Dancing Towards the Blade and Other Stories by Mark Billingham Page A

normal.’
    She smiled and let out a long sigh, like she was relieved that I hadn’t freaked out or something. She could see that I had barely touched my drink but she said she was going to have another one anyway and waved the woman across from the end of the bar. She ordered another beer and a rum and Coke, and watched me while the drinks were being prepared.
    After a minute or so she said, ‘Aren’t you going to ask me what he did?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘What that animal did to her?’
    ‘Look, it’s up to you—’
    ‘He beat her so bad they needed dental records to identify her.’ She leaned close, but made no effort to lower her voice. ‘He beat her and raped her then he cut her throat like she was no better than a pig and when he’d finished, he sat down and made himself something to eat. He sat there with a sandwich while my nineteen-year-old sister bled out in her bedroom.’
    ‘Jesus…’
    ‘So, you know, tomorrow doesn’t make it anywhere near even. Not for what he did, right? Not for that .’
    I grunted something and glanced up at the woman who was laying the drinks down in front of us. She caught my eye and raised a painted eyebrow before walking back to the other end of the bar.
    ‘So, what do you think?’
    It was not the easiest question I’d ever been asked. ‘I think I can understand why you’re angry.’
    ‘I doubt it,’ she said.
    ‘Fair point,’ I said. ‘She wasn’t my sister.’
    ‘No, she wasn’t.’
    ‘It can’t be easy holding on to that, though. Not for so long.’ I reached for my drink, moved the ice around in the glass. ‘I mean these guys are on death row for years, right?’
    ‘Anthony Solomon Johnson has been on death row for a little over four years and seven months,’ she said. There was no emotion in her voice. ‘That’s how long we’ve been waiting for this.’
    I nodded slow, like I was impressed or something. ‘For revenge.’
    ‘I don’t care what you call it,’ she said. ‘I’ve met folks who say that a killer should be put to death the same way he did his killing, but I don’t hold with that eye for an eye stuff.’ She stared down, straightened her skirt. ‘I don’t really give a damn if it hurts, mind you. It should hurt.’ She took a drink. ‘You agree with me, right, Chris?’
    I thought about it. She asked me again.
    ‘They don’t know if the needle hurts or not, though, do they?’ I pulled the nachos across the bar but the bowl was empty. ‘I mean, it’s not like anyone’s around long enough to tell anybody.’
    She shrugged. Said, ‘I hope I can see it in his eyes.’
    The rum was going down every bit as easy as the beer and she was starting to slur her words a little. She said something after that, but I didn’t catch it and when I leaned closer all I could smell was the booze.
    ‘We’re going to have to call it a night, folks.’
    I looked up and the woman behind the bar was pulling the empties towards her. I opened my mouth to speak, but she shook her head and even now I’m not quite sure what she meant by it. I glanced at the bill and put thirty dollars on the bar and when the woman had taken the cash away, Ellen began talking again. It was not much above a whisper, but this time I caught it easily enough.
    ‘I can’t be alone,’ she said.
    ‘You’ve got your family,’ I said. ‘Your mother’s upstairs.’
    ‘You know I don’t mean that.’ Her eyes were wide suddenly, and wet. ‘You want me to beg?’
    ‘No, I don’t want that,’ I said.
    She and her mother were sharing a room, so we went to mine. There was not a great deal of choice in the mini-bar, but she didn’t seem too picky, so I told her to help herself. She took a beer and a bag of chips and we sat together on the bed with our feet on the quilt and our backs against the headboard.
    The window was open a few inches and the traffic from I-45 was just a hum, like an insect coming close to the glass every so often and retreating again.
    ‘I don’t