Kill Who You Want

Chapter Eighteen

Plot reminder: In the previous chapter readers were introduced to the character of Vince Holloway, a teenage painter and decorator who had passed by the murderer as he'd made his getaway following the shooting. Jenny Kershaw, who features in the fourth segment of today's chapter, is Kubič's ex-wife. Miss Collins, who appears in the second, is a teacher at the local school. Two chapters ago, Heather Gilchrist received another letter from the murderer. Her assistant editor, George Shreeves, is trying to contact her.
The SAS, referenced in this chapter, is the crack special corps of the British army, comparable perhaps to the US Navy Seals.

~~~~~

George Shreeves recradled the office phone with a cheek-puffing exhale of relief that the call was finally over, reached then exasperatedly for his smartphone. He'd recently learnt how to add contacts to his home page, both Heather and his mother featuring as small circled photographs amongst the indispensable apps of his profession: word, camera, synonyms, google search.

An index finger jabbed impatiently at his boss's miniaturized visage...

Voice mail, Christ.

"Heather, where in hell's name are you? I feel like Captain Smith going down with the Titanic here. Been absolutely inundated with calls. Even had Le Figaro on the line! Can you imagine? Tomorrow morning they're going to be reading about our humble little town in the cafes of the Champs Elysees!" He was on his feet, phone cradled into crook of neck as he shrugged coat on. "Printer's just this minute called. Need a number within the next five minutes, Ken said. Guy's in complete meltdown. Your decision Heather, your decision. As high as you dare, I say. If we don't break our all-time circulation record today we never will. This is it Heather! Today's the day." His voice bounced as he hurried down the stairs to the exit. "Off out for the press call at the station. Going to be an absolute rugby scrum." The door slammed closed behind him, the cold morning air a welcome focusing slap around the face. "Wherever you are, just call would you please Heather? Better still, come into the office. Been madness this morning, hardly even started on today's copy. And Heather, please don't forget there's the editorial to think about. Today of all days, needs to be a killer."

It wasn't until he'd got a little further down the street that he reflected on the inopportune wording of that final sentence.

*

Miss Collins had given everybody a piece of paper, asked them to write something called a eulogy. The most moving ones, she'd said, would be read out at the memorial service. Danny couldn't think of how to start though, just gazed at the empty seat front centre. The physical fact of Sophie Markham's absence was an even harder emotional hit than his father's sombre-toned telephone call last night. It was like that kid who'd got run over in Year 7. One day he'd been there in his seat with his fancy pen that changed colours, the next day he wasn't. A snowfall that descends and then just melts away. Danny couldn't even remember his name.

Scanning the whole classroom, he pictured other classmates disappearing one by one from their seats, mysteriously teletransported away to wherever the hell it was you went to when you died. There would be other accidents, tragedies. Premature diseases. And even those who made it to old age would one day breathe their final breaths. The last of them would be a hundred perhaps. A hundred and five, a hundred and seven. Until finally the telepathic ray came for them too.

He understood now. Deeply, intensely, for the very first time.

He wasn't immortal. Nobody was.

I'm sorry you were the next, he wrote.

And that seemed all there was to say.

*

Reg hefted over another tin of paint, a small cloud of dust lifted up as he half dropped it to the floor. There was a pained groan as he straightened himself, a hand placed uselessly on lower back. He was getting too old for this. Twenty years ago, he'd been getting too old for this.