One of Us Is Dead

34 Monday 3 October 2022

Paul Anthony’s right foot was tapping. A steady tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

It did that when he was nervous. Anxious. And he was so anxious this morning that instead of his normal Armagnac and cigar with his double espresso, following his breakfast almond croissant he’d had a second Armagnac and was now contemplating a third.

Waiting. Staring out at the grey sky, across the grey sea, at the wind farm. Today, those white spindles looked like skeletal arms rising from watery graves. He shuddered.

That was always the worst part of what he did. He baited the traps, then all he could do was wait. He was trying to remember a line in a Shakespeare play he’d seen once with his wife — ex-wife — was wife — still is wife? Othello, it was called. A big tall black guy was talking about a web, about snaring as great a fly as someone called Cassio with so small a web.

He smiled. Fly — wasp. A sign?

On his laptop he checked the Argus newspaper online. Stupid, he knew. It was only 8.45 a.m. Professor Bill Llewellyn would barely be in his office, barely opening his fridge, barely taking out his first can of Diet Coke of the day.

And perhaps his last.

But he needed to move on. He was working on a challenge that had come in. And unlike despatching Bill Llewellyn, this was a proper client. Paying full whack.

But, all the same, along with this tap-tap-tapping foot, he wondered, Hey, Bill Llewellyn, how you doing this morning? Or should I call you Lechy Lew? He smiled. He liked that.