by Helen Fields
‘It’s all right,’ he whispered. ‘Angela, you have to trust me. I’m not here to hurt you.’
She tried kicking, going for his shins with her heels, but the sheet hampered the force of her movements and Fergus shifted his right leg on top of both of hers. Her breath was hot and wet in his hand, and her head was a wild creature whipping left and right. He waited it out. There were no surprises. He’d played the scenario out in his head hundreds, maybe thousands, of times. In his pocket was a handkerchief, and on it was a carefully measured dose of chloroform. There were things he wanted to do with Angela, and those things required her not to fight him. Fergus wanted her pristine.
‘Let it out,’ he said. ‘I know you’re scared and confused, but I chose you. I need to tell you that I think you’re incredible. You don’t know who I am, but I know you. I really do.’
Angela heaved forward, rolling her mouth hard onto his fingers and biting down. Fergus tried to keep his grip on her, but his hand betrayed him. His fingers shot out straight and his wrist flicked backwards, giving Angela the space to bend her head forwards then smack it backwards into Fergus’s face, the rear of her skull a true weapon, splitting Fergus’s nose from between his eyes to below the bridge. The pillow became a mess of bloody hair. He couldn’t see, and his face was a mask of agony. Only his right arm and leg remained steadfast, holding her in place. Angela spat hard. A chunk of something warm and soft landed on his hand as he pinned her to the bed. The flesh was from his finger, he realised, as he shifted his body on top of hers before she could attempt an escape.
’S’allrigh’, lemme help you,’ he muttered. Blood droplets from his face burst juicily as they hit hers. Angela began to sob. ‘I’m not cross. Don’t cry. Nothing to be sad about.’
Fergus pulled the handkerchief from his pocket with his right hand, shifting his left forearm to rest solidly across her breast bone. She gushed air and spat tears.
‘Please don’t …’
‘Hurt you? Why would I? I’m your one true love, Angela.’ He pressed the handkerchief to her lips. A cotton kiss in the dark.
Angela’s hips bucked beneath him, and he imagined a different bed, her holding him, wanting him on top of her. Her neck arched. She did her best to fight, but he wanted her compliance more than she wanted her freedom. Desperation had fine-tuned him into an extraordinary beast. He could smell her toothpaste and it was a field of wild mint. The diamonds in her eyes were more riches than he had ever imagined he would own.
Then the bedside lamp was arcing through the heavy air. Had it been switched on, he knew it would have left a rainbow of light in its wake. Even as he saw it coming, he recognised it was too late for avoidance. Shattering on contact with his cheek bone, the pottery base turned to gravel and took root in his flesh. Angela fought harder as he swayed, his head a wasp nest. He pressed his forehead down on top of his own hand as it covered her mouth. If he lost consciousness now, it was over. If she got out from under him, he was done. Everything he wanted, what pathetic time he had left, would be smoke.
She battered at him with one fist. Slamming his whole body weight onto her rib cage, he grabbed her wrist with his free hand. Her fingertips scratched weakly at his knuckles. The bed was wet, he realised. His knee rested in a damp, warm patch. That was fine. A success, in fact. She was relaxing. Surrendering. The whole head buzzed and burned, tidal nausea swept inward. Fergus let her hand slide from his grasp as the world pixelated then faded.
Was it possible that death was coming for him so much sooner than he’d anticipated? Fergus breathed deeply, trying to catch hold of the pain, yearning to stay in the moment with Angela, but there was a roundabout spinning mercilessly in his head and he couldn’t get off.
Her body juddered beneath his.
He couldn’t get off.
Angela’s gasps were ragged and raw.
He couldn’t get off.
The last breath he heard leave her body was an inhuman rattle. He longed to comfort her, to tell her he was sorry. There was so much he’d wanted to do with her and it had all gone so dreadfully wrong. Now he had to start over. And first, he had to find someone new.
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About the Author
Helen Fields studied law at the University of East Anglia, then went on to the Inns of Court School of Law in London. After completing her pupillage, she joined chambers in Middle Temple where she practised criminal and family law for thirteen years. After her second child was born, Helen left the Bar. Together with her husband David, she runs a film production company, acting as script writer and producer. The DI Callanach series is set in Scotland, where Helen feels most at one with the world. Helen and her husband now live in Los Angeles with their three children.
Helen loves Twitter but finds it completely addictive. She can be found at @Helen_Fields.
By the same author
Perfect Remains
Perfect Prey
Perfect Death
Perfect Silence
Perfect Crime
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