Time was the crucial factor: was there enough of it to develop their relationship? They couldn’t stay in the bungalow indefinitely. Each passing day increased the likelihood of an unwelcome visitor. So far, no nosey neighbours or concerned colleagues had come knocking, enquiring after Elliot’s health. Elliot had no family to speak of, and had only worked intermittently as a freelance proofreader during the past three or four years, rarely leaving the house he’d inherited from his parents. A monthly book group had been his only social contact. That was where they had met initially: Miles had overheard two women discussing their monthly get-together in a bookshop café and had skilfully managed to bag himself an invite. He had then attended the meetings semi-regularly because it distracted him from his wife’s deteriorating condition.
He had never got around to actually reading the novels. By memorising an online synopsis and cribbing opinions from pseudo intellectual bloggers, he usually found he had plenty to contribute to the group’s banal discussions. Busy schedules and poor communication had led to the book group’s gradual dissolution. It was no great loss; the other members were rather tedious people.
When Miles had looked up Elliot after a gap of almost two years, it seemed as though they were in a position to help each other out: Miles needed a place to stay while he got on his feet again and Elliot needed the income from taking in a lodger. It was too bad that when they came to discuss terms, Elliot had a sudden change of heart, deciding he wasn’t suited to sharing his home after all. Miles pointed out that if this was true, why go to the trouble of posting an advert on Gumtree? Elliot, of course, had no answer for that. And Miles had already made up his mind to move in.
He hadn’t planned on killing Elliot, though. Renting the room for six months would have been the easier way to go. Losing self-control was out of character for Miles. It was an impulse. Like a switch flicking inside him, he’d suddenly been overcome by disgust for the man’s inherent weakness. Elliot walked around with the word victim stamped on his forehead; Miles had done him a favour by ending his self-imposed misery.
Miles cleared away the remains of his breakfast, took a wet dishcloth, and began wiping down the worktop and table. The truth was that Miles didn’t particularly enjoy the actual act of murder. It was a messy and often exhausting task, and once the adrenaline rush had receded the rigmarole of body disposal wasn’t much fun either. The anticipation, the planning, the build-up – that’s what provided the excitement. Everything that came afterwards was basically a chore to be done as quickly as possible.
Abstinence during the previous six years had made Miles believe he didn’t need to indulge himself any more; his marriage had somehow quietened the urges and diverted him from those enticing thoughts. But after his comeback with the suicidal student, he knew there would have to be others. The experience was absolutely intoxicating. Nothing else would ever compare.
Sex he could take or leave, having never quite seen what all the fuss was about. Masturbation was far more efficient for dealing with the backlog. The only positive aspect of sex was it being a shared experience. But then he’d never found anyone he wanted to share it with more than once. Fortunately, his wife was past caring by the time they met, and their arrangement had certainly worked well enough for both of them. At least until she’d begun losing her mind; one of the alarming side effects of her dementia being inappropriate sexual behaviour in public places. The indignity was utterly intolerable, and so he made the difficult decision to send her away.
Naturally she’d known nothing about his youthful pastime, and once they’d married he felt it was something to be given up; a bachelor’s habit to be dropped like smoking or gambling. Besides, somewhere along the way he’d grown bored with the whole thing. He was no longer feeling the old buzz. It had become too easy, too ordinary. Mundane, even. And keeping it secret was becoming noticeably harder each time.
After much consideration, he realised what was lacking: a companion to join him on the hunt. He wanted to talk freely, to recount all those exquisite details. Self-censorship was so tiresome. He yearned to see his own excitement reflected in another’s eyes as they prepared for the main event. And then to relive it, he needed someone reminding him of the finer points; the sights, the sounds, the smells. What was the use of having such wonderful stories if there was nobody to share them with? Until recently it had seemed an impossible goal; choosing to confide in the wrong individual would almost certainly cost him his liberty.
As the Today programme drew to a close, he heard Sinead hobbling along the hall. The clatter of her crutches was a real bonus: hearing her approach gave him a chance to prepare, to become Elliot again. He opened the door to the living room. Sinead stood by the sofa, looking down at the dark blotch on the carpet.
Miles said, ‘I cleaned up the worst of it last night. Perhaps you could deal with the stain.’
When she turned towards him, he had to contain his amusement. She looked like a forlorn child that knows she’s been a bad girl.
‘I’ll go to the corner store and get some carpet cleaner. It’ll be good as new, I promise.’ She lumbered to the porch. With her back to him, she said, ‘So embarrassing. Honestly, that hasn’t happened to me since… graduation.’ Sinead grabbed her jacket from the wall hook.
‘Sinead?’ He waited a beat, making sure he had her full attention. ‘I did warn you about mixing alcohol with those pills. If you don’t learn self-control, how will I be able to trust you?’
‘You can trust me. I’m sorry, okay. It won’t happen again.’ She looked down.
He nodded slowly. Her reaction was ideal; she was in his debt and full of shame. Sinead opened the door and noisily left the house. She was quite pathetic in her current condition, but last night had been a genuine breakthrough. Sinead had revealed her true self to him. She was on the verge. All she needed was a gentle push. As he listened to the sound of her cluttering down the drive, a brilliant idea occurred to him. He knew exactly what he had to do.
The unpleasant funk of body odour was unmistakeable as he entered the bedroom. He’d noticed she’d been showering infrequently since her accident. He considered opening the window, but decided not to; he might forget to close it and then she’d know he’d been in there. Miles went to the bedside cabinet and pulled out the middle drawer. The keys for her old house were in the same place he’d remembered seeing them previously: underneath a box of tampons. Miles removed the keys, slipped them into his trouser pocket, then shut the drawer and padded across to the rattan laundry basket on the other side of the room.
Removing the basket’s lid, he crouched over and rifled around amongst Sinead’s dirty clothes, digging through T-shirts with logos of bands he’d never heard of, blue jeans with supposedly fashionable holes in the knees, hooded tops, socks and underwear. Mostly cotton briefs, in white and pastel blues and pinks and several in black. He dropped them down onto the carpet and assessed each in turn; pulling the elastic waist between his hands and holding them up to the light. He was settling on a skimpy little M&S number with a purple and black striped pattern when he overturned a bobbled woollen jumper and found exactly what he was after: a pair of scarlet red lacy knickers. The kind a girl wore when she was hoping to get lucky.