hadn’t asked him a single question before or after snapping the handcuffs on - not even his name, which meant they couldn’t know who he was or where he lived. Who the hell were those guys? They sure as hell weren’t regular police. Regular police did not turn and flee at the sight of their colleagues - armed or otherwise.
As he closed the main building door behind him with a shove from his heel, a veil of comfort tumbled over him like a warm, familiar blanket. At his own entrance, to the left of the stairs, he turned the key and barged open the door of his flat, letting out a long sigh of relief. It was good to be home. A hand tapped his shoulder from behind. Without thinking he lunged forward into his flat, turned and slammed the heavy door shut right in the tear-striped face of Savannah Jones.
John gasped for air. That was the second time today she had sent his heartbeat into orbit. Feeling somewhat foolish, he recovered his breathing and composure and opened the door again. She was in the same slinky mini dress as before, holding her high heels in her left hand and gripping her purse in the right. So that was how she’d crept up behind him. Her face was troubled, and her shoulders slouched. He should get rid of her quickly.
“I thought I had forty-eight hours.” John looked at his Rolex Daytona. “It’s quarter past two which means so far I’ve had about seven hours.”
“I need it now. I can’t wait any longer. It’s a matter of life and death.”
John put on his sternest face. “I still don’t have it, and to be honest, it’s no longer my priority.”
John watched as Savannah’s mouth drooped and tears welled up in her dark eyes. Her tall, slender frame seemed to shrink in front of him. How often did this girl cry? She closed her eyelids as if to halt the flow but instead sent a tear racing down each cheek. Part of him wanted her gone and another part of him welcomed the delay to his own, more serious concerns. When she wasn’t crying, she was a pleasure both to look at and be around, and for someone so miserable and unwashed, she certainly looked incredibly good. For one of the few times in his life, he welcomed the company.
He took a step back and opened the door wide. “Come in.”
Clearly not expecting the invite, Savannah needed a couple of seconds before the offer hit home. Once the penny dropped, she was quick to scurry inside. Savannah followed John through the second door on the left of the small entrance hall into the ‘L’ shaped lounge, diner and kitchen area.
“Can I get you a tea or coffee?” asked John, hoping he had at least one or the other to offer.
“Either would be cool,” replied Savannah, sinking into the soft old sofa against the wall.
John filled the kettle, found his last remaining tea bag, and pulled out two red mugs from a cupboard above the sink. Although strangely glad of Savannah’s presence, his mind was still filled with the shock of his friend’s grisly death. Images of the severed digits and the letter opener pinning Mark’s hand to his head flashed between moments of normality. The grief was now wavering on the surface, and he wondered for a second just how Savannah would cope if he broke down in front of her.
“Christos wasn’t too pleased that I only made him thirty quid from two appointments,” she called out from the sofa, where she lay back deep into the big, comfortable cushions.
John poured hot water into the mugs before sharing the tea bag between them. He gazed vacantly into one of the mugs as he added milk, watching the liquid become lighter the more milk he tipped in from the half-full carton. And then it overflowed, but he just kept on pouring until the liquid spilled onto the black granite worktop and then the floor, like Mark’s blood had spilled onto his favourite rug. John turned the carton further until it was perfectly upside down, speeding up the flow of milk into the mug and producing a ‘glugging’ sound.
“Are you
As he closed the main building door behind him with a shove from his heel, a veil of comfort tumbled over him like a warm, familiar blanket. At his own entrance, to the left of the stairs, he turned the key and barged open the door of his flat, letting out a long sigh of relief. It was good to be home. A hand tapped his shoulder from behind. Without thinking he lunged forward into his flat, turned and slammed the heavy door shut right in the tear-striped face of Savannah Jones.
John gasped for air. That was the second time today she had sent his heartbeat into orbit. Feeling somewhat foolish, he recovered his breathing and composure and opened the door again. She was in the same slinky mini dress as before, holding her high heels in her left hand and gripping her purse in the right. So that was how she’d crept up behind him. Her face was troubled, and her shoulders slouched. He should get rid of her quickly.
“I thought I had forty-eight hours.” John looked at his Rolex Daytona. “It’s quarter past two which means so far I’ve had about seven hours.”
“I need it now. I can’t wait any longer. It’s a matter of life and death.”
John put on his sternest face. “I still don’t have it, and to be honest, it’s no longer my priority.”
John watched as Savannah’s mouth drooped and tears welled up in her dark eyes. Her tall, slender frame seemed to shrink in front of him. How often did this girl cry? She closed her eyelids as if to halt the flow but instead sent a tear racing down each cheek. Part of him wanted her gone and another part of him welcomed the delay to his own, more serious concerns. When she wasn’t crying, she was a pleasure both to look at and be around, and for someone so miserable and unwashed, she certainly looked incredibly good. For one of the few times in his life, he welcomed the company.
He took a step back and opened the door wide. “Come in.”
Clearly not expecting the invite, Savannah needed a couple of seconds before the offer hit home. Once the penny dropped, she was quick to scurry inside. Savannah followed John through the second door on the left of the small entrance hall into the ‘L’ shaped lounge, diner and kitchen area.
“Can I get you a tea or coffee?” asked John, hoping he had at least one or the other to offer.
“Either would be cool,” replied Savannah, sinking into the soft old sofa against the wall.
John filled the kettle, found his last remaining tea bag, and pulled out two red mugs from a cupboard above the sink. Although strangely glad of Savannah’s presence, his mind was still filled with the shock of his friend’s grisly death. Images of the severed digits and the letter opener pinning Mark’s hand to his head flashed between moments of normality. The grief was now wavering on the surface, and he wondered for a second just how Savannah would cope if he broke down in front of her.
“Christos wasn’t too pleased that I only made him thirty quid from two appointments,” she called out from the sofa, where she lay back deep into the big, comfortable cushions.
John poured hot water into the mugs before sharing the tea bag between them. He gazed vacantly into one of the mugs as he added milk, watching the liquid become lighter the more milk he tipped in from the half-full carton. And then it overflowed, but he just kept on pouring until the liquid spilled onto the black granite worktop and then the floor, like Mark’s blood had spilled onto his favourite rug. John turned the carton further until it was perfectly upside down, speeding up the flow of milk into the mug and producing a ‘glugging’ sound.
“Are you
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