*
As Steve left the en-suite, towelling off his hair as he did so, Sam was buttoning up her white blouse.
“Managed to finally drag that gorgeous arse of yours out of the sack then,” he grinned, playfully slapping her skirt-clad backside.
She flinched, twisting away from him as he tried to kiss her.
“What’s up with you?”
“Sorry, babe-” she pecked him on the cheek, “it’s just this headache – have we got any painkillers?”
“In one of the kitchen drawers, I think…”
Sam wiggled her feet into a pair of shiny, back high-heels and tottered off to the kitchen, her shoes clacking loudly on the floor tiles.
Steve hurriedly dressed and then headed off to the kitchen himself to give his wife a kiss before she left. As he entered the room Sam was just grabbing her keys off the kitchen worktop.
“You leaving without saying goodbye, babe?”
Turning towards him, the guilty look on her face was a clear indication that her husband’s question was not without foundation. She massaged her forehead and sighed. “Sorry, babe. My head is all over the place…”
“Did you find any tablets?”
“Yeah, I took a couple – hopefully they’ll kick in soon.”
“Ok…well, try and take it easy, baby…love you.” He kissed her on the cheek, careful not to smudge her lipstick.
“Love you too. See you tonight.”
Steve had another quarter of an hour before he needed to be on the road and decided to make a cup of instant coffee – see if a bit of caffeine could do something about his groggy head that his morning shower had miserably failed to achieve.
19
“I’m sorry, Jean, I’ll call you back this evening…yes, yes, I’ll be fine – it’s just this blooming headache. I can’t seem to shift it…” Margaret held the telephone away from her ear for a second as her friend said goodbye. The voice through the earpiece felt almost painful.
The widow lay back down on the sofa and switched on the TV. She wasn’t a big fan of morning television but the chat shows and magazine programs did provide a companionship of a sort; on the dark days when she suddenly felt alone, felt her age – felt the slow ticking of the eternal clock…
After only a few moments Margaret turned the TV back off. Even at a low volume, the false cheeriness of the presenter grated like fingernails down a blackboard. She turned her face towards the back of the sofa and nuzzled deeper into her soft pillow as she tried to sleep.
*
Jonny Wong let himself into the apartment, careful not to bang his toolbox against the fresh and unblemished paintwork.
Just a year ago he was a restaurateur, winning his establishment from the previous owner on a lucky hand of cards. Jonny had tried his best to run the place but business was not his strong suit and he was fortunate enough to sell the restaurant on for a half-decent sum before he had completely run it into the ground.
At fifty-eight years old and single, he had enough funds in the bank to see him comfortable for many years ahead - as long as he did some paid work to make his money stretch. While business was definitely not his forte, DIY certainly was and the job of General Handyman for Chillingworth Mews fitted his needs perfectly.
He opened the bedroom door and looked around. The bed was dishevelled, a damp towel sitting on top of the crumpled quilt and a puddle of dirty thongs on the floor. In his younger years, he may have been tempted to give the underwear a quick sniff but he liked to think he was beyond such juvenile perversions now – besides, in this day and age you couldn’t be sure there weren’t any hidden cameras around just waiting to catch someone in the act.
Quickly pushing such thoughts from his mind, he glanced down at his work schedule: squeaky floorboard under bedroom window, and, placing his toolbox on the floor, he stepped towards the far side of the room, pacing slowly until he located the offending board. The two dark knots in the grain stared up at him as if issuing a challenge.
He knelt down to take a closer look. The board didn’t appear to be warped in any way, and there was no discernible movement around the nails that fixed it to the sub-floor – the usual culprits where floorboard noise was concerned. Jonny decided he was going to have to take the board up and have a good look at it, maybe shave a sliver off one side.
Rummaging around in his toolbox, he pulled out the slimmest flat blade screwdriver that he thought would be up to the job and manoeuvred the blade into the tiny gap between the creaky board and its next door neighbour. The pristine varnish on the boards in question would no doubt get chipped but he could easily dab a fresh coat on any noticeable marks afterwards.
Being as careful as he could, while still trying to use the necessary force, he attempted the push the blade under the wood, wiggling it as he did so to help the screwdriver’s progress.
“Shit!”
Jonny cursed aloud as the tool slipped from his fingers and gouged through his jeans into the side of his knee, blood immediately flowing from the gash onto one of the staring knots. He winced as he stood, pressing the denim of his jeans against the hole in his leg to stem the flow, and hobbled to the en-suite to grab some tissue paper.
BLOOD!
The voice reverberated inside his skull. He froze in his tracks and nervously scanned around the bedroom.
MORE BLOOD!
The voice seemed to swell within him and Jonny suddenly felt
