Connor enjoyed the heft of the knife in his hand as he chopped vegetables, the sound of the blade on the wooden board as he sliced the onions and diced the garlic oddly satisfying. From the living room, he heard the faint pop of a cork followed by the soft glug of wine into glasses, smiled to himself as he worked.
The check of Jen’s flat hadn’t taken long – the truth was, there wasn’t much to see. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, the open-plan kitchen/living room. Security-wise, it was a straightforward story: the entry door was adequate, as long as no one decided to leave it on the latch for friends or deliverymen. She knew not to open her front door without checking who was there. The balcony was a slight concern but, at three floors up and with a high guard rail, it was an unlikely point of entry.
Connor banished the thought, focused on his cooking. He had done as asked, and hoped his word would be enough to ease the paranoid fears of Duncan MacKenzie. Despite his reputation, surely he wasn’t associated with anything serious enough to endanger his daughter. His employees, maybe – the way he had accepted what had happened to Paulie told Connor he was ready for such losses – but Jen? No. Connor didn’t think so.
She came into the kitchen carrying a glass of red. After finishing his sweep of the flat, they had ventured out to the nearby Morrison’s, Connor driving. He was surprised how much he enjoyed the simple act of wandering the aisles with her, picking up food. It was a chore he normally hated, putting it off until there was nothing left in the flat, but there was something about the prosaic nature of the errand that soothed him, reinforced his sense that the nightmare was over.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the glass and raising it in a toast. Sipped. Not bad, but he’d have to watch what he was doing if he was going to drive home later.
If.
‘You sure I can’t do anything to help?’ she asked, peering over his shoulder at the array of chopped vegetables and meat. He was making a Thai green curry, one of the few dishes he knew how to make from memory. He enjoyed cooking, but the pleasure for him was in following the recipes as closely as possible, letting the cookbook make the decisions for him.
‘Nope, just relax. It’ll take me about half an hour.’
‘Perfect,’ she said, smiling over her wine glass. ‘I’ll put some music on.’
Connor went back to his work. Heard music drift into the kitchen from the living area a moment later.
‘This okay?’ Jen called.
‘It’s fine,’ Connor replied. He didn’t really care. Music for him was mainly for distraction, something to take his mind off the pain in his body as he trained or drown out the silence in the car as he drove.
He lost himself in cooking. After a few minutes, the jingle for the local station played, followed by the announcer saying it was time for the news.
‘Investigations are continuing into two deaths in and around Stirling in two days, with further details emerging on both cases. This from our reporter Donna Blake.’
The station cut to Donna, her voice warped by the static of blowing wind. Connor wondered if that was intentional, to give the impression that she was on the scene as she spoke.
‘The discovery of a body in the grounds of Stirling University was the second in two days, coming after police were called to Cowane’s Hospital at the top of the town in the early hours of yesterday morning. While they have yet to comment on the bodies, or formally identify either of the victims, I understand that the first body was found to be severely mutilated and police are working on a solid line of enquiry regarding the victim’s identity.
‘Less is known about the body found this morning at the Stirling Court Hotel on the university campus, but sources have stated that police are pursuing a firm line of enquiry relating to a dedication found in a book nearby.’
Connor froze, the knife hanging in mid-air, the spitting of the wok forgotten. Don’t say it, a voice whispered in his mind. Christ, please, don’t say it.
‘The dedication, written in a copy of Misery, by Stephen King, alludes to the book being a different edition of the same story, and is signed as “from L”. Any listeners who are familiar with this, or think they may know who owned such a book, are encouraged to call . . .’
Connor didn’t hear the rest of the report. It was as if God had wrapped His hands around his head and was squeezing. He felt an enormous pressure behind his eyes, heard a rising whine in his ears. The world seemed to lurch and spin, and he reached out to lean on the kitchen work surface, the knife clattering to the floor.
Jen came in, concern sketched across her too-pale face. Her voice seemed to come from a thousand miles away. ‘Connor? You okay? God, you didn’t cut yourself, did you? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’ She bustled past him and moved the wok, which was starting to smoke, from the ring. ‘Come on,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘Let’s go and sit down.’
He let her lead him to the living room, sat heavily on the couch. He felt as though his lungs were filling with gravel, found it hard to breathe. Looked at her. ‘What did that reporter say just now?’ he asked, mouth as dry as sandpaper.
‘I wasn’t really listening,’ she said. ‘Look, Connor, what’s going on? Do you need a doctor?’
He felt laughter rise in his throat. Swallowed it. A doctor? No, that was the last thing he needed. What he needed was lying in the dark in a safe under his bed. Somehow Simon had been wrong and Connor had been right, just as he had known from the moment he saw that fucking book on the TV.
Not the same edition, but the same horror story . . . L.
He pushed aside the desperate thought that this could all be a coincidence, knowing it for the hysterical lie that it was. Whatever was going on, it was all connected to Jonny Hughes. The book was a message for Connor, just as it had been in Belfast.
Connor seized on the thought, hugged it close. Felt his confusion and panic dissolve, replaced by a fury that seeped through him, darkening the shadows of his thoughts, shrinking his vision to a sharp focal point.
No. He had been down this road once before. In Belfast, he had let that message ruin his life. It had cost him his fiancée, his home. His future.
Not this time. Not again. Message received. And this time, whoever had sent it, even if it was Jonny Hughes somehow reaching out from beyond the grave, would pay.