We talked a lot that night. Agnes told me most of her life story; we made ourselves hungrier fantasising about food. We talked about families, holidays, Manchester, politics, and tentatively about relationships.
‘I do get lonely,’ I said, ‘now and then. I wonder whether I’ll ever meet anyone. Wonder if this is it. If it’ll feel different the longer I’m on my own.’
‘I’ve been very happy,’ she said, ‘but then I had Lily.’
I turned to look at her. Her dark eyes were soft, faraway.
I heard the car first. My stomach lurched and I staggered to my feet. ‘He’s coming.’ I wriggled out of the paper that rustled around me and took my position by the door, the fire extinguisher between my feet ready to be lifted. Agnes divested herself of paper and settled the dummy body across her knees. I saw her take a steadying breath. She smiled at me. I swallowed. I could hear the shutter door being unrolled. What if it wasn’t Goulden? Perhaps it was the caretaker opening up. Maybe it was morning. My heart leapt with hope. We’d be safe. We could go home.
Footsteps across the concrete floor. My ears were buzzing with the strain of concentration. The scrape of a key in the lock. I could feel my pulse in the roof of my mouth. I prayed, a wordless, soundless plea for help.
The door swung open. Stopped a couple of inches from hitting me. My knees bent, my hands grasped the black handle at the top of the cylinder.
‘Get up,’ he said quietly.
Come into the room, step forward.
‘I can’t,’ said Agnes, her voice thin and reedy. ‘It’s Sal, I can’t wake her. She’s collapsed. I don’t know what’s wrong.’ Her words were laced with panic. I was convinced. But Goulden?
‘Christ!’ he swore.
‘I’m sorry,’ Agnes went on, ‘I can’t lift her. She’s too heavy for me. I don’t have the strength.’
I heard the tap of his shoe as he stepped nearer. I swung the extinguisher up and myself out from behind the door.
He must have caught the movement out of the side of his eye. He wheeled round, instinctively lifting his arm to protect himself.
I clung tight to the handle as the cylinder plunged down, the weight was so great I lost control, no opportunity to aim with any accuracy. It skewed to the left, wrenching my wrist. It slammed his arm back and cracked his head. He folded under the impact, tipping forward. Blood spurted, from his head, bright, metal-scented. It hit my leg, hot and wet.
I fought the impulse to flee, cut off the growing sense of horror at what I’d done.
He lay face down, arms and legs splayed awkwardly. Blood bubbled out of his head. I pulled my sweatshirt off, bundled it over the crimson fountain. The copious flow made it impossible to see what damage I’d done. Head wounds always bleed a lot, I tried to reassure myself.