Adrian Magson: Execution

Seconds later — at least, he thought it was seconds. . God, he felt so tired for some reason — they came out. Only this time, instead of falling across black cloth, the light fell on uncovered pale skin and hair. One woman was blonde, the other brunette. The clothes had changed, too, and they were now wearing jeans and sweatshirts, the anonymous dress of women all over the world.

Paulton struggled to focus, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Had he fallen asleep and gone into some sort of fugue state? He didn’t think so. What the hell was happening to him?

More movement. One of the women — the brunette — was walking back towards the connecting door. She stopped just the other side of the glass, but made no move to come through. She simply stood there. And smiled at him.

Paulton swallowed and tried to speak. But his vocal chords felt oddly disconnected. He could see her face clearly now, and for a second he failed to believe what his eyes were telling him. Then recognition came flooding in. It couldn’t be!

Clare Jardine.

Something, he wasn’t sure what, it wasn’t something he could feel , some awful premonition, an association of ideas, a horrible knowledge, made him glance down at his lap. A dark shadow was spreading across his leg, which was starting to feel quite numb. When he concentrated, he saw it wasn’t a shadow, but a bloody red flow that was glistening and pulsing and dripping to the carpet where it was forming a glossy, widening puddle.

He watched, somehow knowing that he was watching his life leaking out of him, but unable to do a thing about it. He lifted his eyes towards the connecting door, imploring.

But all he saw was the reflection of the carriage in the glass.