One of Us Is Dead

30 Monday 3 October 2022

Paul Anthony knew that in ancient Greek mythology, Sleep was the twin brother of Death. He also knew from previous research that most hospital deaths occurred between 3 and 4 a.m. The theory, to which he subscribed, was stress caused by the body starting to prepare for the day ahead but the brain having not yet let go of all the angst from the previous day. Creating a perfect internal storm for anyone with weakened resistance.

It was a time of day he had always loved, ever since childhood. Particularly in the summer months, when as a small boy he would creep out into the garden as the dawn chorus began, armed with his catapult and a supply of ball bearings, to kill as many thrushes, sparrows, robins and any other winged creatures as he could before his parents woke.

It always amused him that his mother blamed the neighbour’s cat for the dead birds she was constantly finding scattered around the garden. It amused him most of all that she never suspected him — that no one did.

And it amused him to kill.

And he could always justify it. Who was to say the life of a bird was worth more than the life of a worm it would eat, given the chance? Who made these value judgements? Stopping these vicious, savage worm-killers in their tracks gave him a real sense of community service.

Not to mention pleasure.

The kind of pleasure he was feeling now. Standing inside Professor Bill Llewellyn’s fifth-floor office in the Cockcroft Building of Brighton University. He had his toolkit, not that he was expecting anyone to see him — there were only two lights on in the whole building. Well, three including this office. But there was something important in his toolkit — a slim yellow package he’d bought in a Boots pharmacy on Saturday.

The challenge facing him, and one he’d been pondering for many hours, was how to make sure which can of Diet Coke the professor drank first when he arrived in his office, in a few hours’ time at 8.30 a.m., as Shannon had told him he did every single day. A creature of habit. Just like all those birds he used to shoot at dawn — those stupid things were creatures of habit too.

Being a creature of habit is always a good way to get killed. Isn’t it, Prof? A dead good way!

He laughed out loud, but not too loud. Funny! God, sometimes he could be just so funny!

His first job was to swap the thin yellow pack in his toolbox with the one in the fridge. That done, he had the next and bigger challenge. How to ensure which can of Diet Coke Professor Bill Llewellyn drank first.

There were still eleven cans in the fridge, on the middle shelf. After a simple bit of rearrangement, there was just one can at the forefront, behind it the tub of Greek yoghurt and the pack of red grapes, and behind that the rest of the cans.

He slipped out of the office and the building, into the still-dark dawn, walked a quarter of a mile and crossed the road to the parade of shops at the foot of the Moulsecoomb estate, where he had left his inconspicuous Honda Jazz. He was smiling. Feeling good. The trap was baited.