'What do you suggest?'
Nathan couldn't think of anything. A suitcase was the least suspicious thing in the world.
He shifted his weight a little and fished in his pocket, making sure the latex gloves were there, balled up. He took out his pack of cigarettes.
It was empty.
'I'm out of cigarettes.'
'Smoke mine.'
'I'll be back in five minutes.'
'We need to do this.'
'I can't do it without cigarettes.'
'Fine. Whatever. Hurry the fuck up.'
'Five minutes.'
'Okay. Whatever.'
'Lend me your keys?'
'Leave the door on the latch.'
Nathan clenched his teeth. Then he made his fists relax.
'Fair enough. See you in a minute.'
He walked upstairs. He left the front door on the latch. At the gate, he lost control. He began to shake.
He sat on the low wall until it had passed.
He walked to the corner shop. He fought the urge to hurry, even to run. It made his legs hurt.
He wondered how he'd ever get hold of the keys.
At the corner shop, he bought two packs of Marlboro Lights. He noticed the security camera, in the corner above the counter. A small monitor showed him in black and white, foreshortened. It exaggerated his little bald patch. He hoped the shopkeeper erased the videos overnight.
Outside the shop, he lit a cigarette and walked back to Bob's, as slowly as he could make himself-to allow the temazepam to work, the effects greatly amplified by the alcohol. It was a cold night. He was glad that The door was still on the latch. He closed it properly, then walked down to the bedsit.
He walked in and closed the door.
Inside the flat, Bob was on the sofa. The suitcase was open at his feet. He was finishing another drink, and reading the laminated note.
'About time.'
'Sorry.'
Holding the note by the edges, Bob polished it clean of fingerprints then placed it, without ceremony, in the open suitcase.
Then he said, 'Why did you break into the garage?'
'I thought you hadn't left the house.'
'I knew you'd do it.'
'What can I say?'
'How can you be unconvinced? She's here. Right now. In this room.'
'I know she is.'
He threw Bob a cigarette. Bob went to catch it. Missed. He fumbled for it, almost fell from his chair.
'Jesus,' he said. 'What do they put in this stuff?'
'It's fifteen years old.'
Nathan glanced at his watch. It was 7.40. He thought of the cold layer of air that blankets a river at night.
'In a way,' he said. 'I suppose I should be thanking you.'
'For what?'
'For my life.'
Bob's face went sour with derision.
'I'm not joking,' said Nathan. 'I like my life. And it would never have happened, if you hadn't . . .' He couldn't say it. 'If you hadn't done what you did.'
Bob saluted him with the glass. 'Good for you.'
'And I've been thinking. The thing about the afterlife: if there is one, we all end up there, sooner or later. And if there isn't, what's the difference? We'll never know.' He gestured at the volumes in Bob's clammy, swollen library. 'So what's the point of all this? What's the point of wasting your life on death?'
'What's the point of anything?'
'Life is the point.' Bob was sleepy like a lion. He stared at the glyphs on the floor, and into the open suitcase. The laminated note. Nathan watched him for a long time.
Then he said,'Bob?'
Bob was shocked, as if he'd forgotten Nathan was there. He stared '-him full in the face for a few moments, as if trying to place him.
He said, 'Right,' and tried to stand.
But he couldn't stand. He fell back, on to the sofa.
Nathan looked at his watch.
Then he took the latex gloves from his pocket. He'd bought them in a box from the chemist. He snapped them on. There were two little puffs of talcum at his wrist. He removed from his pocket a blister pack of temazepam and began to pop the little maroon jelly beans into his palm, one by one.
He walked into the circle. His air of purpose made Bob try to rise.
but he fell back again, looking befuddled, as if he'd misplaced something.
Nathan pushed him deep into the sofa.
Bob said, 'What are you doing?'
He sounded disconnected and confused, like one of the voices on the tape.
Nathan put his hands round Bob's throat. Bob grasped his wrists and struggled for a while, he was strong but the
strength was leaving him. He was breathing through his teeth. He made exerted, snivelling sounds.
Nathan dug a thumb into Bob's eye.
Bob opened his mouth to scream.
Nathan crammed a handful of temazepam into Bob's mouth.
Then locked an elbow around Bob's throat. Bob wouldn't close his mouth. The flexing of his tongue forced a few pills to rain down on the sofa, bouncing on the hexed concrete floor.
Nathan hit Bob's jaw with the heel of his hand. There was a loud click.
There was blood on Bob's lips. But he wouldn't swallow. His face was a deep plum; a broad delta of veins on his forehead.
Nathan pinched Bob's nostrils.
Bob struggled. He bucked and thrashed, but weakly, like someone dreaming.
He made panic noises, whimpers, deep in the back of his throat.
He tried to stand.
Nathan bore down on him. The sharp smell of green tomatoes and cigarettes and stale clothing. Bob's skin and bristles and hair in his face.
Eventually, Bob swallowed.
Then gasped at the ceiling like a drowning man. 'Oh Jesus, what are you doing?'
Nathan picked up the spilled temazepam, as many as he could find, and crammed them again into Bob's mouth. There was a lot of dark blood in there -- and something brighter red. Bob had bitten off the tip of his tongue.
Nathan squatted, putting his face close to Bob's. Bob's eyes were hooded and heavy. The hot whisky breath, harsh and slow, like a tranquillized animal.
Nathan glanced into the corner.
Then he stepped outside the circle.
He went to Bob's computers. He removed the tape from the reelto-reel recorder. It was a fiddly job and his
