Gillian Galbraith - Dying Of The Light

‘Oh, I was expecting Guy,’ she said, entering and looking at Alice anxiously. As she finished speaking Bayley walked in. Seeing her, his entire face lit up, smiling with his eyes and his mouth, his pleasure in seeing her unrestrained, impossible to hide. She, too, beamed; they met in the middle of the room and, for an instant only, held hands. In their absorption in each other Alice seemed to have become invisible, and they remembered her only when, as she rose from her chair, the leather squeaked below her.

‘Er… this is Sandra Pollock, sergeant, a friend of mine,’ Guy Bayley said uneasily. The woman added, her eyes never leaving the lawyer’s face, ‘Sister Sandra, usually. I’m a nun as well as a friend of his.’

He watched her, amused, as she stamped her feet on the promenade, then paced to and fro, evidently feeling the cold, desperate to do the business and go home. Let her wait, catch a chill, catch her bloody death for all he cared. She was already his, that much had been agreed and, for more cash, she would hang about in the freezing air until he decided that the time was right. Auspicious. And all he needed to do, to keep her quiet, was to open his wallet like a flasher’s raincoat, and her high-pitched complaints would cease. That sulky expression would fade, she might even manage a smile until the meter ran out again.

The sea, in the faint, orange lamplight, looked like liquid mud, thin filth, churning and re-churning itself before receding into blackness, and instead of the fresh smell of ozone there was the stink of sewage, an outlet-pipe nearby discharging its foul effluent on to the beach below. Not really a place to die, but few had the luxury of choosing the spot, and there were worse ways to go out. Decaying, slowly and inexorably, in an old folk’s home, for a start.

Sometime soon he might be caught, must be caught, so tonight’s entertainment could be his last. It should be savoured to the full, relished, enjoyed, drained of pleasure to the last drop. Noticing the prostitute throwing a malevolent glance in his direction, he walked across to her and handed over a fiver, watching as she folded it and put it into her skirt pocket, pulled her jacket more tightly around herself and began her restless pacing again, like a caged beast. But he was the beast here, he thought, a nice reversal, and had selected his prey with care. Huge pupils were the giveaway, too much smack or vodka and coke in the bloodstream. Those undiscriminating dark pools welcomed everyone, levelling mankind and tricking nature. Black holes sucking everybody in.

‘Look, pal,’ the prostitute said, through chattering teeth, ‘it’s f… f… fuckin’ freezin’ here, eh? Let’s… just get it ove… eh, oan wi’ it, eh?’

‘Get it over with,’ you mean, he thought, blinking at her but saying nothing. Unpleasant experiences had to be got over, teeth-pulling, injections, that kind of thing, but he was not that kind of thing and she would not get over him.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Eh… Muriel.’ Her hesitation betrayed her lie.

‘Well… Muriel. What I’d like is for you to stand over there…’ he pointed to the wall, ‘and close your eyes. Tight shut, mind. Then we’ll d… d… do it, eh? Get it over with, eh?’

‘Naw.’ She drew on her cigarette, firing the smoke at him, imagining that she was in control of the situation.

‘Naw? it’s not so much to ask is it?’ he said holding another fiver in front of her face and pointing again at the same area of wall. ‘There’s a good girl. Just stand there, close your eyes… and there’s extra money in it for you.’

Looking heavenwards to let him know she was humouring him, she strolled across, whirled round to face him, eyes tight shut with her cigarette still between her lips, a reminder that kissing was off-limits. In a second, he had the knife out of his jacket and stood with it poised opposite her heart.

‘You ready yet, pal?’ she said, lashes still down, conscious from the sound of his breathing that he had moved closer to her, smelling his breath.

‘Oh, aye… ready.’

She did not scream or thrash about as the last one had, instead she collapsed on the spot, her legs no longer supporting her, and lay, face upwards, as her heart continued its task, pumping blood onto the cement of the promenade, some spurting heavenwards into the sewage-scented air. For a second he thought he saw himself reflected in her pupils and then, slowly, she closed them, embracing the darkness. Bending over her, he put his face close to hers as if they were lovers, feeling for the warmth of her breath on his skin and inhaling her perfume as he did so. He could kiss her now if he wanted.

Suddenly, something gave a little peck or claw to his cheek, and he hit it away as you might a fly or wasp. Then, practical as ever, he turned his waterproof jacket inside out and lifted the slumped body away from the jet-coloured pool surrounding it, carrying his burden to an area of scrubland bordered by the sea and the promenade. He dropped her a couple of feet onto the wiry grass below, then climbed over the railings and began to roll her onto her back, positioning her arms across her breasts as if in prayer. Just as he had seen in a forensic science text book, a long time ago. He would have to clean her up, he thought, check her over, then remove any tell-tale signs.

‘Diesel! Diesel!’ a dog-walker’s voice rang out, an irate baritone and only a few hundred yards away. He peered up, over the end of the promenade, and saw a collie prancing about, skittering in all directions, with its tail held aloft and a ball in its mouth, but always advancing forwards, in his direction. Getting closer by the second. He must go.

The bus looked empty and the prostitute climbed aboard it, relieved to be returning to the safety of her home and that the night’s labours were over. As Julie Neilson lowered herself into the seat her right hand touched something warm, soft and sticky. She recoiled instantly as if burnt, examining her palm and finding it scented with the sweet, sickly aroma of spearmint. Recently-chewed chewing gum. Taking her hankie from her pocket, she spat on to it and began to wipe her palm clean, noticing as she did so that the back of her hand had a couple of liver spots on it and that the veins were clearly visible, flowing like frozen rivers towards her knuckles.

‘Hen, hen… whit ye oan this bus fer?’ demanded an unfamiliar voice, one which swooped from treble to bass and back again. She raised her head from her cleaning task and watched as a couple of youths bundled each other into the seat directly in front of hers, one of them upending a bottle of Buckfast into his mouth and the other grinning at her, his face now unnaturally close to her own. They were both young enough to be her children, and she had no desire to talk to them, but they were an unknown quantity. They were likely to be unpredictable, and ignoring their question would be seen as rude.

‘Fer a ride…’she said, adding quickly, but not quickly enough, ‘…hame.’

Immediately, they burst into raucous laughter, one nudging the other with his elbow, repeating together, ‘Fer a ride, eh? Fer a ride! You’ll be lucky!’

She lowered her eyes, looking down at her knees, hoping that if she seemed withdrawn and uncommunicative they would become bored, find something else to attract their attention and allow her to continue her journey in peace. Let her think about other more pressing things.

‘Like fags, hen?’ the dark-haired one asked, taking another draught from his bottle and waving an open cigarette packet under her nose.