She couldn't make a sound. The tears ran down her face and neck and on to the back of his hand as she beat at it, as she snatched in breaths through her nose. Just as she felt her legs go, he released her neck and breast and raised both hands up to the side of her neck.
'Lee, nothing happened. Lee…'
He pressed the heels of his hands against her ears and leaned in close as though he might kiss or bite her.
'What's his name?'
She tried to shake her head but he held it hard.
'Or so help me I'll dig a hole for you with my bare hands. I'll leave your cunt's carcass here for the foxes…'
So she told him, and he let her go, and he shouted over his shoulder to her as he walked further into the woods.
'Now, run home.'
Alan had given it one more minute ten minutes ago, but it was clear to him now that she wasn't coming. She'd sounded like she was really going to try, so he decided that she hadn't been able to get away.
He hoped it was only fear that had restrained her.
He stood up, pressed the redial button on his phone one last time. Got her message again.
There were no more than a couple of minutes before the exits were sealed. He just had time to retrieve the bracelet, to reach up and unhook it from the branch on which it hung.
He'd give it to her another day.
Standing alone in the dark, wondering how she was, he decided that he might not draw her attention to the newest charm on the bracelet. A pair of dice had seemed so right, so appropriate in light of what had happened, of everything they'd talked about. Suddenly he felt every bit as clumsy as his father. It seemed tasteless.
Luck was something they were pushing.
He stepped out on to the path, turned when he heard a man's voice say his name.
The footwork and the swing were spot on.
The first blow smashed Alan's phone into a dozen or more pieces, the second did much the same to his skull, and those that came after were about nothing so much as exercise.
It took half a minute for the growl to die in Lee's throat.
The blood on the branch, on the grass to either side of the path, on his training shoes looked black in the near total darkness.
Lee bent down and picked up the dead man's arm. He wondered if his team had managed to hold on to their one-goal lead as he began dragging the body into the undergrowth.
Graham had run until he felt his lungs about to give up the ghost. He was no fitter than many of those he treated. Those whose hearts were marbled with creamy lines of fat, like cheap off-cuts.
He dropped down on to a bench to recover, to reflect on what had happened in the woods. To consider his rotten luck. If that man hadn't come along when he had… A young woman with Mediterranean features was waiting to cross the road a few feet from where he was sitting. She was taking keys from her bag, probably heading towards the flats opposite.
She glanced in his direction and he dropped his elbows to his knees almost immediately. Looked at the pavement. Made sure she didn't get a good look at his face.
The next High Barnet train was still eight minutes away.
Rachel stood on the platform, her legs still shaking, the burning in her breast a little less fierce with every minute that passed. The pain had been good. It had stopped her thinking too much; stopped her wondering. She sought a little more of it, thrusting her hand into her pocket until she found her wedding ring, then driving the edge of it hard against the fingernail until she felt it split.
Alan had thought it odd that she still took the ring off even after she'd told him the truth, but it made perfect sense to her. Its removal had always been more about freedom than deceit.
An old woman standing next to her nudged her arm and nodded towards the electronic display.
Correction. High Barnet. 1 min.
'There's a stroke of luck,' the woman said.
Rachel looked at the floor. She didn't raise her head again until she heard the train coming.
TWO DEATHS AND A MOUTHFUL OF WORMS by Denise Mina
The insistent mobile phone was tucked down in front of the gear stick. Keeping his eyes on the road, Phil leaned forward, straining slightly against the seat belt as he reached for it. The caller display said 'Pete2', so he knew it was Anya, ringing him to sort it out. He turned the phone off and threw it into the passenger seat, as if carelessly. He'd call her tomorrow. In the evening. He glanced at the dead phone. Let her wait. He shouldn't contact her until she'd had time to cool off and think about him and everything he had to offer.
The sleek car slid effortlessly along the Westway and his heart slowed to the rhythm of the wiper. He licked his upper lip and found it salted. Dried sweat. From the exertion. He smiled softly to himself and glanced in the rear-view mirror, looking back down the dark empty road behind, half expecting to see Anya standing in the middle lane, naked as he had left her, black blood tumbling down her pretty chin, dripping off her finger to the floor. He tried to imagine an expression on her face but couldn't. He didn't know what she would be feeling now. It was their first time together and he wanted it to be all right. He wanted that very much.
He couldn't stop seeing her face as she went down beneath him; her skirt riding up to her thighs as she slid on to the sofa bed, glaring up at him, eyes brilliant with alarm. She was beautiful. Even in submission she was beautiful. She wasn't like Helena, who gradually lost all mystery and beauty for him after their first time. He licked his lip again and smiled, happy at the reminder in the salty tang. He wasn't even afraid of her calling the police, because she didn't have a visa. Russian women weren't like French women. He would give her the bracelet tomorrow, when the swelling had gone down a little.
As he pulled up the steep drive the car dipped on the high tech suspension, jolting his stomach, making him feel sick and proud at the same time as he always did when he pulled up at the white town house. The rooms at the front were dark.
Phil couldn't resist. He leaned over and turned the phone on, typing in the pin number, being careful not to touch any extraneous buttons in case she was phoning him right now and he would be answering. The phone came to life, the pale blue panel lighting up to tell him the time and date. One new message.
He called the answer phone service and selected listen. Anya was sobbing, calling his name: 'Pheeleep, Pheeleep.' She gasped for breath. 'Please to come. My Pheel, please to come.' Spluttering as she spoke, perhaps spluttering blood. He smiled as she hung up and selected listen to messages again. 'Please to Come. My Pheel.' That charged wetness about her mouth was gorgeous. He'd phone her tomorrow, in the evening or afternoon at the earliest.
He took the green velvet jewellery box from his pocket, bundled it into the glove compartment with the dead phone and opened the car door, trying, even alone in the dark, not to grunt as he pulled himself out of the bucket seat. He locked the car carefully, his eyes lingering on the glove compartment, testing it with fresh eyes to see if Helena could have spotted anything through the glass and metal and leather. She'd know the whole story if she found the gaudy present, she'd know about the cheap woman and the why. He couldn't face a showdown. She'd divorce him and take everything. He didn't want her anymore, couldn't take her anywhere. She had too many scars. The best that could happen would be if she just ran back to France and left him alone.
He put his key in the large front door and opened it to a thick, fetid silence. The hall was dark. Following his nightly ritual, Phil put his house keys on the silver calling card plate in the centre of the hall, emptying his pockets of small change and a couple of tenners, giving the impression of openness.