Money - if he wanted to eat he was going to need money. He also needed to buy some new clothes and find somewhere to stay.
Unless…
He suddenly thought of Lisa. How he had left her; walked out on her without any explanation. It wasn’t her fault that he had witnessed her wilder past. Most people had to accept that their partners had a sex life before they had met…but then again, most people didn’t have to experience and witness that sex life.
Tears filled his eyes. He loved Lisa and wanted to be with her; hated himself for the hurt etched deep in her face when he had walked out.
But how could he go back? How could explain why he left and what he had been up to? And how long would it be before the dead came calling again – tugging at his bowels and dragging him off on another mission of vengeance?
As if to save him from further torment a sharp pain stabbed at his guts and the images and sensations of Lisa’s student gangbang flooded his mind and body. Roger wept as the truth was brutally laid out for him – he could never go back to Lisa. This was his life now – alone and homeless, at the beck and call of the departed souls he had traded his own for…
As the pain in his belly began to fade, so did his memories of Lisa, her face dissolving a little in his mind – as if the dead had applied an emotional Band-Aid. He sniffed back his sorrow and stared out of the greasy window once again. The town in the distance was calling to him, its church spire thrusting proud of the surrounding houses like a guiding beacon.
Roger turned out all the kitchen drawers searching for cash. Bob didn’t strike him as rich, but he did strike him as the sort of man who was frugal and possibly wary of banks. Also, the kind of man who would empty his victim’s accounts. Sure enough, his search quickly turned up a wad of banknotes, rolled tight and bound by an elastic band. A quick flick through the edges told him he had more than enough to get him through the next few weeks, possibly longer.
Taking a last, satisfying look at his handiwork laid out on the table, Roger slammed the kitchen door behind him and headed down the lane towards the town, the late afternoon sun warm and comforting at his back.
21
Sam slammed the front door shut behind her and crashed on through into the bedroom. She dumped her bag onto the floor and flopped onto the unmade bed, moaning quietly into her pillow.
The pain in her head had grown steadily worse throughout the day, seemingly untouchable by over-the-counter painkillers, and her boss had sent her home a couple of hours early – she had an important meeting the next day and he wanted her fit for it. Alongside the headache, her vision had become increasingly blurry, the fact that she had safely negotiated the fifteen mile drive from work owing more to light traffic and luck rather than any degree of judgement on her part.
Hurriedly discarding her shoes and skirt she crawled under the quilt, wrapping her arms tightly around her head in a futile attempt to ease the constant pounding. Her stomach rumbled and although she felt famished, she had no energy to cook. If Steve was hungry when he got home he would either have to cook for himself or get a takeaway.
*
According to the sign planted in the overgrown verge at the junction where the narrow lane joined a busier A-road, the town of Lydmet ‘Welcomed him’. The road, which was starting to fill with rush-hour traffic, led directly into the town itself and Roger only had to follow it for a few minutes before hedgerows gave way to bricks and concrete.
To his left he a spotted a small motel – ‘The Deanery’ – and judged it to be a suitable place to lay his head for the night. He decided that some clean clothes were probably in order first, though - any half-decent receptionist likely to think twice about letting someone in his current state book a room.
As he walked on, he passed a new apartment block on his right. A sign next to what he presumed was a sales office announced the building as ‘Chillingworth Mews’ – a complex of modern, luxury apartments. He noted that at least four of the apartments were still for sale and continued walking, spotting the familiar logo of a supermarket a couple of hundred yards ahead.
The supermarket security guard at the store’s entrance eyed Roger with some caution, his unshaven face and dirty clothes presumably flagging him as a potential shoplifter. He doubted that his odour was doing him any favours either, and the sudden thought of a hot shower reminded him to pick up some deodorant and other toiletries while he was here.
The clothing department was located at the rear of the store and mostly consisted of a basic range of leisure clothes. Roger pulled a pair of jogging trousers from the rail, thinking they might be more comfortable for running in than his denim jeans. They were cheap so he grabbed a few pairs in his size along with some plain white T-shirts and a fold-up waterproof jacket.
“Everything ok, sir?”
Roger started. He hadn’t noticed the shop assistant walking up to him and as he turned to face the woman, he spotted the security guard standing a little way behind her, deep set eyes firmly focussed in his direction.
“Fine, thanks,” Roger replied, flashing his best smile and
