A Line of Blood. Ben McPherson

      ‘Not you, Mr Mercer.’ He nodded towards the ambulance. The crew had the doors open in the London heat, listening to the radio, drinking water from aluminium bottles.

      ‘I asked them, you see, but they told me nothing. The police have been there two hours. I saw men with metal cases and there were flashes coming from the house. They would not do this if this man were still alive, surely?’

      ‘You think they’re taking photographs?’ I said.

      ‘Can you think of any other reason for the flashes, sir?’ he said. ‘We must pray that this is not the beginning of a wave of crime.’

      ‘No crime was committed, Mr Ashani.’

      ‘No, my dear?’

      ‘It appears to be a suicide,’ said Millicent, her voice quiet.

      ‘No,’ he said. A look of horror passed across his face. ‘What a vile and cowardly thing that would be. We must hope that you are mistaken. We must hope that this is a murder.’

      ‘Mr Ashani, I can’t believe you would say that.’

      ‘It is not my wish to offend you, Mrs Mercer.’

      ‘A man is lying dead in there, Mr Ashani. Surely he deserves our sympathy – your sympathy – however he died.’

      Mr Ashani considered this. ‘No, Mrs Mercer,’ he said. ‘No, suicide is the greatest of crimes. To turn one’s back on redemption, to despair in such a way … It is … That you cannot see this … I am at a loss …’

      He began to walk back towards his house.

      Millicent made to walk after him. ‘Mr Ashani. Please.’

      He turned, then very deliberately walked back towards us.

      ‘I do not wish you to think me cruel,’ he said, ‘but the word on this is very precise, my dear. And besides, this man was not a moral man.’

      I tried to move into Millicent’s line of sight. I wanted her to change the subject.

      ‘Mr Ashani,’ said Millicent, ‘I respect your view, of course I do, but we disagree.’

      Mr Ashani began to speak very quietly, his voice grave. ‘With murder there is at least the hope of salvation. The soul of the victim may ascend to heaven, and the murderer may reflect on his crime and repent.’ He turned to me, smiled the most reasonable of smiles. ‘You see this, sir, do you not?’

      I gave what I hope was a smile of respect. Mr Ashani nodded, as if I had confirmed his point, turned back to Millicent. ‘With suicide, Mrs Mercer, a soul is forever lost to God. Forever. To choose suicide is to mark your card for damnation. No, Mrs Mercer, no, we must pray that this is a murder.’

      I looked at Millicent. Change the subject …

      OK. Millicent looked back at me. All right.

      ‘Mr Ashani,’ she said, ‘my husband and I have been arguing over how old you are.’

      He smiled. ‘How old do you think I am?’

      ‘So our guess was somewhere between fifty …’

      ‘Fifty? Excellent.’ He laughed.

      ‘And I guess, and I hope you won’t be offended, but we really didn’t know …’ She screwed up her eyes slightly, touched his hand to show that she meant no harm. ‘Well, we thought upper limit seventy.’

      ‘Upper limit? That’s your upper limit?’

      Millicent nodded. ‘Maybe sixty-seven?’

      ‘I’m seventy-seven,’ he said, clearly delighted. ‘Fit as the day is young.’

      ‘My husband worries, you know, Mr Ashani. He thinks maybe you’ll think badly of us for not being able to guess. You have such perfect skin.’

      ‘No, my dear. No, I am not offended. Other things offend me, perhaps, but not that.’

      ‘You see,’ she said as I closed the front door behind us, ‘he doesn’t think you’re a racist for not knowing his age.’

      ‘What did he mean by other things?’

      ‘Well, I guess maybe he could think that you are a little racist because you don’t engage with his ideas … I mean with anyone else you would just jump right in there, but Mr Ashani gets to believe what he wants about God and suicide and murder, unchallenged by you.’

      ‘He’s old.’

      ‘Right … I’m sure that’s why you don’t engage with his views. And why you never invite him round. The guy likes an argument. You can see that.’

      ‘You think I’m racist?’ And suddenly I could see that she was laughing. ‘So now racism is funny?’

      A dull thud, as if someone in the dead neighbour’s house had dropped a sledge hammer. Time stopped. Millicent winced. The air in the room was all dust and heat. Millicent laughed, as if embarrassed by her reaction. Time restarted.

      ‘No, Alex, no. That isn’t it at all. It’s just … He’s our neighbour, we have nothing in common; you don’t have to invite him round to drink mineral water and talk Nigerian politics.’

      Something scraped across the dead neighbour’s upper floor. Millicent’s eyes darted. ‘Whoah,’ she said. ‘That was a little …’

      ‘… unexpected,’ I said.

      ‘Unexpected.’ She composed herself. ‘Yeah.’

      ‘He’s from Ghana,’ I said, ‘and he’s a nice guy.’

      ‘Only since he found out we were married. Before that he kind of sucked. And by the way, he has strong opinions about Nigeria.’

      ‘Love,’ I said, and took her hand. ‘Are you OK?’

      ‘Why would you think I wouldn’t be?’

      I drew her to me, and she smiled weakly up at me. Because suicide terrifies you, I thought. Because you hate the idea that someone’s pain might be unreachable. Because you once told me someone you knew …

      Voices from the neighbour’s house. Millicent’s eyes crossed to the wall.

      ‘So … This is all a little freaky,’ she said. ‘Why would they not take the body last night?’

      ‘Being thorough,’ I said. ‘I mean, that would be my guess. I don’t know.’

      ‘Gross. Maybe I’m not completely OK with it.’ She ran her tongue along the inside of her lips.

      Why would you be, I thought? How could anybody be OK with this? I put my hand on her cheek and she held it there for a moment and looked me in the eye. Then she looked away and a shiver seemed to pass through her body.

      ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘I’m here. You can tell me what you’re feeling.’

      ‘I think I just did.’

      You didn’t, I thought. Not really.

      ‘The guy was OK. A little buttoned-up, but OK. I guess I liked him.’ A troubled look clouded her eyes. ‘I guess I’m a little freaked out also. That he would still be in there.’

      ‘You knew him?’

      ‘Kind of an over-the-fence thing …’

      A shadow across the curtain in the front window; three knocks at the front door.

      I looked at Millicent. She was shaking her head at me. Police, she mouthed. She looked small again, hunched. No, she mouthed. Not now, Alex. Defensive eyes, like an animal that was past the fight-or-flight stage. I’d almost forgotten that look.

      ‘What else are we going to do?’ I said, under