Chapter 35
Public transport in this country is a joke.
It’s rush hour, for fuck’s sake, and here I am having to wait twenty minutes for a bus.
An outrage. That’s a really long time when you’re in a hurry, and also when you get to thinking about how you’ve recently upgraded from manslaughter to murder.
Me. I did that. Despite the bloody hammer in my bag, the ache in my shoulder from the force I needed to use and the images of it seared into my brain, it doesn’t make sense that I – a good person – could do that.
Yet I did and, you know what, I feel completely justified.
These people need to be stopped and this bloody bus needs to come.
When it does, Angus is on edge. Every noise makes him alert, he fidgets on my lap, nuzzles my sports bag desperately wanting in.
It must be the blood. A taste has changed him.
I wonder if returning him to Mrs Neilan is the best idea.
When she dozes tonight will Angus no longer be bothered she’s unconscious and decide he wants more blood?
I pat Angus’s head. Just because one death propelled me into a life of murder doesn’t mean it will be the same for Angus.
And if it does, I trust Mrs Neilan is the only person who’s at risk, and she’s at an age where she’s going to go sooner rather than later.
Killed by a creature she loves is no worse a way to die than by a cerebral haemorrhage or cancer.
The journey back is torturous. The bypass is down to one lane because of a crash and it’s slow, slow, then no movement, then slow again for forever.
When we’re back in Hamilton I’m panicked about how late I’ll be to the meeting.
I run from the bus stop, clocking the time on the ticket scanner on the way out and figure I have fifteen minutes to get ready, get a taxi to Amara’s and be only ten minutes late.
I rewrite the plan in my head. Being late will make it look like I have a busy life (true) and arriving in a cab will give the impression of having disposable income (false).
I round the corner to my street, Angus squirming like mad because he can see home is in sight.
The relief to be almost inside hits me, until I see Gavin hanging about.
‘Hey.’ I try to sound excited to see them but I’m really not. I’ve not properly come down from everything that’s happened, I’m drunk on Harry’s death. I needed time alone to compose myself. ‘I thought I was getting you at their flat?’
They pull up their tote bag which heaves with printouts from work onto their shoulder. ‘Yeah, I know, but I wanted to check in on the patient.’
I’m momentarily confused until I remember I am the patient. My tongue finds the tooth with the fresh filling at the back of my mouth and prods at it to verify it did happen.
‘I’m fine. Went to the gym. Got carried away, didn’t realise the time and then found my neighbour’s dog on the street on my way back.’
‘Busy afternoon.’ Gavin kisses me on the forehead. ‘Do you want me to carry something?’
I draw the bag closer to me, bring Angus in tighter, shaking my head. ‘No, no. It’s fine.’
Inside the close smells as it always does, like stew and the various products each occupant uses when it’s their turn to clean the steps.
As I knock on Mrs Neilan’s door Gavin stands behind me.
If they weren’t here I’d be able to ditch Angus, I can see the door is still open, but then there’d be questions from Gavin about why I haven’t let my neighbour know her precious dog escaped.
Mrs Neilan takes ages to answer. I feel all my valuable time drifting away.
When she eventually appears, it becomes clear through my telling of the tale she hadn’t even noticed Angus was gone.
Upon discovering he has been out on the street without her she clutches at her chest. ‘Oh my.’ She stumbles back a bit, and that’s where Gavin proves their worth, jumping forward and leading Mrs Neilan to her armchair. It’s all a bit dramatic for my liking.
‘I’ll be fine after a sit-down,’ she says, sounding frail in a way she never usually does. The layout of the flat is the mirror image of mine so Gavin knows where they’re going. I cannot be drawn into this.
‘I’m going to drop my stuff inside and then I’ll be back.’ This is technically true but doesn’t fully encapsulate everything I do in the – bloody hell – eight minutes I have to get ready.
I make the most of my time. I strip off in the kitchen and put all of my clothes, the towel I wiped myself down with and the empty gym bag into the washing machine, then I rinse the hammer, keeping my head at a forty-five degree angle away from the steam that stinks of iron as the last bits of Harry wash off.
Next I cover it in bleach, leaving it to soak in the sink for good measure.
In the bathroom I wash my face and body with a wet flannel which also goes into the washing machine, which I put on a ninety-degree cycle.
I scrape my hair up into a bun which, actually, looks alright, little strands at the front artfully framing my features, the shape of the bun round and symmetrical and stable.
