“Well, that settles it then – he’s a bloody nutter!”
Roger made for the door amid howls of laughter and exited the pub without looking back.
24
Neil Bullock stretched out on the leather sofa and took a sip from the whisky glass in his hand. The fireplace in front of him stood dark and empty and Bullock, though he enjoyed the warm, dry weather of summer, couldn’t wait for winter so he could get a good blaze going.
Nothing says success like a fine malt in front of a roaring fire, he mused, taking another self satisfied sip of his drink.
Neil had inherited Bullock Property Developments from his father, although, where Bullock Senior had built the business from scratch with his bare hands, involving himself in all aspects of the work, his son preferred a more hands-off approach. He’d sold off most of their plant, apart from a couple of diggers and a van, preferring to hire what he needed without the overhead of maintenance. He took the same approach with his employee’s, laying off most of them, keeping just a few trusted individuals to ensure the contractors and casual labour he hired did their jobs.
As he downed the last mouthful of whisky, stepping across the living room to the decanter for a refill, he heard the chimes of the doorbell.
“Who the hell is that?” he muttered, deciding whether to bother answering or not.
Oh shit, its probably Johnson…
James Johnson was foreman at one of his developments and was having a few issues. Bullock had asked him to call at the end of the day to let him know what was going on.
The idiot’s probably run his phone battery down watching porn on his lunch-break and has had to stop by in person.
“Hold on!” he shouted, “I’ll be there in a minute.”
He poured himself another measure of whisky, not wanting to do so in front of Johnson as the man would no doubt ask for one himself, and good malt was wasted on a beer swilling, tabloid reader like him.
Taking a swallow of the golden liquid from his crystal tumbler, Bullock opened the front door.
He thought he vaguely recognised the smooth, round rock as the one he used to hold down his note for the milkman, although his familiarity with it did nothing to soften the force of the blow as the stranger at his door powered it into his face. The whiskey tumbler shattered, splinters of razor sharp glass embedding themselves in Bullock's lips and cheeks. The property developer himself was only fleetingly aware of the shards piercing his flesh before the full impact of the stone rendered him unconcious.
Roger hefted the blood smeared stone in his hands. The rock felt good: its weight; its smooth shape…the way the cracking of Bullock’s skull reverberated through it into his wrist…
25
The pain in her head was unbearable, the paracetamol she had been taking at regular intervals throughout the day having had no discernible effect. Margaret buried her face into her pillow and wept. There was no way she could wait until morning to go to the surgery, and, although she disliked having to do it, hated feeling like a burden on an already overstretched health service, she decided she had no choice but to phone the out-of-hours doctor.
After almost two hours curled foetal on her bed, she heard the intercom buzz, announcing the doctor’s arrival at the main door. Dr Bond, an attractive, single woman in her thirties was new to the district and currently living in rented accommodation. As she waited to be let in, she made a mental note to find out more about the available apartments in Chillingworth Mews, the brand new complex piquing her interest for a possible purchase. As she entered the communal hallway, her heels echoing on the varnished floorboards she quickly scanned around, admiring the pictures on the walls and mentally underlined her decision to visit the sales office on her next day off.
Margaret leant against the woodwork for support as she waited by her front door to greet the doctor, apologising profusely for having to call her out. Leading the way through to the living room, the widow perched on the edge of her sofa, next to her abandoned knitting, the physician kneeling on the carpeted floor in front of her to begin her examination.
“So, I understand that you’ve been suffering from a severe headache for over twenty-four hours?”
“That’s right, doctor. It just seems to be getting worse and worse…”
“And you’ve been taking painkillers for it?”
“Yes, doctor, paracetamol.”
“Have you ever suffered from headaches in the past?”
“Now and then, but a couple of painkillers always shifted them – never anything like this-” Margaret suddenly clasped her head, fresh tears filling her eyes as the effort of answering the doctor’s questions instilled a renewed vigour into the throbbing at her temples.
“How’s your vision?” The doctor rummaged in her bag as she spoke, “Any blurring, strange light effects or floaters?”
“It’s been getting a bit blurry, doctor, but I didn’t sleep very well last night so I assumed it was just tiredness.”
“Hmmm, I’ll just take a look…” The doctor shone her penlight into the widow’s left eye.
Margaret screamed, slapping the little torch from the woman’s hand, sending it flying across the living room. The medic stared at her patient, for an instant the old woman looked almost feral – her lips curled back, her eyes blazing with rage before her face returned to normal.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, doctor…it was just the brightness…”
Dr Bond retrieved her penlight, the image of Margaret’s wild face still burning in her mind. She had never seen a patient react like that before and was worried there was something very wrong.
“I’d like you to go to the hospital,
