The Rhythm Section. Mark Burnell

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       8

      I open the door to Proctor’s flat with my key – with his key – and my breathing stops.

      I have spent the night on the streets. This is nothing new for me. I am familiar with the city as a bed. Like so many others in London, I’ve slept in shop doorways and close to the warm air exhaled by Underground ventilation units. I’ve sneaked into hotel service areas and stolen a few warm hours. Sometimes, a train station – or a bus station – has been the best place to rest. But tonight I wasn’t looking for sleep. I was looking for answers.

      So I walked through the streets, mindless of my direction and only vaguely aware of my surroundings, which is unusual for me. I have learned to be cautious. Working at night in the seamier areas of the city, one quickly develops a sixth sense for danger. I can see behind me. I can feel a threat, smell its scent on the polluted air. Unless the drugs or the Special Brew have kicked in. Then I’m useless and vulnerable, which was how I was last night. All my defences were down.

      I cannot believe what I have done. Until dawn, I don’t honestly think I even accepted what I had done. It seemed like a dream. But morning tends to bring clarity, in all its painful guises.

      I don’t understand why I reacted the way I did. I knew Proctor was going to touch me, to kiss me. I wanted him to. The moment had been telegraphed; I had plenty of time to kill it before it even happened but I chose not to. I knew he would be tender and understanding. When he put his hand on my hip and his lips on my lips, it was much as I hoped it would be. No, it was better than I hoped it would be. And then … I snapped. Just as I did with my last client, even though the two situations could hardly have been more different.

      Around seven this morning, I stopped at a café for a cup of coffee. I only just resisted my craving for a cigarette. For an hour, I agonized about what I should do before stumbling to a decision. It was a cowardly choice; to sneak back to Bell Street, collect my things and flee. I prayed Proctor would be out to make it easier for me. Then I could leave my keys with a hastily-scribbled note of apology. A month ago, his absence would have been an invitation to scour for valuables. But not now. I owe Proctor. He is the only man who has shown me any kindness in the last two years. And how have I repaid him for that kindness? By cutting him with a knife.

      I cannot believe myself. What kind of cold-blooded creature have I become?

      There were papers strewn across the floor in the hall of Proctor’s pristine flat. They were the first thing that Stephanie saw. The self-pity and the shame evaporated. Her skin prickled, her throat dried. She paused for a moment, pushing the door completely open and listening for the sound of movement. Nothing. Then she stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind her.

      The paper trail led to the office on the right. From the short hall, she could see empty desk-drawers on the floor, the swivel chair on its side, the activated computer screen. She turned left. In the kitchen, every cupboard and drawer had been investigated. The fridge was empty. Its door was open, all its contents spread across the tiles. Clean cutlery cluttered the steel sink. Proctor’s bedroom looked no more dishevelled than that of the average student but, normally, it was clinically clean and tidy. The mattress had been removed from the bed and sliced apart. The sheets were screwed into a bundle in the corner. The cupboards had been checked, all the slatted doors were open. In the bathroom, the bath itself contained all that had been inside the medicine cabinet and the cupboard beneath the sink.

      Proctor was in the living room, an island in a scarlet ocean.

      Stephanie stood over him and found she was unable to cry out for help, to gasp in horror, to shed a tear. This wasn’t Proctor. It was only his body. Just as she wasn’t Stephanie when a stranger was using her. The spirit was gone but the sight still stopped her heart.

      Proctor had been shot in the forehead and through the left hand. Also, there were dark glossy stains on his shirt and on his trousers, one on the left thigh and one around each knee. The bandage that had been wrapped around his right hand during the night lay in a crumpled heap on the sofa. The stitches had been plucked free of the injury that Stephanie had inflicted upon him and the gash had been deepened and extended. There were four cross-cuts on the same palm and she could see that the little finger, the index finger and the thumb had all been broken. His eyes were frozen open. A fat drop of blood sat on the left pupil.

      She could not imagine the agony he had endured before his death and wondered how his torturer had prevented Proctor from screaming; howls of pain would surely have alerted the other residents of the mansion block. Ransacking suggested the killer had been looking for something specific. Torture suggested the killer hadn’t found it. Stephanie wondered whether the prize СКАЧАТЬ