Louise Welsh - A Lovely Way to Burn

‘You must have got a fright when the door wouldn’t shut behind you.’

‘Typical of Simon not to get the lock fixed. What could I do? I took the keys to the flat from his jacket pocket, locked the door and hoped for the best.’

Stevie had intended to make a sprint for freedom, but she stepped out from the shelter of the workbenches and said, ‘I spoke to Sarah Frei. She told me that her husband had been alerted by a whistleblower. You’re also forgetting the note Simon left me, and the laptop he intended for Mr Reah. I may not have grown up with Simon, but I loved him, and in the short time we were together, I got to know him better than you ever could.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think the truth is that, out of loyalty, and against his better judgement, Simon tried to give you time to resolve things. When it became clear that you were going to persist with the treatment, he got in touch with Frei, told him what was going on and gave him enough evidence to back the story up. You killed them both, and then you got your son to break into Frei’s house during his funeral and steal the evidence.’ Stevie smiled as if she was giving the chemist a compliment. ‘Nice touch.’

William bent into a spasm. Buchanan stood motionless beside him, his eyes still on Stevie. He said, ‘Don’t make the same mistake Simon made. Work with me. If we can isolate whatever it is that makes you immune to the sweats, I’ll be able to make a vaccine, maybe even a cure.’

Stevie shook her head. ‘All you want is another shot at glory.’ She took a step forward. ‘I should shoot you, but I don’t want your death on my conscience. Put the acid down, and give me the keys to the building and the front gate.’ She stepped closer. ‘Do it quickly, before I change my mind. You make a very good target.’

Buchanan placed the beaker on the workbench. He reached into his overall pocket, took out a set of keys and tossed them to her, but the gun was in Stevie’s right hand and they landed on the floor with a clatter.

‘Touch me and you’re dead.’ Stevie lowered herself cautiously, keeping her eyes on the chemist. She groped blindly on the floor with her free hand, seeking the bundle of keys, and when she didn’t find them glanced quickly at the ground.

The chemist’s first kick sent the keys speeding away from her. His second caught her in the ribs and hurled her after them. Stevie rolled with the kick, letting its energy propel her across the room. She slammed against a workbench, raised the gun and pulled the trigger. It gave a harmless click.

The sight of the gun had startled the chemist and he had thrown himself to the floor. But suddenly he was all action. He clambered to his feet, as fast as the clumsy overalls would allow, and started towards her.

Stevie swore. She lifted the gun again and took aim.

William Buchanan whispered, ‘I took the first bullet in the chamber out, in case it went off by mistake.’

Stevie squeezed the trigger and fired.

The chemist looked down at the blood spreading across the chest of his white overalls. For a moment she thought that one bullet wouldn’t be enough, but then Buchanan pulled the helmet free of his head and fell backwards, his descent as sure as death.

Hope’s Jaguar was parked by the truck, where Stevie had left it. She turned the key in the ignition and steered out on to the main road. It was still dark, but there was a glow on the horizon that might have been the city burning, or a promise of dawn. Stevie drove away from it into the blackness, glancing occasionally at the blaze of light in her rear-view mirror. Dr Ahumibe had been right. Killing people made you feel bad.

Stevie wished Joanie was in the passenger seat and wondered that she hadn’t thought of Simon first. She had shot a man and left another to die. And killing people made you feel bad. The streetlights were dead. It was hard to see the road ahead, but Stevie kept her headlamps off. She leant forward and pressed her foot to the accelerator. She knew now why killers ended massacres with a bullet to the head or a noose in their prison cell.

The speedometer climbed. Stevie closed her eyes, saw the blackness deepen, and then opened them again. She let the speed drop to a steady forty and drove on, into the dark. Breathed in and breathed out. Breathed in and breathed out. Breathed in and breathed out.

The inspiration for A Lovely Way to Burn goes back to my early childhood, a mild obsession with ‘the bomb’, the television dramas, Threads by Barry Hines and Survivors by Terry Nation. The idea that the collapse of civilisation is imminent has been around since ancient times. Personally, I am amazed that we have survived this long, and while I don’t exactly look forward to the end of the world as we know it, the knowledge that it may be just around the corner probably enhances the way I live. Many people have helped with this book. Sincere thank yous go to Audrey Rae and Jennifer Scammell who helped with medical research, but are most definitely not responsible for any inaccuracies or flights of fancy that I may have added. Eleanor Birne has been an outstanding editor and I have also benefited from the advice and support of my publisher Roland Philipps and my agent David Miller (who hates to be thanked). My partner, the writer Zoë Strachan, was once again my first reader and frequently set aside her own work to look at mine. I should also thank my family, who never complain about the amount of time I spend at my desk, even though it means I often shamefully neglect them.

I would also like to thank everyone at Cove Park, where I spent a very happy month and where I began this book, especially Peter and Ellen Jacobs, Polly Clark and Julian Forrester.