stairs that I scoped out earlier in the week. During the day this is a ferry stop, but now, the steps lead directly to the inky water with only two metal barriers. Earlier this evening, I cut the padlocks off, and unbolted the gates. When someone next leans against them, they will fall open. The water should be icy enough to ensure that Hollis dies quickly. He deserves that, I think. I’m not a brute.
He’ll experience cold-water shock as he plunges, then a sudden phase of rapid breathing. Freezing water will fill his lungs and his brain will flood with chemicals to subdue the panic, and his last moments will be lived in a momentary ecstasy. The happy ending Hollis yearns for.
‘Isn’t the river beautiful,’ I say, my head buzzing with my plan. It’s a relatively simple approach. Choose a dark night, find somewhere out of the sight of CCTV, and push him in the river. He’sstrapped into about 20kg of metal which means he and his chair should sink straight to the bottom of the Thames. This ferry stop is deep enough for larger tourist boats, so Hollis should rest there peacefully, out of the way of any tidal drag, and enjoy his future as another skeleton in the macabre history of this river.
I’m planning on implicating Cait again. I’ve suggested we meet first thing in the morning at this spot, as she can’t come out at night any more. She’ll turn up, her tracker will show her presence here, and should Hollis’s body ever be found, I’ll call the police anonymously to say I saw a red-haired woman push a disabled man into the river.
‘I could learn to love London on nights like this,’ says Hollis. ‘But could you learn to love me again?’
‘I think so,’ I say, and our hands join. I can see in his expression hope for the future and feel a jolt of desire that surprises me. I think it’s just unfulfilled carnal desire attaching itself to the nearest male object, but still, it’s time to end this before it heads in another direction entirely.
I peer over his shoulder at the steps below. I suggest we move further forward to get the best view of Westminster and gently edge his chair towards the gate until the two small front wheels cross the lip from stone to metal.
Hollis’s wheelchair has brakes and he’s got sharp reflexes, so I’ll need to be quick. I check left and right. There are so few people around on this this cold, moonless night, with only buses and taxis trundling by. I wait for a gap in the traffic and prepare to push.
‘I’ve got something to ask you,’ he says.
‘And what’s that?’ I betray annoyance at being interrupted.
‘It’s a bit weird, because, you know, we’re already married.’ Hollis pushes his hand into his pocket and removes a blue velvet box.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I whisper to myself. I really don’t want him to propose to me just before I kill him. That seems a particularly harsh response, which will definitely hurt his feelings.
‘I never gave you a proper ring, did I? I didn’t have the money back then.’
‘You don’t have the money now, Hollis. You live on a council estate.’
He opens the velvet box. I expect something modest and in keeping with Hollis’s style, but in front of me is an enormous diamond ring.
‘That can’t be real.’
‘It is,’ he beams. ‘All five and a half carats.’
I’m calculating quickly in my head. If Hollis is telling the truth, he’s holding about £100,000 worth of solid carbon in his hand.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I murmur, feeling the deep emotion that comes from excessive expenditure.
‘It’s for you. If you’ll be mine again,’ he says, turning and looking up into my eyes.
‘How can you afford it?’ I take it from him. After all, no point in a good diamond ending up in the Thames.
