Eve flutters her eyelids in response. She’s swimming in and out of consciousness now. The room is shadowy and insubstantial and Villanelle’s voice is muted, as if it’s coming from far away.
Villanelle drops the porcelain cup into the Waitrose shopping bag, and swings it against the dining table so that it shatters, Then, opening the dog-food can, she empties its contents into Eve’s hair, at the back of her head, and carefully arranges half a dozen of the larger pieces of shattered porcelain in the gelatinous mess. Satisfied with the composition, she pours the first condom of blood on top, dotting a scarlet forefinger into the cosmetic entry wound. The contents of the second condom form a dark lake behind Eve’s head.
‘OK. Look dead.’
This takes very little effort on Eve’s part.
Taking out her phone, Villanelle photographs her from various angles and distances, checking the pictures until she’s satisfied. ‘Done,’ she says eventually, and performs a little dance of pleasure. ‘That looks so great. The jelly in the dog food is just perfection. Now I’m going to clean you up. Don’t move.’
She runs the comb through Eve’s hair, dragging out the already congealing blood and offal. Then, having put the Waitrose bag over Eve’s head, and propped her up against the sofa, she scrapes the porcelain fragments and the remainder of the dog food from the carpet with a kitchen spoon, depositing it in the tin, and the tin in the rubbish bag. With it go the cannula and tube, the remains of the condoms, the comb, the eye-shadow and powder, the spirit gum and wax, the belt, the pen and the hair-grips.
Taking the hair she’s pulled from Eve’s head, Villanelle sprinkles it in the congealing blood, which she then smears across the carpet with a swipe of her hand. She peels off the latex gloves and drops them in the bin-bag then pulls on a new pair. ‘Your turn for a bath,’ she announces, scooping Eve up in her arms.
Lying semi-conscious in the warm water as Villanelle rinses her hair, Eve feels a vast sense of peace. It’s as if she’s between lives. Half an hour later, dried and dressed in clean clothes, she sits on the sofa drinking sweet tea and eating slightly stale chocolate digestive biscuits. She’s crushingly tired, her skin is clammy, and the smell of blood is thick in her nostrils. ‘This is the definitely the weirdest I’ve ever felt,’ she murmurs.
‘I know. I took a lot of your blood. But look what I’m sending to Anton.’
Eve takes Villanelle’s phone. Notes with awe her own chalk-white features, half-closed eyes and gaping mouth. Just above the bridge of her nose, there’s a purplish crater around a blackened 9mm entry wound. And at the back of her head, a chaotic horror of skull fragments, the bone shining whitely through the red, and a slick porridge of destroyed brain matter.
‘Fuck. I really did die, didn’t I?’
‘I’ve seen headshots up close,’ Villanelle says delicately. ‘It’s accurate.’
‘I know. Your friend Lara blew an old man’s brains out in the metro, aiming for me.’
‘I’m really shocked she missed. And then to be picked up by the FSB and thrown into Butyrka. That’s such a shitty day’s work.’
‘Aren’t you upset about her?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondering.’
‘Don’t wonder. Get your strength back. I’m going to tidy up and pack the car.’
‘You’ve got a car?’
‘It’s a van, in fact. Give me that mug and biscuit wrapper.’
‘Can I take anything with me?’
‘No. That’s the thing about being dead.’
‘I suppose it is.’
Five minutes later, Villanelle surveys the flat. The place is as she found it, except for the bloody tableau in the main room, which looks just as she planned. She’s particularly pleased with the clotted red-brown smear on the carpet, suggesting a bled-out corpse dragged away by the legs. As to what narrative will be constructed around this, she doesn’t care. She just needs time. Forty-eight hours will do it.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Time to go. I’m going to wrap you up in this sheet, cover you with a folded rug and carry you out over my shoulder.’
‘Mightn’t people see?’
‘Doesn’t matter if they do, they’ll just think it’s someone moving their stuff. Later, when the street’s full of police cars, they might see it differently, but by then . . .’ Villanelle shrugs.
In the event, it’s accomplished very quickly, and Eve marvels at Villanelle’s strength as she lowers her, apparently without effort, onto the floor of the panel van. Mummified in the blue sheet, with Villanelle’s rucksack jammed beneath her head, she hears the van’s rear doors close and lock.
It’s not a comfortable journey, and the first half-hour is made worse by a succession of speed bumps, but eventually the road levels out and the van picks up speed. For Eve, it’s enough just to lie there, seeing nothing at all, in a state that’s not quite wakefulness and not quite sleep. After what might have been an hour, but might equally have been two, the van comes to a halt. The doors open, and Eve feels the sheet unwrapped from her face. It’s dark, with a faint wash of street lighting, and Villanelle is sitting on the tailgate of the van, her rucksack over her shoulder. Leaning inside she unbinds Eve from her winding sheet. Outside it’s cold, and smells like rain. They’re in a car park beside a motorway, surrounded by the dim forms of heavy-goods vehicles. An illuminated shack announces CAFÉ 24 Hrs.
Villanelle helps Eve out of the van, and they pick their way over the puddled ground. Inside the café, beneath the lunar glow of strip lights, a dozen men are silently addressing plates of food at plastic-topped tables as Elvis’s
