I struggled uselessly for a second or two, trying to free my hands and feet, but all that did was send another bolt of pain through my head, making me cry out like a baby.
‘Fuck,’ I whispered, closing my eyes again. ‘Fucking hell …’
‘It’s just a mechanism, John,’ I heard Bishop say.
I forced myself to open my eyes and look at him. ‘What?’
‘Pain,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s just a warning mechanism, an evolutionary development that serves to protect the vessel. Pain lets you know when the vessel has been damaged, or is in danger of being damaged. And then, if necessary, the vessel can shut itself down — or shut down the relevant parts — in order for repairs to be made.’ He shrugged. ‘Personally, I think a system of warning lights would be a lot more efficient. A lot less fun, of course. But who the fuck am I to argue with the evolutionary process?’
I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t know what he was talking about.
And, more to the point, the red mist had finally cleared from my eyes now, and I was too busy staring at Bridget to listen to what Bishop was saying. She was sitting on the floor behind him, her hands tied to a heavy brass radiator against the wall. Her jaw was reddened and swollen, her face white with shock, and she was crying — the tears streaming silently down her face. I glanced over at Walter, dead on the floor. The blood on his split-open head was already drying, darkening in the matted fur.
‘Bridget?’ I said, looking over at her. ‘Listen to me … Bridget?’
‘There’s no point,’ Bishop said.
I looked at him. ‘What?’
‘She can’t answer you.’
‘Why not?’
He looked over his shoulder at Bridget. ‘We have an agreement, don’t we, dear?’
Bridget glared back at him, her eyes burning with hatred and fear.
Bishop smiled at her, then turned back to me. ‘As long as she doesn’t make a sound, I don’t go over there and cut out her tongue. That’s our agreement.’ He reached down and picked up a carving knife from a coffee table next to the armchair. ‘And so far it seems to be working very nicely.’
I stared at him, knowing full well that he meant what he said — if Bridget spoke, he would go over there and cut out her tongue. And it wouldn’t bother him in the slightest. This man … this middle-aged man sitting calmly in front of me — a picture of banality in a green V-neck jumper, cheap shirt and tie, nylon car coat, and beige cotton trousers — this man was a psychopath, a sadist, a stone-cold killer.
‘How did you get in here?’ I said to him.
‘I’m a ghost, John.’ He grinned. ‘I can float through walls.’
‘What do you want?’
‘What do I want?’ he echoed, shrugging again. ‘No more than anyone else … pleasure, felicity, the fulfilment of my needs and desires … food, water, shelter … survival.’
‘What do you want with me?’ I said.
‘You went through my things,’ he replied, carefully placing the carving knife back on the coffee table. ‘My personal things …’ He shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
I noticed now that my pistol was on the coffee table too. And next to it was a short-handled axe, the blade smeared with blood, which I guessed was Walter’s. Also on the table were two mobile phones — mine and Bridget’s — both of them taken apart, the sim cards removed and snapped in half. I glanced quickly around the room, looking for a landline phone. There was one on the wall to my right, but Bishop had taken care of that too — the cables were ripped out and the phone socket smashed.
‘You should have left me alone, John,’ Bishop said.
‘Look,’ I started to say, turning back to him. ‘There’s no need — ’
‘You saw what I did to that other whore, didn’t you?’
‘Anna Gerrish?’
He nodded. ‘I liked her, so I went easy on her. If you piss me off, I won’t go easy on that one over there.’ He jerked his head, indicating Bridget. ‘I’ll cut the fuck out of her. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtfully at me. ‘You know … I’ve never killed a man before.’
‘Just women.’
‘I always think of them as girls, not women … I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s just the terminology. I mean, woman is such an ugly word, isn’t it? It brings to mind a sense of age, a sense of dullness and desiccation … do you know what I mean?’ He smiled. ‘A woman just doesn’t taste the same as a girl — ’
‘How many have you killed?’
He looked calmly at me. ‘I know what you’re doing.’
‘I’m not — ’
‘Playing for time, keeping me talking … asking me utterly pointless questions. It’s only natural, of course … trying to eke out a few more minutes, a few more seconds of life.’ He looked at me. ‘Everyone does it, you know. No one wants to die, no matter how much pain they’re in or how pitiful their lives are … we’ll all do anything to live another moment or two.’ He scratched the side of his nose. ‘How many have I killed? You’ll be the twenty-ninth, John. Which means your whore over there will have the honour of being my thirtieth. What do you think about that?’
‘Why do you do it?’ I said.
‘Why does anyone do anything?’
I couldn’t think of an answer to that, so I just carried on staring at him. Of course, he was right — I was just playing for time. What else could I do? Keep him talking, keep on thinking, keep on believing that there had to be something I could do to get us both out of this …
I glanced over at Bridget. She was still crying, and she still looked stricken with shock … but as our eyes met, she edged her arm out from behind her back, letting me see the small lock-knife in her hand. The cords tying her wrist to the radiator had been cut, and as Bridget quickly moved her arm back behind her, I realised that she’d somehow managed to remove her lock-knife from her back pocket and cut herself free.
‘I like it,’ Bishop said.
I looked at him. ‘What?’
‘Killing … I like it. That’s why I do it. Because I like it. Some people like cheese, some people like dancing … I like killing.’ He looked at me. ‘That’s really all there is to it. Satisfied?’
‘Your brother — ’
‘Time’s up,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No more talking.’
‘He knows, doesn’t he? Your brother knows what you do.’
Bishop ignored me, looking down at the coffee table.
I said, ‘He’s been looking after you ever since you burned down your house when you were kids, hasn’t he? Ever since you first started killing. That’s what he does with all his money. He takes care of you, provides for you …’
Bishop picked up the pistol from the coffee table.
‘The police know all about you,’ I said to him. ‘I’ve told them — ’
‘No, you haven’t,’ he said confidently, getting to his feet. ‘The only person who knows about me is that scrawny piece of shit in the hat, the one we put in hospital. And Micky will take care of him. And, besides, no one’s going to find you until the morning anyway, and I’ll be long gone by then.’ He began moving towards me, the pistol in his hand. ‘The house in Long Road will be empty, Joel R Pickton will have disappeared, and John Craine’s body will be found, shot dead — apparently by his own hand — in the same room as the mutilated corpse of Bridget Moran.’ He stopped in front of me, the pistol at his side. ‘And what do you think they’ll find when they search through your pockets, John?’ He nodded. ‘That’s right … a half-moon silver necklace that belonged to Anna Gerrish.’ He raised the pistol and levelled it at my head. ‘Imagine, John … just imagine what they’ll make of that. The man whose wife was raped and murdered … the man who just happened to discover Anna Gerrish’s body … the man whose father — ’