The room reeks of vomit, blood and shit. I swear there’s still the faint odour of the gunshot that had taken away part of Hershey’s skull. I lie on the floor and cover my face with my arm, but it does little to keep the stench out of my nostrils. As it permeates my body the alcohol is forced out of my bloodstream at the same pace. I sober up bloody quickly, I can tell you.
I fully appreciate that if the cops catch me here I’ll be in serious trouble, not quite as much as Hershey, but enough. Only a matter of days ago I’d been in custody and accused of defrauding my employer. It’s well known at the Bank that I hate Hershey. The police aren’t stupid and I’m sure they’d put two and two together pretty quickly and come knocking on my door again. So I have to do something, I can’t just lie here and decompose steadily along with the bastard.
I pick myself up off the floor and pull out my mobile. The charge is low but the screen lights up the room, throwing the corpse into relief. I almost press the speed dial key for Claire but hold back. Instead I take the back off then pull the battery out. I’ve seen enough television to know the police can triangulate a location. I’m desperate to make a call, but I know I’ll have to save it for later.
My mind is screaming at me to get out of the house now, but a morbid curiosity overcomes my good sense. Hershey has been the cause of so much shit in my life I have to make sure he really is dead, even though it’s fucking obvious. I cross slowly to the wing back chair he reclines in, breathing through my mouth to keep the worst of the stiff’s perfume at bay. His bowels must have relaxed with his expiration; the leather is stained with shit and piss. He’s slouched slightly, his head tipped to one side, his jaw slack. There’s a small hole in one temple and a much larger exit wound at the back of his head, blood and brains all over the chair and wall behind. The bullet looks to have gone in at an angle.
One of his arms lies across his lap; the other has flopped down and hangs over the side of the chair. Something is bothering me so I kneel down and look underneath the wing back, which stands well above the floor on four ornate wooden legs. There’s a drying pool of piss, but no gun.
Then I freeze. I hear movement downstairs, I’m sure the front door opens. I run out of the living room, leaving Hershey alone, to the window at the end of the corridor. I press my face against the cool glass and look in both directions, but I can’t see anyone. Then my nerve breaks. I have to get out of here. I run down the stairs. The front door yawns open. Someone else was definitely in the house.