The Keeper. Luke Delaney

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      Thomas Keller walked along the quiet suburban street in Anerley, south-east London, an area that provided affordable housing to those attracted to the capital who discovered that they could only afford to live on its edges, financially excluded from the very things they had come to London for in the first place. He knew Oakfield Road well, having walked its length several times over the previous few weeks and he knew in which house Louise Russell lived.

      Keller was cautious. Although confident he would draw little attention in his Post Office uniform, this was not his normal route. Someone might realize he shouldn’t be there and that the mail had already been delivered earlier that morning, but he couldn’t wait any longer – he needed Louise Russell today.

      As he approached number 22 he made sure to drop post through the letter boxes of neighbouring houses, just in case some bored resident had nothing to do other than spy on the street where nothing happened anyway. As he posted junk mail his eyes flicked at the windows and doors of the street’s ugly new brick houses, built for practicality with no thought of individuality or warmth. Their design provided excellent privacy, however, and that had made Louise Russell even more attractive to him.

      His excitement and fear were rising to levels he could barely control, the blood pumping through his arteries and veins so fast it hurt his head and blurred his vision. He quickly checked inside his postal delivery sack, shuffling the contents around, moving the junk mail aside, touching the items he had brought with him for reassurance – the electric stun-gun he’d bought on one of his rare holidays outside of Britain, the washing-up liquid bottle that contained chloroform, a clean flannel, a roll of heavy-duty tape and a thin blanket. He would need them all soon, very soon.

      Only a few steps to the front door now and he could sense the woman inside, could taste and smell her. The architecture of the soulless house meant that once he had reached the front door he could not be seen from the street and nor could Louise Russell’s red Ford Fiesta. He held his hand up to ring the doorbell, but paused to steady himself before pressing the button attached to the door frame, in case he needed to persuade her to open the door to him. After what felt like hours he finally pressed it and waited, until a jerky shadow moved from the bowels of the house towards the front door. He stared at the opaque glass window in the door as the shadow took on colour and the door began to open without СКАЧАТЬ