‘Hey!’ I called.
Donovan ignored me.
I darted out into the hallway after him.
‘Hey!’
He didn’t slow. If anything, his pace increased.
Everything about his body language – his speed, his contained movements, the way his gaze was fixed dead ahead of him – scared me.
A streak of electric horror forked downwards from the top of my skull, branching out through my torso.
‘What are you doing?’
He circled one wrist with a fast movement, cinching the handle of the plastic bag around his fingers.
‘Don’t!’
He circled the other wrist. Snapped the bag taut between his hands. Then he swerved right through the doorway into the front room without looking back.
I ran down the hallway and in through the doorway after him.
And stopped cold.
Fear fluttered in my stomach.
Donovan’s eyes flashed my way from where he was standing behind John’s armchair with the bag – held taut and tight – above John’s head.
John’s glazed attention was on the television, light flickering across his docile face.
‘No,’ I breathed.
Donovan watched me.
There was the slightest contraction of one eye, as if he was assessing my response.
Then he lowered his hands.
I sprang forwards – my shin barking off the edge of the coffee table – and launched myself at him.
I made a grab for his arm. His chin.
My fingers scrabbled against the stubble on his jaw.
But before I could get a proper grip, he hunched his back and ducked his chin down against his chest, then spun tightly around, shaking me loose, sending me sprawling towards the hearth and the fireplace.
I slammed down hard.
Pain lit up across my elbows, knees and chin.
I braced my hands out ahead of me and was able to arrest my momentum before I crashed into the fireplace.
Just.
Then I turned.
Donovan was staring at me with a thoughtful, analytical expression.
Behind him, John had bolted to his feet, though Donovan seemed not to care.
John was treading one way, then the other, his body language agitated, his eyes wide and afraid as he looked between us.
I had no idea if he was really seeing us or if he was actually seeing the muddled component parts of a scene that didn’t make any sense to him.
He scratched at his neck.
‘I’m going to feed Barnaby,’ he muttered. ‘Barnaby. I have to feed him now.’
As he stumbled from the room, disappearing along the hallway, Donovan kept his focus on me.
I said, ‘He doesn’t have a cat.’
‘Excuse me?’
I shifted onto my side, my upper back braced against the marble mantelpiece, needing him to understand.
‘Barnaby’s dead. He was put to sleep two months ago.’
Donovan eyed me as if from afar, suspicion clouding his features.
‘He doesn’t remember,’ I continued. ‘He goes to the shops every day. Because that’s his routine. But he doesn’t remember about his cat. He won’t remember you. He won’t remember us being here. He won’t remember calling at the house, or seeing you inside, or going to the shops, or when his cat doesn’t come home tonight. He won’t remember any of it.’
‘Well, that’s too bad,’ he said, turning to go.
‘If we leave now, I’ll talk to you,’ I called. ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know.’
He stilled. ‘You’re going to have to do that anyway.’
‘Not if you kill John, I won’t. I swear to you I won’t.’
He seemed to consider it.
‘I mean it,’ I pressed. ‘Leave here with me now – leave John safe – and I’ll tell you everything. All of it. But don’t, and I won’t cooperate. Not willingly. I don’t care what you do to me, or to Sam or Bethany.’
He remained motionless for a second more, then swiftly walked out of the room without looking back.
I scrambled to my feet, streaking after him as far as the kitchen, but he put his arm out to stop me when I got there.
John was sitting at the kitchen table, staring with a confounded expression at the tin of cat food and the can opener in front of him. Gradually, he looked up and proffered them to Donovan in a wordless appeal for help.
I watched in a state of slow horror as Donovan started forwards, approaching him with the bag in his hands.
‘If you—’
‘Relax.’ He set the bag down on the table, took the can opener from John and fitted it to the tin. He cranked it purposefully as he looked my way.
‘Two conditions,’ he told me.
‘Anything.’
‘The first is that John stays in this house.’
‘That’s normal. John will be here until tomorrow now, won’t you, John?’
Donovan finished opening the tin and set it down on the table, then rested a hand on John’s shoulder before stepping away to pick up the cat bowl. After selecting a fork from the cutlery drawer, he placed a foot on the pedal bin and scraped the congealed cat food out of the bowl. I could hear it splattering down against the plastic liner and on top of the landline phone he’d dumped inside earlier.
‘If I hear someone call round, or the front door opens—’
‘You won’t.’
He placed the cat bowl onto the table, upending the tin of meat paste above it. He then forked a clump out, mashed it with the fork, slid the bowl in front of John.
He was still holding the fork, and this time, when he placed his hand on John’s shoulder and angled the tines of the fork towards his neck, it was clear to me it was another warning.
‘You understand that I can get back in here any time I like?’
‘Yes.’
‘Doesn’t have to be today.’
‘I said I understand.’
He reached forwards and poked at the plastic bag with the fork. ‘You understand what happens if I do?’
I nodded.
I understood what would happen.
I also understood that Bethany’s life was in jeopardy.
I knew he had someone following Sam home.
‘Good. Then ask me what my second condition is.’
I glanced at John. He didn’t seem to be getting any of this. Mostly, I think, he was just relieved that the cat food was where he wanted it to be.
‘What’s the second condition?’
‘You tell me about the roof. Everything you remember. Every single detail of what happened that night and leading up to it.’
I stared at Donovan, a sickly effervescence in my bloodstream.
‘I can do that.’
‘Good.’ He tossed the fork down onto the table, wiping his gloved hands clean. ‘Then we should get back next door. Sam will be home soon.’