Heathen/Nemesis

his breathing, aware of a growing pain around his sternum.

Sucking in deep breaths, he realized where the cold breeze was coming from.

The room’s single sash window had been prized open, paint scratched and gouged from the frame where entry had been forced.

He swayed slightly and moved towards the window, wincing as the pain in his chest became more acute.

The bedroom door swung gently shut behind him, the sound causing him to turn quickly.

The figure loomed out of the darkness at him, stepping so close until Mercuriadis could feel the intruder’s breath on his cheek.

His eyes bulged madly in their sockets as he stared at the intruder.

A heart already strained swelled and burst; the shock was too great, too intolerable.

His vision was clouded red as several blood vessels in his eyes simply erupted.

As he fell backwards onto the bed the intruder stood over him for a second, looking down. In his final minutes of consciousness Mercuriadis was conscious of its presence, and what he had seen – a sight he could not have imagined in even the most depraved nightmare. A sight which questioned his sanity as surely as it took his life.

The figure headed towards the window and clambered over the sill, disappearing into the welcoming darkness.

Mercuriadis felt one massive surge of pain envelope him, spreading with staggering rapidity from his chest, along his left arm and up into his neck and jaw.

He felt the darkness descending upon him and he feared it but, after what he’d seen, the oblivion which awaited him was to be welcomed.

The flat was silent once more.

Twenty-Three

Martin Connelly sipped at the glass of white wine and peered out of the window of Silk’s restaurant. He was seated at his usual table, to the right of the main door. The menu lay close by his elbow and a waiter came over to ask if he was ready to order. Connelly said he was waiting for a guest. The waiter nodded and passed on to another table.

Connelly glanced at his watch; it was almost 1.15 p.m. He wondered where his guest was.

The phone call had been completely unexpected. He’d arrived at his office in Kensington at around ten that morning, the drive in from Beckenham having taken him a little longer than usual. After listening to the messages on the answerphone, he’d returned those calls he thought important and decided that those not so important could call him back. Then he’d settled down to read an unsolicited manuscript he’d begun the day before. Unlike most unpublished material, it showed promise; Connelly was already beginning to wonder whether to invite the author into the office for a chat.

The phone call from Donna Ward had come about 10.30.

Could she meet him for lunch that day?

Connelly had agreed immediately, and told her he’d book the table at Silk’s for one. He’d spent the rest of the morning wondering what she could want; she’d mentioned nothing over the phone. The fact that it was to be over lunch pleased the agent. It was less formal than her coming into his office. He smiled to himself, taking another sip of his wine.

He saw the taxi pull up outside and watched her clamber out. As she paid the driver, he took in as much detail as possible of her appearance.

She was wearing a black silk jacket over a white blouse. A short black skirt and black suede high heels showed off her shapely legs. The wind ruffled her blonde hair as she walked and Connelly felt his heart beating faster when she entered the restaurant. She was met by a waiter and then noticed the agent sitting close by. She smiled and joined him, kissing him on the cheek before she sat down.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said, running a hand through her hair and dropping her handbag beside her. ‘The traffic was terrible. I had to leave the car parked in Golden Square and get a cab.’

Connelly waved away the apology. Unlike the previous day when he’d seen her, she looked tired but she was made up and her clothes were immaculate. She looked wonderful, considering the circumstances.

He told her so.

‘Thanks,’ she said. She smiled briefly at him and ordered a mineral water from the hovering waiter.

‘I hope you like it here,’ he said.

Donna glanced around the restaurant. The walls were covered in jockey’s silks, riding caps, whips and pictures of racehorses. Paintings or photographs of famous jockeys vied for space on the walls. Rotary fans turned slowly like the blades of a helicopter.

‘I usually bring clients here,’ he said. ‘This isn’t business, is it, Donna?’

She raised her eyebrows.

‘Sort of.’

‘And I thought you just wanted the pleasure of my company.’ He smiled and studied her across the table, gazing into her eyes a little too intently.

‘How are you managing?’ he wanted to know.

‘Everything’s organised, thanks to Julie. I don’t know what I’d have done without her.’ She sighed. ‘I’m terrified, Martin. I’m dreading the funeral. Part of me wants it over; the other part hopes tomorrow never comes.’

‘I understand that. Like I told you before, if there’s anything I can do, call me.’

‘That’s one of the reasons I’m here now,’ she told him.

The waiter returned and they ordered. Donna shifted position in her seat and looked at Connelly.

‘How much did Chris tell you about the books he was working on, Martin? How much did you know about them?’

‘Very little, until I saw the finished manuscript. You know how Chris liked to work, keeping everything to himself until the book was finished. Even after the book was finished it was sometimes a job to get him to talk about it. The publishers always wanted him to do promotional tours, interviews and that sort of stuff, but you know, he wouldn’t do that for two of the books.’

‘So he never talked to you about his projects?’ she said. ‘You never even had a clue what he was writing about, or what he planned to write about next?’

‘He mentioned things here and there, rarely anything specific, though. Just plot outlines, ideas sometimes. That was it.’

‘And his research? How much did you know about that?’

‘Only what he told me.’

Donna shook her head gently.

‘You were his agent, Martin, and you’re trying to tell me you never knew what he was writing about, what research he did? Nothing?’ She looked at him challengingly.

‘Only what he told me,’ Connelly insisted. ‘It seems we’ve had this conversation before, Donna. I can’t tell you anything different.’

The starters arrived. Donna prodded her avocado with the fork.

‘What did he tell you about this new book?’ she wanted to know.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ Connelly said irritably, ‘he didn’t tell me anything. How many more times?’

‘You arranged some of the interviews he did, didn’t you? Or can’t you remember that either, Martin?’ she said cryptically.

‘What is your problem, Donna?’ he hissed, keeping his voice under control but not his anger. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’

‘The truth.’

‘I don’t know the truth. You asked me what Chris was working on. I don’t know, but that’s not good enough