A Mind to Kill

Chapter Two

The office had gained architectural awards and the City nickname of The Goldfish Bowl, to which Gerald Lomax, proud of their aggressive commodity record, added ‘for piranha fish.’ Built literally on the rubble of one of the IRA’s worst City bombings that totally destroyed the original building in which Jennifer had worked, it was a glass-walled expanse bare except for banks of computer stations. Lomax’s office was suspended above it against an inner wall, the side overlooking the trading floor also glassed from carpet to ceiling. So was the corridor from the elevator to Lomax’s eyrie.

The goldfish bowl self-consciousness had long ago vanished so no-one on the trading floor noticed Jennifer emerge from the lift. Three did look up, curiously, at the noise she made tapping her knuckles against the glass as she walked towards her husband’s room. Her left hand was buried deeply into her large, shoulder-strapped handbag.

Lomax raised his head, surprised, as she entered. ‘Darling, I didn’t…’ he began.

‘ MURDERING BASTARD!’

The first, sweeping slash opened the left side of Gerald Lomax’s face, from ear to chin. He threw himself backwards so hard his chair overturned, crashing into the see-through wall, but every trader below was already staring, transfixed, attracted by the screaming accusation.

‘Jennifer… for God’s sake…!’

Lomax was on his hands and knees when she stabbed him twice, in the back. He clawed upwards, levering against the desk, and she stabbed him through the hand, actually embedding the knife in the wood and Lomax punched her in the side of the face, splitting her lip, as she wrestled the blade free, then grabbed out for it as she did so to drive it upwards into her free hand.

‘Jen…’ For a moment they clung together, in a frenzied dance, but he was already weak from the cuts and stabs and she was easily able to get the knife back. The next slash was across his nose, almost severing it. Lomax hit the wall again, although remaining upright, but his eyes were flooded by the slashing blow and he couldn’t see to protect himself any more.

‘Don’t, Jen… stop…’

She drove the knife into his stomach so forcefully the blade went completely through his body and hit the glass, twisting it out of her hand. Lomax actually pulled it from himself and struck wildly at her, hitting her in the arm, but she jerked it from his grasp again. This time she held it dagger-like, stabbing again and again, driving him back initially against the glass and then on to the ground. As he lay there, helpless, she stabbed and slashed more, her head thrown back as she laughed, hysterically.

Blood gouted from Lomax, spurting over the glass before dribbling down in wavering streaks. Finally, leaving the knife protruding from his back, Jennifer lurched exhausted to her feet and stood legs spread-eagled to overlook the trading floor, her outstretched hands pressed against the pane, more blood trickling down from her own wounds. For a moment she remained there, panting, before throwing her head back to laugh, over and over, lips tight against her teeth in a triumphant grimace.

When the police cautiously entered the office Jennifer was sitting on the floor with Gerald Lomax’s body cradled in her arms, weeping uncontrollably. She looked up and, her voice broken by sobs, said, ‘He’s dead. Stabbed. Please help me.’

As they separated her from the dead man the photograph of Emily that Lomax always kept on his desk fell from between them. It was encrusted with blood.