Then put the frame back on the mantelpiece, upright, so the happy family smiled out into the graveyard room.
Poor Mr Murray.
Tufty scuffed out into the hall, stopping at the end of the stairs. ‘OK, MR MURRAY: YOU TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. TRY NOT TO DROWN IN YOUR OWN SICK!’
He stood there for a minute, one foot on the bottom step.
A rasping snorerattledthrough the building – amplified bythe en suite’s tiled walls. Then another. And another. Getting louder and louder as Mr Murray really let rip.
Tufty shrugged and let himself out.
Standing on the sun-drenched doorstep, he locked the door again, then posted the keys through the letterbox.
There we go.
At least that wasonegood deed done today...
XXVIII
‘FUCK!’
Natasha jerked awake.
This was not right.
This was not good.
This was...oh Jesus.
Where thefuckwere her clothes? Grit and stones dug into the skin on her back and thighs, scraped against her elbows and heels as she thrashed in place, making something metal clink and rattle.
The bastard – the one who came to her house with a message about that dickhead Adrian – what the hell had he done?
She was blind. And deaf?
And suffocating.
Get to your bloody feet!
But her arms weren’t working properly. Every time she tried to move them it dragged her neck about. As if her wrists were...tied to her throat or something. Like some twisted version of Edvard Munch’sThe Scream.
‘HELP ME!’ Bellowing into the darkness.
But the sound came out all muffled and distorted.
He’d put something over her head. A bag, maybe? Something sticky and salty.
Wait, wait, wait.
Breathe.
Just lie the fuckstillfor a moment and breathe.
You’re not an idiot. Or avictim, OK?
Whatever this shit is, you can beat it.
Every breath hissed in and whoomphed out. Caught inside the bag.
