Panting from the effort needed to take a life, I stand above him until my own breath is regulated, then bend down, put my head close to his chest. There’s no audible heartbeat. I put my ear over his mouth and there are no breaths. When total destruction was my plan it was so much easier to enact, wasn’t it? That’s that then. Fuck. I’m a killer.
I go back for my stuff, wipe down my face and my clothes with one of the towels I packed. When I look at the turquoise cotton of the towel I’m shocked at how much spatter has hit me. I wipe and wipe myself until the towel doesn’t show any further staining. Riding the bus covered in blood would be less than ideal. I wrap the hammer in a fresh towel and pop it in a bin bag before putting it away with the rest of my things. Then, to be completely sure Harry is as dead as I think he is, I put on the latex gloves and check Harry’s pulse: it doesn’t exist. My work here is done.
On his wrist is a smartwatch that tells me the time is 5:00 pm. To get home and washed and to the meeting is going to be tighter than I’d like. I have to leave.
‘Angus, you little shit,’ I shout. As the words leave my lips I decide that if he doesn’t appear I will leave him. You hear stories of dogs being found hundreds of miles away from where their owners lost them semi-regularly on the news. Who says Angus couldn’t have journeyed seven miles in an afternoon by himself? I don’t have to find out, though. He appears from behind the kennel and bounds over not to me, but to Harry, his worst fears for Mrs Neilan played out in front of him. Worried I am traumatising this tiny creature, I call, ‘Come on, Angus, time to go’.
He looks over at me, then back at Harry. Blood is pooling around Harry’s skull in the dirt.
‘Come on, Angus.’ Irritation laces my words. Then Angus bends and dips his tongue in the blood before running towards me.
35
Public transport in this country is a joke. It’s rush hour, for fuck’s sake, and here I am having to wait twenty minutes for a bus. An outrage. That’s a really long time when you’re in a hurry, and also when you get to thinking about how you’ve recently upgraded from manslaughter to murder. Me. I did that. Despite the bloody hammer in my bag, the ache in my shoulder from the force I needed to use and the images of it seared into my brain, it doesn’t make sense that I – a good person – could do that. Yet I did and, you know what, I feel completely justified. These people need to be stopped and this bloody bus needs to come.
When it does, Angus is on edge. Every noise makes him alert, he fidgets on my lap, nuzzles my sports bag desperately wanting in. It must be the blood. A taste has changed him. I wonder if returning him to Mrs Neilan is the best idea. When she dozes tonight will Angus no longer be bothered she’s unconscious and decide he wants more blood? I pat Angus’s head. Just because one death propelled me into a life of murder doesn’t mean it will be the same for Angus. And if it does, I trust Mrs Neilan is the only person who’s at risk, and she’s at an age where she’s going to go sooner rather than later. Killed by a creature she loves is no worse a way to die than by a cerebral haemorrhage or cancer.
The journey back is torturous. The bypass is down to one lane because of a crash and it’s slow, slow, then no movement, then slow again for forever. When we’re back in Hamilton I’m panicked about how late I’ll be to the meeting. I run from the bus stop, clocking the time on the ticket scanner on the way out and figure I have fifteen minutes to get ready, get a taxi to Amara’s and be only ten minutes late. I rewrite the plan in my head. Being late will make it look like I have a busy life (true) and arriving in a cab will give the impression of having disposable income (false). I round the corner to my street, Angus squirming like mad because he can see home is in sight. The relief to be almost inside hits me, until I see Gavin hanging about.
‘Hey.’ I try to sound excited to see them but I’m really not. I’ve not properly come down from everything that’s happened, I’m drunk on Harry’s death. I needed time alone to compose myself. ‘I thought I was getting you at their flat?’
They pull up their tote bag which heaves with printouts from work onto their shoulder. ‘Yeah, I know, but I wanted to check in on the patient.’
I’m momentarily confused until I remember I am the patient. My tongue finds the tooth with the fresh filling at the back of my mouth and prods at it to verify it did happen.
‘I’m fine. Went to the gym. Got carried away, didn’t realise the time and then found my neighbour’s dog on the street on my way back.’
‘Busy afternoon.’ Gavin kisses me on the forehead. ‘Do you want me to carry something?’
I draw the bag closer to me, bring Angus in tighter, shaking my head. ‘No, no. It’s fine.’
Inside the close smells as it always does, like stew and the various products each occupant uses when it’s their turn to clean the steps. As I knock on Mrs Neilan’s door Gavin stands behind me. If they weren’t here I’d be able to ditch Angus, I can see the door is still open, but then there’d be questions from Gavin about why I haven’t let my neighbour know her precious dog escaped.
Mrs Neilan takes ages to answer. I feel all my valuable time drifting away. When she eventually appears, it becomes clear through my telling of the tale she hadn’t even noticed Angus was gone. Upon discovering he has been out on the street without her she clutches at her chest. ‘Oh my.’ She stumbles back a bit, and that’s where Gavin proves their worth, jumping forward and leading Mrs Neilan to her armchair. It’s all a bit dramatic for my liking.
‘I’ll be fine after a sit-down,’ she says, sounding frail in a way she never usually does. The layout of the flat is the mirror image of mine so Gavin knows where they’re going. I cannot be drawn into this.
‘I’m going to drop my stuff inside and then I’ll be back.’ This is technically true but doesn’t fully encapsulate everything I do in the – bloody hell – eight minutes I have to get ready.
I make the most of my time. I strip off in the kitchen and put all of my clothes, the towel I wiped myself down with and the empty gym bag into the washing machine, then I rinse the hammer, keeping my head at a forty-five degree angle away from the steam that stinks of iron as the last bits of Harry wash off. Next I cover it in bleach, leaving it to soak in the sink for good measure. In the bathroom I wash my face and body with a wet flannel which also goes into the washing machine, which I put on a ninety-degree cycle. I scrape my hair up into a bun which, actually, looks alright, little strands at the front artfully framing my features, the shape of the bun round and symmetrical and stable. I put on some deodorant and then tinted moisturiser, mascara and a dab of blush. I skoosh on my favourite perfume, the one I bought at Duty Free the last time I flew which costs so much a bottle I cannot contemplate ever repurchasing it, and then I put on the plain grey T-shirt and blue jeans I ironed last night in preparation for today. I lace up a pair of white trainers and I’m ready to go. I grab my bag of documents and then my phone to book a taxi.
Despite my taking longer than promised, Gavin isn’t finished with Mrs Neilan. They sit on a sofa across from her making small talk. ‘Well, that’s the problem with Hamilton, it used to have–’
Mrs Neilan stops when she sees me.
‘Are you two off somewhere nice?’
‘Oh, we don’t have to go if you still need someone with you,’ Gavin offers. ‘One of us can stay.’
No, we bloody can’t. Gavin isn’t looking at me, but I give them an angry expression, should they glance up, to tell them,We are leaving.
‘No, no. You two go off and have your evening. I’ll be fine.’
The taxi honks on the street below.
‘That’s us,’ I say.
Gavin reluctantly gets up, their head to-ing and fro-ing between me and Mrs Neilan as if this is a big choice, when I am their girlfriend and Mrs Neilan is no one to them. They make the correct decision and leave, telling Mrs Neilan we’ll check on her later.
