On the bathroom floor, Shelley measured out her remaining heroin. There was enough, most probably, to kill the rapist but she’d have to use it all. Therefore, there wasn’t enough because she’d need a hit before administering his lethal injection and she’d need one after, before embarking on the onerous task of removing his body.
Would there be enough to kill him and leave her with one hit? She remeasured. No, she’d need to use all of it to be sure and it would be a waste of her heroin if she gave him any less and he didn’t die.
She took the works, spoon and citric from her handbag and began preparing a shot. As she heated the underside of the spoon, her mind was invaded by the tape that had been recorded last night. Although stabbing him would be unpleasant, because of the risk of being spattered with his blood, there could be some satisfaction to be had.
With the filter in the spoon, she pressed her needle against it and drew up the brown liquid. She pulled her sock halfway down her foot and inserted the needle into a skinny vein, which was the fattest she could find. Too much pressure had been applied and the vein blew. Part of the hit was wasted.
In the knowledge she only had enough gear for two more hits, she cooked up another. When the syringe was full, she looked for the best vein. None were ideal. To avoid another accident she decided to go for the vein on the back of her knee that hadn’t been touched for a while.
She pushed herself off the cold, bathroom tiles and stood with the syringe in her hand. She twisted at the waist, bent at the knee, and bowed sideways. Fighting the pain caused by contortion, she manoeuvred her arms lower in position to insert the needle.
Her impersonation of a gnarled tree made it awkward to pull back on the plunger, but she managed. Then, as she slowly exerted pressure, she felt the power behind the rush of her penultimate hit.
***
When Shelley roused, she was still in a half-dream; she was walking around wearing jumble sale clothes. Genius idea, she thought as she opened her eyes and reached for her cigarette packet. She took a few puffs then flushed the cigarette down the toilet.
In the hall, she looked through the doors of the bedrooms until she found the room with the double mattress on the floor and the sea of papers and worn-out clothes.
On finding an oversized and holey white T-shirt, she pulled it over her head. Then she picked up a pair of over-washed, black cotton trousers. Once the trousers were at her waist and falling off, she realised they weren’t a good idea and slipped out of them.
Rummaging further through the pile, she found a greying-white men’s shirt. With that buttoned up over the T-shirt, it would provide a shield for the holes.
Using another T-shirt, she covered her hair and face. Although, after trying it for size, she took it off. Before it was operational, she’d need to cut out spaces to see.
On the bedside table, she found a biro. She poked two holes through the T-shirt for her eyes, one for her nose, and a fourth for her mouth. She put the tight neck of the T-shirt over her head and tied the wide hem in a knot in the position of a high ponytail. After some minor adjustments, widening the holes to reach their required positions, she was ready.
The dilemma of what to do in relation to protecting her own jeans remained. She went into Len’s room to check his wardrobe. There was nothing of any use hanging up, but among the heap of clothes on the bottom of the wardrobe, she caught sight of a black belt poking out.
Wearing a pair of stonewash jeans too wide and too long for her, she threaded round the plastic-imitating-leather belt. At its tightest fastening, she realised there weren’t enough notches in the belt. To secure it, she tucked the free-end under a section on the side of her waist. With the hems of the jeans rolled up a few times, she was ready to go down.
***
“Are you planning on haunting him to death?” Tara asked Shelley in the lounge.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to say anything. What the fuck were you thinking getting drunk like that?” Nicole looked angrily at Tara.
“I needed a drink. That’s what I was thinking.”
“Was it just the vodka or did you take the roofies? Tell me the truth, Tara.” Shelley took a seat on a folding chair near the bay windows where Tara was sitting upright on the carpet in the same spot Shelley had left her sleeping a few hours ago.
“How can you even ask me? I expect that from Nic, not from you.”
“Where else could they have gone?” Nicole shouted.
“Don’t start on that again. She said she didn’t take them and I believe her.” Angel walked into the lounge and sat on the folding chair to the other side of Tara.
“It’s just odd, isn’t it? I mean where—” Shelley was cut off.
“For the last time, I didn’t fucking take them and I’m not staying around for you to pick on me.” Tara glared at Shelley. “You’re the one who’s fucked up. They’re aiming a rifle at me! We're under siege! You imagined you fucked your punter to death."
“That wasn’t my—”
“Leave it, Shell.” Nicole stood in front of Shelley, took her hand and dragged her into the kitchen. “Don’t talk about that with her.”
“What are you on about? She was out of order.” Shelley took one of the clean glasses she’d brought with her and poured herself a gin.
“You don’t need to talk about that punter with her. She doesn’t know. She thinks you were hallucinating.”
“What the fuck? Who the hell is that?” Shelley walked out of the kitchen and peered around the corner to see the front door. There was a shadow through the glass of someone too big to be the quidnunc neighbour, but it could be her husband. It could be anyone. Shelley’s blood felt like it was panicking as it raced in her veins.
She heard what sounded like the clunking of keys. Then she watched as the door was pushed open. She ran back to the kitchen to hide, but there was nowhere.
“Shhh.” Shelley stood by the fridge. She put her index finger to her lips and looked at Nicole with wide eyes. Tapping footsteps crescendoed in her ears.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Shelley shouted.
“I was down the Grove but then I fucking— Why am I telling you? I don’t need to tell you. This is my fucking gaff,” Len slurred.
“Yeah, and you’re not supposed to come back until I say.”
“Chill out, Shelley, man. You ain’t no estate agent, are ya?” he said, coming so close she could taste the beer on his breath. “If you wanted a fancy dress party you only needed to ask.”
“This is a private matter.” Shelley put her hands on his chest and gently pushed him out of her personal space.
He staggered backwards out of the kitchen and stopped partway down the hall. “By the way, I want my jeans washed and ironed before I have ’em back.”
Shelley was surprised he’d noticed. Not only was he clearly drunk but also his wild eyes indicated drug use, and the darkness around them, that he hadn’t slept. The palm tree sprouting from his crown, however, and the mud stains on his jeans and leather jacket could betray a night spent in a park, possibly inclusive of a fall from a bench.