Keith knew. As soon as he saw the house on the news, he knew. Even with the white tent in front of it, the blue sheet at the side, the glimpses of police going in and out, it was unmistakable.
It was the death house.
He sighed, causing pain to stab at his chest. He closed his eyes, rode it out. Waited until it had subsided, then returned to watching the TV. The reporter was standing in front of the house, heavily made up and bundled up against the cold. Fighting the urge to be somewhere warm in order to deliver a story that she hoped could make her nationally famous.
‘Details are still emerging at this point,’ she was saying in reply to a studio-bound anchor, the wind taking away her breath, ‘but it’s understood that the house had been rented over the Christmas holidays to a single man. It’s still not been disclosed whether the body found inside is him or not.’
That was all he needed to see, to hear. It set his pulse racing, pushing the blood round his body quicker. Hastening his death by a few seconds.
Seeing this on the news, with police and reporters, made it all real. Brought it home to him. What he had done, what he was going to do, what he had agreed to do. And of course, what was going to be done to him. No. It wasn’t a game any more, an abstract idea. It was real. Deadly and real.
Kelly chose that moment to enter the living room. He looked away from the TV, caught her by the doorway. The lurch in his stomach had nothing to do with his illness. She was beautiful, no doubting that. Beautiful but hard. Like a marble Rodin sculpture. She saw him watching, ditched the hardness from her features, expelled the hatred and distaste, turning on her sympathetic face before reaching him.
Good girl, he thought. What I’m paying you for.
Or what you think I’m paying you for.
‘What you watching?’ Her voice was as annoying as ever. With its doomed attempts at refinement, at forcing her West Midlands accent into shapes it wasn’t naturally meant to be in, it sounded like she was mouthing elocution exercises while gargling coal.
‘The news,’ he said, the words tiring him, his breath wheezing out.
‘Shouldn’t watch that,’ Kelly said, taking the remote from his lap and walking away, knowing he wouldn’t be able to follow, and even if he did would be too weak to fight her for it. ‘Gets you all excited. And you don’t want that. Remember what the doctor said.’ Her voice sing-song and patronising.
Keith nodded. ‘Yeah.’ Bet you remember what the doctor said. No sudden shocks. No excitement. With what his body had been through, it could be fatal. Surprised she hadn’t given him more shocks. That was what he would have expected.
But he had a surprise for her. A real big shock. He just wished he could be there to see her face when she got it…
Kelly flicked the remote at the TV. The channel changed to a late-night quiz show. Smug comedians making snide remarks about everyone and everything, the audience laughing like it had been pumped full of nitrous oxide.
He hated it. She walked away, leaving it on.
Bitch.
‘And put some lights on, Keith…’ Before she left the room, she switched on the overhead chandelier. He winced from the sudden glare. He hated overhead lights, had done since childhood. And she knew that, had done it deliberately. He couldn’t bear them to be on in any room he was in. He blamed his parents for that one.
He could remember one night when he was six years old, hearing noise from downstairs, a horrible wailing sound, and getting out of bed to investigate. He found his mother in the living room, the next-door neighbour with his arms wrapped round her, his wife by his side. His mother was screaming, breaking down before his eyes. She had always seemed like such a capable woman. He was terrified seeing her like that.
His mother saw him and grabbed him, clutching him to her. Then she told him.
Your dad’s dead. Car crash.
And started wailing again. This time, he joined her.
The one thing he remembered, the one thing that stuck in his mind from that night, all the way into his adult life, was the overhead light. Shining down at full strength like an unforgiving, unrelenting desert sun. And he had hated them ever since.
Now here he was, sitting in his own living room, his chair wheeled in front of the TV, looking down at the tucked-under tracksuit bottoms, empty from the thighs down, where his legs used to be. The overhead light blazed down, reminding him that there was more than one way to die.
‘Can you turn the… the TV back… I was… was watching that…’
No reply. She could hear him. He was sure of it.
She came back into the room. He noticed that she was dressed up. Spike heels, short, clinging dress. Full hair and make-up. Her pulling gear. What she had been wearing when they first met. His heart sighed once more.
‘Where… where you going?’
‘Just out,’ she said, putting her earring in place. ‘Broad Street with the girls. The Basin.’
‘It’s… late…’
‘I know, but it’s the only time I get to see them. It’s just one night. For Christmas.’
He felt anger rise within him. Anger he was too impotent and weak to use. He knew where she was going, who she was meeting. If not the names, then the type. A younger man. A fitter man. A whole man. A man who wasn’t about to die.
‘So you’re leaving me… alone…’
A flicker passed over her features. It could have been read as guilt, but he knew better. Fear. Even now she couldn’t make him unhappy. Especially now.
‘I won’t be long. I promise. Just a Christmas drink with the girls. Honest.’ She waited, breath held, while he made his mind up.
‘I can’t stop you, can I?’ he said eventually.
She smiled out of relief, then crossed to him and gave him the smallest and most careful of kisses on his cheek. Her perfume hit his lungs harder than mustard gas. He began coughing. She straightened up and left, fluttering her fingers, making promises not to be late. The coughing eventually slowed, then stopped altogether. He swallowed back blood. Felt it run down his throat.
He looked down between what remained of his legs. Saw the plastic rectangle in his crotch, mimicking his impotent penis.
At least she’s left the remote, he thought. That’s something.
Keith flicked the channel over but the news had rolled on. Men were fighting in the Middle East now. He turned the TV off. Tried to relive what he had just seen.
The house. The body. This is it, he thought. It wasn’t a game any longer. It was for real. And all because he’d talked to that university professor about his bloody stupid book. Funny how one thing could lead to another. From that to this. He tried to smile, but another bout of pain racked his chest, making him cough up more blood. He didn’t swallow it down this time; instead he spat it on to the beige carpet. He looked down at it. Dark against light. Like blood on snow.
He managed to get himself back in control. Closed his eyes.
Not long now.
I just wish I could be there to see the bitch’s face, he thought. When it happens.