Breaking Point (10 page)

At six fourteen, the shower stopped. I heard heavy footsteps overhead, creaking floorboards, while the kitchen sink belched behind me as the last of the shower water and soap scum drained away. I stood briefly, stretching my legs out, then crouched and practiced springing back up –
Surprise!
– a couple of times. Satisfied that he would not have time to react before the knife was at his throat, I squatted once more and waited, straining my ears to pick up as much information as possible. He dried himself, and the rattle of a belt buckle then suggested he was dressing. A pause, then the unmistakable sound of urination, followed by a flush. A door opening, squealing painfully, then heavy, indifferent footsteps down the stairs. I remember so clearly the sense of anticipation as the footsteps reached the ground floor, the feeling of nerves and joy and hate and victory; a vicious cocktail that seemed to threaten to overwhelm my very sanity. A heady, poisonous, glorious brew that I somehow knew I would never feel again; that I knew I should savour even as it made me feel like retching and, as he took the first step in my direction, towards his fate and my restoration of honour, as I took a deep breath and prepared myself to pounce...

Symphony number nine exploded from my pocket.

The violins cried out, screaming my presence, and my blood ran cold in a decidedly non-metaphorical way. My limbs, my bones, my brain were frozen with a chilling, physical shock. From a million miles away, I heard a muffled voice, confused, rising to anger, while closer, timpani drums crashed out, broadcasting my position with a booming, brash finality. Late, too late, I scrabbled with my trousers, lowering the waistband of my waterproofs, shoving my hand inside my work suit trouser pockets, wobbling on my haunches, losing balance, scrabbling, grasping desperately for my treacherous telephone. My heart pounded so loudly, so forcefully, that I could barely make out the quieter string section, let alone anything else, as I forced my shaking gloved hand into a fist, closing around the screaming, vibrating machine. My hand was now hopelessly jammed in my pocket and I wrenched so hard that I fell back from my crouch and onto my backside, a ripping sensation telling me that the fabric of my trousers had torn in this desperate act. Just as I brought the phone to eye level, already starting to rock forwards from my loss of balance, and took in the flashing word ‘Office’, the door banged open and light flooded the room.

Bad Boy burst in, eyes scanning the rear door, before moving in my direction, presumably in response to movement in his peripheral vision. I remember, with awful clarity, how time appeared to stretch out, to become somehow thin, how I could take in his physicality, the jut of his jaw, realise how much tension he was carrying there, how wound up he was, and I rocked forward, as if through soup, knowing I had enough momentum to regain my feet, not knowing if I would get there in time. His head turning, every muscle in my stomach contracting, pulling me forwards - me blessing every sit-up I’d done of a morning to stay in shape, cursing every steak dinner I hadn’t skipped - willing myself to move faster, regain my feet, his head fully facing me, his eyes widening as he took in the mask, the blade, and a fraction of a second where he froze completely, actually gaining a half inch in height as his spine locked up, ramrod straight, eyes jammed open in shock, as he got information overload, and that fragment of a second of incomprehension, refusal, was just enough to save me. Time began to regain its normal pace as I hit my heels and pistoned my legs to a standing position. Then he started, too late, to bring his arms up, hands forming fists. Too slow, thank God, too slow. I was still moving up and out, towards him, and my stiff-armed shove as he shifted balance sent him careering into the wall. I heard, felt, his head bounce off the plaster, hard, and I wasted no time in pressing the blade to his throat.

“Don’t move.”

My voice sounded harsh and deep, spiked with adrenaline. The words combined with the pressure of the blade, sending a powerful message, and he dropped his arms. His eyes locked with mine, terrified, pleading. We stood, close enough to kiss, as my phone continued playing its tune, vibrating in my glove as it pushed into his chest.

I cleared my throat, then brought the phone over to my face. I held a single gloved finger to my lips, in the universal gesture of silence. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

“I have to take this.”

He nodded again, frantically.

Increasing the pressure of the blade on his throat just a fraction, I placed the phone to my ear and took the call.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

My voice sounded calm, even, though perhaps a little too deep.

“Darling! I was beginning to think you’d left!”

Her voice calm, unconcerned, but clearly pleased to hear me. I felt a wave of love wash through me in that moment, an aching joy that pushed tears into my eyes.

“No, just lost in thought. Sorry if I worried you. What can I do?”

My standard question, asked with a smile. Would she pick up on the slight tremble, the deeper tone, or would the poor audio quality of the mobile cover me?

“Oh, it’s nothing really, silly. It’s just we’ve run out of tea bags. I shan’t need any this evening, of course, but I’ll want them in the morning. You couldn’t pick some up for me on the way home, could you? I used the last one this morning and I meant to get some more at lunchtime, but with the casework I was doing it just skipped my mind completely. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course I don’t, darling. I’ll swing by the shop on the way home, pick you some up. Do we need anything else?”

“I don’t think so - no, that’ll be fine. Thanks so much, darling. Sorry to be a pain.”

“Not at all, it’s no problem.”

“Thanks. Any idea what time you will be finishing?”

I allowed myself a pause to pretend I was looking at my watch, though in reality my eyes never left those of Bad Boy. His pupils were dilated and he was breathing heavily, sweat running down his face in spite of the cool air. Panicked. No threat.

“Shouldn’t be too much longer, I don’t think. Just tying up a few loose ends.” I said this smiling, for her benefit but also his. Trying to sound calm, reassuring, reasonable.

He didn’t show any visible signs of relaxing.

“Oh, that’s good, darling. I’m so glad. They work you so hard, don’t they?”

“They do, they do.”

There was a pause. Then, hesitantly, she asked, “Darling, are you okay? You sound a little... husky.”

