Now the excitement of the past two months had slowed right down, Tom’s mood crashed. As far as he could tell he’d covered all bases, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest – it kept swilling names around his brain, morning and night. He couldn’t escape them. Sean, Kyle, Isabella, Connie … Sean, Kyle, Isabella, Connie … then, every so often, Mum. At least two of the names were permanently taken care of now, only their ghosts could plague him. But Kyle, Connie and his mum – they were very much alive and, despite the measures he’d taken, there were no guarantees they’d keep their mouths shut. He wasn’t even sure how much the psychologist knew; how much his mum had told her. Maybe nothing of importance – in fact, his mind kept reminding him that he’d probably drawn attention to himself, made things worse by intervening.
You’re an idiot, Tom. Why are you so fucking dumb? His father’s nasty, needling voice wormed its way into his head at every given opportunity.
Ultimately, it was Kyle’s fault. If he’d stayed quiet, as agreed, none of this would be an issue now. He never imagined it would be Kyle who let him down, although if he was honest, he could understand it to a point. Fucking psychologists, getting in your head, messing with your mind. She’d broken him by using a dirty, underhand tactic. Dragging his mother into it was low. Tom felt bad for what happened to his mum. The mother–son bond was a complicated one. Kyle’s mum wasn’t bad – she’d looked after him, kept him safe. Kyle had had huge problems with his old man too, but his mum had ensured he’d never got physical with Kyle. She’d protected him.
It was a shame Alice had to come to harm.
But Tom’s need for another adrenaline rush, to kill again, had been too risky; his belief that he was invincible was faltering. He had to make a new plan to figure out how he was going to get away with what he’d done. There was no scapegoat for Isabella’s death like there’d been with Sean.
Tom’s chest tightened. For the first time, he realised that no plan, however clever, would ensure he got away with it. There were too many uncertainties, variables he couldn’t control; he’d involved too many people. In trying to cover up what he’d done, stop others talking, all he’d accomplished was to lengthen the list of people who could bring his world crashing down.
He banged his fist against his temple again and again until it was numb.
The answer to his problem screamed inside his skull. He may not have any other alternative.
It was time to do a runner.