broken bottle I walked to the blue door, barely breathing, head starting to spin. The odour became stronger the closer I got: coppery and visceral, sweet and slightly musty. I could practically see tendrils of scent winding cartoon-like through the air.
Remembering my training I depressed the door handle with my elbow, nudged it open with my foot, then wished to god I hadn’t. My stomach shrivelled and I had to lean against the frame to stop my legs buckling beneath me.
I was staring into an office with a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the river. More unpacked boxes were stacked against the walls, and between me and the massive desk sat a high-backed leather swivel chair, facing away.
And the whole room was covered in blood. Crimson streaks spattered the walls, the floor and the papers strewn across the desk. Directly under the chair the beige rug had turned burgundy and was so saturated it looked like it would squelch.
Someone sat in the chair, very still, and too short for me to see the top of their head. All I saw was one pale, slender limb hanging over the armrest. A languorous pose, except that the delicate hand at the end of it was missing two fingers. The index and middle fingers were bloody stumps, and the thumb was hanging on by only a slender ribbon of flesh. The ring and pinkie fingers were intact, though, the nails painted that deep claret colour I’d admired two days earlier.
I don’t know why I acted as I did, because I must have known she was dead: the pool of blood, her stillness, the complete absence of the slightest electrical spark that signified the presence of another living human being. Maybe I desperately wanted to believe she was just wounded, however badly, because I called out, ‘Isabella,’ rushed over, and spun the chair around.
What happened next seemed more like a series of nightmare flashes than a sequence of real events. Cloudy eyes staring. A head lolling forward. Her silk dress torn open to the waist and instead of the expected white flesh, a jagged gash coloured purple, brown and red. A flash of yellow rib. Glistening organs. Blood in her lap. When the chair stopped, Isabella’s corpse kept moving and she slumped towards me. I jumped back, but not far enough, and her torso landed on my foot with a sloshing, sucking sound. I felt warm wetness seep into my shoe. Horrified, I jerked it out from under her body and a loop of intestine came too, trailing after me like an enormous, misshapen worm.
The vomit came without warning. No nausea, no surge of saliva, just a sudden heave of scrambled eggs and bile.
And then I ran, back down the hall, foot sliding about in my shoe.
‘Hey!’ Nick had staggered halfway down the stairs, red-eyed, wild-haired, blood staining the front of his white t-shirt.
I gasped and ran onto the smashed bottle, skidded and went down, broken glass nipping my shins, knees and palms. He stumbled forward as I tried to clamber to my feet.
‘Get away from me,’ I yelled, hysterical. He was at the bottom of the stairs reaching out for me like a horror film zombie. I groped at the wall, dragged myself up, lurched for the door and yanked it open, but before I could escape he grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the house and around to face him. His eyes were mad looking, and up close he smelled like an alco, sour spirits and nicotine leaching from his pores.
‘Hey,’ he growled, fingers digging into my bicep like claws. ‘Hey!’
I went crazy, slapping and scratching at him until I felt pain pierce the heel of my hand. At the same time Nick swore and swayed back, and I saw that a shard of broken glass from the bottle had transferred from my palm to his face, narrowly missing his eye. I bolted out the door, ignoring the sting in my legs and hands, straight for my car, but when I got there I realised I’d lost my bag and my keys somewhere inside Nick’s.
I looked back. He was still coming, bloody, shuff ling, blinking in the light and shouting
Remembering my training I depressed the door handle with my elbow, nudged it open with my foot, then wished to god I hadn’t. My stomach shrivelled and I had to lean against the frame to stop my legs buckling beneath me.
I was staring into an office with a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the river. More unpacked boxes were stacked against the walls, and between me and the massive desk sat a high-backed leather swivel chair, facing away.
And the whole room was covered in blood. Crimson streaks spattered the walls, the floor and the papers strewn across the desk. Directly under the chair the beige rug had turned burgundy and was so saturated it looked like it would squelch.
Someone sat in the chair, very still, and too short for me to see the top of their head. All I saw was one pale, slender limb hanging over the armrest. A languorous pose, except that the delicate hand at the end of it was missing two fingers. The index and middle fingers were bloody stumps, and the thumb was hanging on by only a slender ribbon of flesh. The ring and pinkie fingers were intact, though, the nails painted that deep claret colour I’d admired two days earlier.
I don’t know why I acted as I did, because I must have known she was dead: the pool of blood, her stillness, the complete absence of the slightest electrical spark that signified the presence of another living human being. Maybe I desperately wanted to believe she was just wounded, however badly, because I called out, ‘Isabella,’ rushed over, and spun the chair around.
What happened next seemed more like a series of nightmare flashes than a sequence of real events. Cloudy eyes staring. A head lolling forward. Her silk dress torn open to the waist and instead of the expected white flesh, a jagged gash coloured purple, brown and red. A flash of yellow rib. Glistening organs. Blood in her lap. When the chair stopped, Isabella’s corpse kept moving and she slumped towards me. I jumped back, but not far enough, and her torso landed on my foot with a sloshing, sucking sound. I felt warm wetness seep into my shoe. Horrified, I jerked it out from under her body and a loop of intestine came too, trailing after me like an enormous, misshapen worm.
The vomit came without warning. No nausea, no surge of saliva, just a sudden heave of scrambled eggs and bile.
And then I ran, back down the hall, foot sliding about in my shoe.
‘Hey!’ Nick had staggered halfway down the stairs, red-eyed, wild-haired, blood staining the front of his white t-shirt.
I gasped and ran onto the smashed bottle, skidded and went down, broken glass nipping my shins, knees and palms. He stumbled forward as I tried to clamber to my feet.
‘Get away from me,’ I yelled, hysterical. He was at the bottom of the stairs reaching out for me like a horror film zombie. I groped at the wall, dragged myself up, lurched for the door and yanked it open, but before I could escape he grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the house and around to face him. His eyes were mad looking, and up close he smelled like an alco, sour spirits and nicotine leaching from his pores.
‘Hey,’ he growled, fingers digging into my bicep like claws. ‘Hey!’
I went crazy, slapping and scratching at him until I felt pain pierce the heel of my hand. At the same time Nick swore and swayed back, and I saw that a shard of broken glass from the bottle had transferred from my palm to his face, narrowly missing his eye. I bolted out the door, ignoring the sting in my legs and hands, straight for my car, but when I got there I realised I’d lost my bag and my keys somewhere inside Nick’s.
I looked back. He was still coming, bloody, shuff ling, blinking in the light and shouting
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