Eeny Meeny

22

Hours after the event and the adrenalin was still pumping. Anger hadn’t yet given way to guilt, so Peter Brightston paced up and down abusing his victim. The guy was going to shoot him, shoot him in the back of the head – what did he fucking expect?

He laughed bitterly as he remembered giving Ben his job at the firm – over and above better-qualified candidates – because he liked his balls, his drive. And this was how he repaid him? They guy hadn’t thought twice, he was just going to blow his head off. Prick. Still he’d got his comeuppance – howling in agony as Peter had driven the splint home.

Peter’s fist gripped the weapon on which Ben’s blood was slowly congealing. Even though the worst was now done, Peter wouldn’t – couldn’t – relinquish it.

It was self-defence. Of course it was. He must keep telling himself that. And yet, he’d fashioned his weapon so carefully, so quietly, surely he was kidding himself that he hadn’t planned it? He knew Ben didn’t like him. Disrespected him. Made jokes about him behind his back. Was there ever any doubt that Ben would put himself first? Peter had known that and planned accordingly. It was the only sensible thing to do. He had a wife and kids. What did Ben have? A fiancée whom the world acknowledged to be brainless and grasping. Their wedding promised to rival Katie Price’s for naffness – a pink carriage, meringue dresses, ponies and pageboys, a sub Hello! affair that would be talked ab-

Ben is dead. Blood is seeping from the hole in his face. There will be no wedding.

Silence. The most horrible, lonely silence Peter had ever experienced. A killer alone with his victim. Oh God.

Then, a blinding light. The hatch yanked open, the midday sunshine streaming in, burning his eyes. Something heavy falling on to his head.

A rope ladder.

His lungs flooded with fresh air, with oxygen, and his whole body convulsed with a sense of euphoria. He was free, he was alive. He had survived.

He limped along the quiet country road. Nobody came down here any more so what chance did he have of finding a rescuer? Even though he had gained his freedom, he still suspected that it was all a trick. That she was laughing at him as he dragged his protesting body along the road. That he would be hunted down. Peter had reconciled himself to dying in that dark hole – could it be that she was actually going to honour the bargain they’d made? Ahead Peter spotted signs of life and picked up his pace.

He laughed when he saw it. ‘Welcome’ in a jaunty typeface above the convenience shop door. It was so friendly it made him cry. He crashed through the doors to be greeted by a sea of alarmed faces – pensioners and school kids shocked by this hideous vision. Face splattered with blood and stinking of piss, Peter careered towards the till. He fainted before he got there, crashing into a promotional display of Doritos. Nobody moved to help him. He looked just like a corpse.