That was true, Max thought, and gathered together his last remaining strength.
It was not a difficult target. He could see Carol’s throat just above the white sheet, but it was a pity that the knife was now so heavy. He raised it with an effort, balanced it, then paused.
There suddenly seemed to be a cold breath of air in the room, and he saw a shadow move; then a figure came out of a corner into the dim light.
He gripped the knife tightly, feeling the hair rise on the back of his neck, and a chill run up his spine.
Frank came out of the darkness. Frank, smiling his fat tight smile. Frank in his black overcoat and black hat and black concertina-shaped trousers.
‘You’ve left it too late, Max,’ Frank said. ‘You’ll never do it now,’ and he laughed.
Max snarled at him, again balanced the knife, and his brain commanded his muscles to throw. Nothing happened. The knife began to slip out of his cold fingers.
‘You’ve left it too late, Max,’ Frank whispered to him from out of the shadows.
The knife clattered to the floor and Max’s arm dropped.
‘Come on, Max,’ Frank urged. ‘I’m waiting for you.’
Before Max died, he thought with satisfaction that he had not spoilt his reputation: he had not missed his target, for he hadn’t made the throw.
A little later Carol sighed and opened her eyes. From where she lay she could not see the horror that surrounded her on the floor, and she lay still, her mind washed clear of the past, and waited for someone to come to her.