11
Present day
Oliver walked out onto the street, the cold air slapping him hard. He was breathless, struggling to compose himself. All of a sudden, it dawned on him what he’d done and he was already wrestling with his conscience. Oliver questioned how Meagan had such a hold over him.
I’ve just killed somebody. I poisoned him, watched him draw his last breath. I did that. Maybe he deserved it for the things he’d done, but killing him, that makes me just as bad.
Oliver struggled to push the thoughts from his head. He needed to get out of there and home before someone spotted him.
He fought with his paranoia, images flashing in his mind of someone seeing what he did and calling the police; vans turning up with dogs sniffing his scent, racing after him down the quiet street; the police finding him in his bed and cuffing him, leading him out of his apartment, past his concerned neighbours. He heard the whispers. Yeah, Oliver is his name, a right bloody nutter that one. He was always a weird sort of guy. Never mixed with people. A total oddball if you ask me.
Oliver assembled his thoughts, going through the last few minutes, recalling the incident. He’d got inside apartment six, gone upstairs and poisoned the guy. Had he been seen entering the building or on the second floor? Could anyone have heard?
He stood still, composing himself. He needed to call a taxi, but there’d be records, a file kept by the controller, who would be happy to help. Oh yes, he did call. It was late. I thought something was up, you know, he sounded odd. He was breathless and struggling to get his words out. I knew straight away he was a bad one. I told the driver, I warned him, ‘don’t pick this weirdo up’.
He started walking along the street, conscious not to look out of place, taking it slow. He couldn’t look conspicuous and draw attention to himself. He slowed, easing to a stroll, looking over his shoulder.
God, what have I done? He thought about Meagan, trying to ease his conscience, tackling the guilt. Everything was for her, for the shit she goes through each day. He pictured her face, her beautiful features, the cuts, bruises, the beating her partner gave her outside the apartment block. It ran through his mind like a recording.
Oliver imagined being sat in the cinema watching the show, rows of people drinking Coke and stuffing their faces with oversized tubs of popcorn. Rob putting the boot in, Meagan wincing, the watching crowd booing, throwing rolled up paper napkins at the screen.
Suddenly, Oliver rides in on a huge white horse, somersaults onto the street. He races up the stairs to apartment six and rescues Meagan.
Everyone is cheering, queuing to shake his hand after the short production. Rows of people lined up in the cinema aisles are clapping, whistling, patting him on the back.
He thought about calling Meagan. It’s too risky. Maybe just a text to tell her it’s done? No, it’s time to lie low, under the radar. If anyone finds out what’s happened, the first thing the police check is phone records.
Oliver tried to remember who had been at the pub the night he met Meagan. Panic set in. The barmaid? No, she was more interested in the guy at the end of the counter buying her drinks and flirting.
The group of youths knocking back whisky chasers? They wouldn’t have noticed if a bulldozer had rammed through the front door. Besides, they left a little after Oliver arrived, probably landing in a nearby ditch. He recalled a couple who were playing pool, sharing peanuts and a bottle of red wine. Oliver was sure they hadn’t looked over.
He needed to pull himself together, gain control, get home.
Oliver pictured the guy lying in bed. He pictured injecting him with the autoinjector, the way his body had spasmed, the noises he made.
He leant over into a bush and vomited.
Oliver closed the front door to his apartment, fastening the double lock, sliding the security chain in place. He leaned against the wall, using it to support his weight. Regret washed over him. He struggled to come to terms with the act he’d just carried out, running it over and over in his mind. He’d just killed a man, ended his life, terminated his existence. Oliver was freaking out. He needed to hear Meagan’s voice, speak with her so she could make it all okay, bearable. He knew it was impossible. They’d planned to keep their distance, no contact.
Suddenly he thought of Claire, the girl he had shared so many great times with. He could call her, leave the apartment, go to her. She said they could remain friends. Maybe that’s what he needed; to get off this rollercoaster and hide.
From the living room window the lights over West London were blinding. Oliver reached out, pulling the cord of the heavy blinds, watching them fall, listening to the crunching noise as they bounced, darkening the apartment suddenly. Where was Meagan? Did she say I could call, or was she calling me? How long can I wait? I need to speak with her, find out the plan. We can go through this together, organise what to do next.
He was distracted by a siren in the distance, an ambulance, police maybe. London had sirens day and night, it was a city that never stopped. It was getting nearer, louder, coming towards him.
Oliver quickly went to his bedroom window, which overlooked the street. He was struggling to contain a panic attack that had threatened since he’d left apartment six. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. The heating was off, the apartment chilly, but Oliver now felt on fire.
The siren was almost on top of him, blaring through his head. He looked to the ground below the window: flashing blue lights, a large vehicle with a ladder on top. A fire engine, not a police car. He watched as it passed the building, turning right into a side street. The noise disappeared in the distance, a faint whirring sound fading into the background.
Oliver paced back and forth across the kitchen floor, rubbing his fingers together, reaching for the fridge, closing the door, moving toward the window, lifting the blind slightly. The nervous energy was all too much; he needed to rest, take a bath, read. I can’t concentrate! How can I do any of these things?
He lay on the sofa, picked up the remote control and flicked through channels to find the news. A reporter was standing outside the prime minister’s house, talking about NHS staffing. He turned the volume up slightly, and after a few minutes, two people appeared sitting in a studio, briefly going through local news bulletins from earlier today. Nothing about apartment six.
He was safe, for now.
For most of the day, Meagan had sat in the coffee shop. She was buzzing from the effect of caffeine, numb from sitting in the same spot at a table near the front.
She needed to be seen, that was important in case anyone asked questions later.
She began to have doubts about whether Oliver had gone through with it. Had he broken into the apartment and done what he had promised? She imagined him at the last minute, turning back, going home, never contacting her again. It would kill her, him backing out, changing his mind, deciding it’s not what he wanted, leaving Meagan to live the rest of her life with her bastard of a husband.
She wasn’t brave enough to do it herself. Meagan couldn’t comprehend killing someone, especially Rob; he’d overpower her, looking into her eyes, that smirk, the snarl starting from deep within, his face, the evil expression and the spell he’d cast. She’d bottle it, collapse in a heap and have to face the aftermath.