Killing Cupid. Mark Edwards

down the fire escape I slipped and banged my knee, scraping skin, hissing a curse that seemed to echo around me. With tears in my eyes I stood upright and looked out across London, at the jumble of shapes silhouetted on the horizon. The city looked different now. More dangerous. Another secret – mine, my latest – crawled through the city and joined the millions that hid in London’s nooks and basements and hearts.

      Back inside Kathy’s flat, I tried to gather my thoughts and work out what needed to be done. Had I left fingerprints? What had I touched? I’d come in from the pub, stood by the window, taken the beer that my temporary friend had handed me, chilled and cracked open, a wisp rising from its neck.

      There was the bottle, standing on the table by the window. I picked it up and took it with me, tucking it into my jacket pocket. Had I touched anything else? Had I? My thoughts were drowned out by the rush of fear. I had to get out. Using my sleeve to cover my fingers, I opened the door of the flat and peered up and down the stairwell, leaving the light off. Surely the neighbours would hear my heart? I heard a noise through the wall and froze. Then, trying and failing to make myself weightless, I completed my journey down the steps, out into the night.

      I stopped by the gate. Her body was just around the corner. If I took a few steps to the right, I might see it. I… shit, how did I know it was actually ‘a body’? She might have survived the fall. It was possible. She could be merely paralysed. Merely. I had to check. Looking around again to make sure no-one was coming, I dragged my heavy legs – I felt like I was wearing antique diving boots – to the corner of the house and peered around the corner. I could see her on the floor – a dark shape, unmoving, about twelve feet away. There were no sounds, no whimpering, no laboured breathing, sounds that would have told me she was still alive. Though she could be unconscious. I mean, Jesus, if she was still alive, of course she’d be unconscious.

      I crept closer, and as I did, the security lights came on, lighting up the whole world, pointing a blazing finger at me. Here’s Alex, everyone. Over here.

      I jumped backwards, banging into the wall, stumbling and almost falling. But as I spun away I saw all I needed to see: her head cast at an unnatural angle, neck broken – it was unmistakeable – and her eyes, open, staring. Right at me. My stomach lurched, and I fought it. That would be the worst thing I could do – splattering my dinner and DNA all over the yard. I turned and walked, head down, eyes half-closed, thinking if I can’t see anyone else they won’t see me, and made my way out onto the pavement and along the street. I forced myself not to run, though I was desperate to, wanting more than anything else to flee, to sprint, to put as much distance as possible between me and that dead woman. But I could imagine some curtain-twitcher glimpsing this man running from the scene; a man that police wanted to help them with their enquiries. So I made myself walk, calmly; just a bloke on his way home from the pub. I walked all the way home.

      When I got there, I shut my bedroom door behind me and tried to work out if I’d made any mistakes. And most importantly, I thought about how Siobhan would feel when she found out. Because that was what mattered to me most.

      Siobhan. My love. The woman I’d die for.

      The woman I’d kill for.

PART ONE

      Chapter 1

      Siobhan

      Wednesday 10.30pm

      I’ve got to take out my contact lenses, they’re sticking. I hate those moments between taking out my lenses and finding my glasses – I feel so myopic and helpless. I gave myself a real fright last night: I’d removed my lenses in the bathroom then realised my specs were beside the laptop in the living room. When I went out into the hall to get them, a figure loomed up at me. I jumped out of my skin and nearly screamed – before I realised I’d been scared by my own blurry reflection in the hall mirror.

      ‘Come on, Siobhan,’ I said under my breath. ‘Sort yourself out.’

      Talking to myself again… But I guess I’m still not used to living alone. I get jittery at night, when the walls make strange sounds, or voices float in from outside. Or when Biggles suddenly thumps down on the duvet, mewing, as if he’s somehow fallen off the ceiling. It’s pathetic, I know, to be so afraid of nothing. The product of an overly fertile imagination and too many TV crime reconstructions, I fear. And that’s no excuse for my astounding ability to mislay my possessions, which is the other thing currently bugging me.

      It was bad enough when I left my keys in the front door for hours the other week – Mum’s speciality: ringing me up nearly in tears, wailing that she’s torn the house apart and can’t find them anywhere, until I ask her if she’s checked the door. So for me to then go and do it too – oh help, I’m turning into my mother.

      Found my glasses. They were in my coat pocket.

      Anyway, the writing class… I didn’t think it would be so scary. I mean, I’ve done readings and things before, but somehow having the responsibility for your own students is much more terrifying, even if it is just an evening class at the local college I wonder what they thought of me? I tried to project an air of authority and confidence, even though my fingernails were carving curves into my palms.

      ‘OK, I think it would be a good idea if we all introduced ourselves,’ I said, feeling sorry for them already. I know it’s necessary, but it’s always so excruciating. Somebody once described it as the Creeping Death. You sit there and wait, trying to mentally rehearse what to say, as your turn creeps closer… At least as the teacher, I could go first.

      I was about to begin, but I caught the eye of one of the two guys present. He was slouching right at the back, like a schoolboy, two rows behind everyone else. It made me want to laugh, the way he was half-grinning at me, sort of smug and ‘Hey, look at me, aren’t I a rebel?’

      What a prat, I thought, and made him come forward to join the group. He skulked a bit nearer, giving me what he obviously thought was a smouldering look, but which actually just looked as if he was swallowing a belch. Although when I studied him more closely, I saw he wasn’t bad looking.

      I gave them my carefully prepared spiel, trying to make it sound spontaneous:

      ‘Hi, I’m Siobhan, this is the first creative writing class I’ve taught, so please be gentle.’ They all laughed softly, which helped me relax into it a bit more. ‘I live locally; I’m thirty-five…’

      ‘Any children?’ asked an elderly woman at the front.

      ‘No kids, no husband, just a cat,’ I said, too willing to offer information. As if they cared about the cat! I’m amazed I didn’t volunteer to tell them about my chosen method of contraception and that I hate anchovies…

      I couldn’t resist telling them that I’m a writer – although that is relevant, so I didn’t feel bad about it. Told them I’d had a novel published a few years ago. I suppose I was hoping at least one of them might have heard of me, but they all looked blank, so I ploughed on:

      ‘… and now I do bits and pieces of freelance journalism, mostly for women’s magazines. I play tennis and have a weakness for 80s music…’

      ‘Oh, this is hard!’ I simpered out loud, willing myself to shut up. ‘Someone else go now?’ Before I start telling you about that nasty yeast infection I had last month, or the flying ants nesting behind my kitchen units…

      The others took their turns. There was Barbara, a retired dentist’s assistant; Jane, a city worker in an expensive suit; Mary, a middle-aged woman with two grown-up sons; Kathy, who told us straight away that she was a lesbian, mainly – I guessed – because she thought it would shock the more mainstream women who went before her. She had a glint in her eye that appealed to me – in a non-lesbian way, I hasten to add.

      Then came Brian. He kept scratching his head, and colossal flakes of dandruff were frosting the shoulders of his leather jacket. The poor guy also had a slight stammer and the charming habit of rubbing his nose then wiping his hands on his trousers. He was really giving me the eye, too. Ugh. And he told us he writes fantasy novels. Uugh.

      Then