‘Fuck it!’
I reached into the bath and placing my hands under his armpits hauled his head out of the water. He coughed and spluttered, eventually pulling a long, rasping breath. His eyes opened for a moment and held mine, confused, before he lost consciousness again.
I pulled the plug and let the water drain away.
Before I left the flat, I hauled Gresty out of the bath, through to the bedroom and laid him on his side in the bed, his face turned down and out, pillows behind him to stop him rolling onto his back. After my sudden and inexplicable beneficence, I didn’t want him to choke on his own vomit.
*
I drove back to Glasgow to pick up Jennifer and take her out on the town. Maybe we would just have a laugh, or maybe we could have a serious talk. A talk about how maybe the time was right for a new start for me, for us both, back home in Canada.
As I drove, I tried to work out why I hadn’t gone through with killing Gresty, but I felt good I hadn’t. Maybe I was developing a conscience.
Or maybe I was being haunted by the ghost of a good, quiet man I had once known.
The Quiet Death of Thomas Quaid: Lennox 5 Page 32