I put on some deodorant and then tinted moisturiser, mascara and a dab of blush.
I skoosh on my favourite perfume, the one I bought at Duty Free the last time I flew which costs so much a bottle I cannot contemplate ever repurchasing it, and then I put on the plain grey T-shirt and blue jeans I ironed last night in preparation for today.
I lace up a pair of white trainers and I’m ready to go.
I grab my bag of documents and then my phone to book a taxi.
Despite my taking longer than promised, Gavin isn’t finished with Mrs Neilan. They sit on a sofa across from her making small talk. ‘Well, that’s the problem with Hamilton, it used to have–’
Mrs Neilan stops when she sees me.
‘Are you two off somewhere nice?’
‘Oh, we don’t have to go if you still need someone with you,’ Gavin offers. ‘One of us can stay.’
No, we bloody can’t. Gavin isn’t looking at me, but I give them an angry expression, should they glance up, to tell them, We are leaving.
‘No, no. You two go off and have your evening. I’ll be fine.’
The taxi honks on the street below.
‘That’s us,’ I say.
Gavin reluctantly gets up, their head to-ing and fro-ing between me and Mrs Neilan as if this is a big choice, when I am their girlfriend and Mrs Neilan is no one to them. They make the correct decision and leave, telling Mrs Neilan we’ll check on her later.
We get in the taxi. The leather seats we take in the back are worn and soft from the thousands of people who’ve sat on them before us. Once the driver’s checked we’re who he’s supposed to be picking up, he apologises. ‘Sorry, traffic is wild.’
I’m buckling in, and absentmindedly I chat away. ‘Did you get caught up on the lane closure on the Bellshill bypass?’
The driver gives an answer which is lost by Gavin speaking over them. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Heard it on the radio while I was getting ready.’ A plausible and reasonable fib, I think.
‘I’ve never heard you listen to the radio.’
Suddenly the view of Hamilton town centre becomes fascinating to me. When my phone pings with a message from Amara, the genuine distraction it offers is welcome.
Tonight cancelled. Be in touch with new date soon.
I shift the phone’s screen towards Gavin so they can understand why I’m telling the driver to turn around.
Back at the flat, I offer to be the kind one of us who goes to check in on Mrs Neilan and fling them the keys to mine.
Mrs Neilan’s door remains open. ‘Mrs Neilan?’ I say into the hall.
‘Our plans were cancelled, wanted to check in on you.’ There’s no response.
I walk further into the flat, the pissy smell of hyacinths strong.
She’s not here and Angus’s lead is off of the hall table where it usually sits.
The perfect scenario; I have offered to do good only for there to be no takers.
Back at mine, Gavin’s hanging their khaki coat on the hook next to the door as I come in. They ask, ‘Why is there a hammer steeping in bleach in the sink?’
Which is a very good question.
To buy some time, I go through to the kitchen as if I haven’t a clue what they’re on about.
‘Oh, that?’ Despite the rinse I’d given it before I put it in the sink, the hammer’s leached a rusty red in the bleach.
I busy myself rooting about in the cupboards, pantomiming a woman who’s trying to decide what to make for dinner, while also feigning ignorance of how metal, bleach, hammers, everything, works.
‘I need to hang some pictures. It was pretty dirty, though, so I chucked it in bleach.’ Closing the cupboard door, I put effort into sounding authentically innocent and confused.
‘Why? Should I not have done that? Did I do something wrong?’
‘You don’t strike me as a woman who has tools?’ This is needlessly rude but I let it slide.
‘Well, I didn’t, not until Colin died. The police left me with all the tools he had on him that day and no one from his family’s claimed them.
I guess it’s my little inheritance from having to witness his death.
A small token of his appreciation for all the rent money I contributed to help him grow his personal wealth. ’
Gavin puts a hand onto the worktop, steadying themself. ‘Was it just his tools you were left with?’
‘His phone is in there, too. Obviously that’s dead.
’ Gavin winces at the word ‘dead’, giving me a golden opportunity to deflect.
‘What is your deal with Colin? He’s some guy you knew from work.
When we first met I thought it made sense combined with all the other stuff you’re dealing with, but now I work in the same place you do, I cannot fathom how you can care this much about the man. ’
‘Wouldn’t you be affected if someone you had a working relationship with died? What if Brian passed away? Or me?’
‘Oh, come on, those are not comparable at all.’