For a second, I almost lost it. Her sweet concern, the loving care in her voice, almost unmanned me. I felt a tremble begin in my legs and a tightness in my chest, an itching in my throat. I thought of her, could picture her so clearly, brow furrowed with concern, lower lip pouting a little, the way she did sometimes, without realising it, when she was concerned for another.

Then my eyes refocused on the face of Bad Boy and, suddenly, I pictured him behind her, his full lips twisted into a gritted sneer. Her furrowed brow now flushed and sweaty. Her open mouth emitting cries of pain and shame and pleasure. Pounding her, using her for his own amusement, and my trembles calmed, my mind cleared, and my grip on the blade tightened like a hangman's noose when the trapdoor opens.

“I’m fine, darling, really. Just need a glass of water, that’s all. You know how I forget to drink sometimes when I’m working away.”

“Well, go and get one before you leave,” she said primly, but kindly.

“I will.”

“Good. Drive safely, husband, and come home as soon as you can.”

“I will. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

I replaced the phone into my pocket, slowly. Bad Boy swallowed, licked his lips and said, “Look...”

I increased the pressure of the blade, drew it just a half inch to the left, and he yelped and fell silent. I saw blood beading on the stainless steel blade. Just a scratch, but the message was sent. He swallowed, and his breathing became ragged, desperate, but he spoke no more.

“No, you look. I have one question I need you to answer, and that’s all. All you need to do is answer it truthfully. Do that and you will live. Do you understand?”

The idiot actually started to nod, felt the blade, swallowed again and said, “Yes”.

“Good. Now, you remember the work you did last week?”

Total confusion passed across his face. Bewilderment. He was thrown enough that it took him a while to realise I was waiting for an answer.

“Yes, but...”

“Yes is fine. You remember. You remember the woman, don’t you? Husband and wife, you remember the wife, yes?”

His eyes widened in realisation, fear, and some other emotion I could not place.

“Yes, but...”

“Good...”

“...But I never did nothing...”

I slammed my weight forward then, crashing my body into his, pressed my forehead into his hard enough to hurt, and he sobbed, shrank back against the wall, seeming to try and force his way into it, through it, to get away from me.

I waited for him to open his eyes.

“Deny it to me one more time. Just once more lie to me like that and I will slit your throat from ear to ear, right now. Understand?”

“Yes.” Sobbing openly. Tears running down his cheeks. Snot starting to drip from his nose. I felt no pity, no remorse, only a cold, hard, clean resolve. A million of his tears were not worth one of hers. Not one.

“Good. Now we understand each other and all we have now is the question. Answer me true and I will let you live. Lie and you end here.”

I gave him a few seconds, preparing myself, taking the measure of him as best I could. Whatever he said, I resolved to read the truth in his reaction. I felt supremely confident in my ability to do this. The tension of the situation had created a hyper-reality, and my senses were tingling and alive to every detail of his face. I would take him in and, whatever words he used, his voice and face would give me the truth. I was certain of it.

“Have you told anyone what you did to her?”             

His breath caught, his eyes widened and, for an awful moment, I thought all was lost. But then a hectic colour rose to his cheeks and the corners of his mouth twitched unmistakably in a smile reflex of tension released and, when he said, “Not a soul, man, I swear. No one. Not a fucking soul,” I knew he was telling the truth.

I smiled my own relief back at him.

“And you never will, will you?”

This time his smile did more than twitch, it broke across his face, painfully, and he exhaled in a rush. “No man. Not a fucking word, I swear to God, never, never.”

“I believe you,” I said. And I did. I was certain of it.

I allowed all the hatred to wash over me, the merciless rage, and the knife in my hand became a cold extension of that rage. I pushed down and drew across with all the strength I possessed.

The knife bit deep and ran true. Ear to ear. I felt the solid resistance of his trachea, but it parted before my blade, my strength, my rage, and I felt the ragged tearing all the way up to my shoulder.  His carotid artery opened, sending a jet of high pressure blood up and over my shoulder in a grotesque fountain, spattering the ceiling above us and the wall behind me. His hands spasmed up to the wound - as if to close it, to make it unhappen - and I saw his fingers twitching in the gore under his chin, touching the end of his severed windpipe. I saw blood pour in there, watched his chest heave as he attempted to inhale, took in blood, gargling, and as he began to sink to his knees, I saw him exhale violently, from the diaphragm, and blood ejected from that same hole, like brackish water belching from a drain.

I stepped back from the carnage, dropping the knife, retrieving the tire iron. When I looked back, he was slumped to one side, his shirt crimson with arterial blood, the fountain from the wound already lessening in height. His lips were moving, but of course no air could pass through his vocal chords so he made no sound except for the moist gargling of his slowly flooding lungs. He still stared at me, with mute pleading, begging even now for the life I had taken.

Too late, Bad Boy.

It was time to go.

11

I left the house quickly and all but ran back into the tree line. Being seen was now far less important than leaving swiftly. Back in the trees, I had a dreadful moment when I could not locate the bags I’d dumped earlier. The perspective seemed utterly unfamiliar and I was unable to get my bearings. After what can only have been a few seconds of this panic (though it felt far, far longer), I simply stopped, closed my eyes, took a deep breath and held it for a moment. When I opened my eyes again, I immediately realised my mistake. Slowly, I moved to the edge of the trees and orientated myself by the bonnet of my car. Turning from there to face back towards the house, I immediately located the place I had hidden the bags. It was a work of no more than a couple of minutes to remove all the outer layers of clothing into the large refuse sack. After a short deliberation, I added the tire iron also – though I hadn’t used it as envisaged, it had been at the scene, and was easily replaceable. In any case, I needed more weight for the bag. I left the carrier bags on my feet however, as the ground was muddy.