The river of blood has soaked his clothes and his shameful goatee, but as they are both black it’s not too obvious at a casual glance. I put my hat on him, pull it low as if he was sleeping, cover him in my coat. I close the window and place my ticket on the little table between us. The conductor should leave the man alone all the way till Liverpool.
I peer out into the corridor. I thank a God I don’t believe in and Drago’s inflated confidence. It seems this bishop came alone. Now he’s dead, lying across the board he thought he knew how to play. He met his match. He met his Queen.
This will not go unnoticed and I will never be safe, especially once the great white authority finds out I’ve slaughtered his favourite pet. I have delayed the wire being sent. I have hopefully held up matters long enough for Paul and Miriam to find a way onto a ship.
I pick up the suitcase, and move to sit in third class. Smoke cheap cigarette after cigarette, bought from a man smelling of chicken feed. I get off at the first station we come to, almost before the train has stopped, but not in too much of a hurry. I walk out of the station, make sure the train sets off before I return. Once back I buy a cup of coffee. If nothing else it stills and warms my hands.
I stand on the platform, thinking about the implications of what I’ve just done. I weigh Past and Future and find one side of the scale heavier, and more important. I realise my troubles will never end unless I put an end to the matter. He will find me, he will send more men, more trained pets with sharpened teeth, wherever I go. I had just warmed to the idea of rural Scotland, of the quiet and calm of a backwater.
Eventually he will find Paul and he will find Miriam too, whether they are together or not. I know only too well how he treats people who cross him. I’ve been an instrument of destruction myself. My only regret is that I should have done this years ago.
I get a ticket back, again first-class. None of the fantastic omens I saw on the way north show themselves on the way south.
Once in London I take a taxi to my flat where I wash the razor blade, and dress in my best suit, a beautiful cobalt number from Henry Poole. It was made for a special occasion, not for a day like today, but it can’t be helped. Then I spend an hour putting my papers in order, downing tumblers of the most expensive spirits in the house.
Once I am done I hail a taxi, patting my right pocket. Dressed for a wedding or a coronation I set out for the Carousel. To lie. To buy more time. To die. Or kill.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my family: Lucy, Elias, Alma, Mika, Mormor, Mamma, Pappa, Ann-Cathrin, Klas, Gabrielle, Jakob, Jennifer, Rebecca, Phil, Flo, Ewan, Myra, Vicki, Susie, Jeff, Ethan, Rachel, Jack, Emily, Georgia, Abigail, Bethany.
Thanks also to Johannes, Oskar and the whole Karlsson clan, Emma and Ivan Naismith-Zetterström, the Stockholm Book Club, Mary Dolmar, Helena Ydén, Zoë Strachan and everyone in the 2014 Glasgow Uni reading/writing group and beyond, the Hackney Hotchpotch, the Clouston Community, the Garrioch Gang, Richy Carey, Libby Walker, Helen Sedgwick, Sarah Macintyre at Scottish Cycling, Gail McConnell, Peggy Hughes and everyone at Literary Dundee, Russel McLean, Ed Wilson, Adrian Searle and everyone at Freight Books.
A whole host of folk have contributed, knowingly or not, with practical and emotional support over the years. Thank you.
Devil Take the Hindmost Page 31