Do that, and the rest will be a walk in the park.
He’s not looking at you now. You can do this.
Can I? Can I do it?
Scott brought the saw to Cobb’s neck. He took long deep breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth.
And then he closed his eyes and began to saw.
He sat on the lavatory, staring at his handiwork and finding it difficult to believe he had managed to get through it.
He had puked during the process. He wasn’t sure when, exactly. He just remembered a sudden dive to the toilet. Everything was a blur, as though he had somehow disassociated himself from the abominable act.
But it was done. All the pieces tied up in neat black plastic bundles. The room scoured and bleached, gleaming innocently.
He had showered and dressed, and now he was exhausted.
He checked his watch. Four in the morning. Plenty of time to finish what he’d started.
He carried several of the bags out of the flat, then summoned the lift. When it arrived, he put most of the bags into the lift, leaving one to jam the doors open. Then he went back to the flat for the remaining bags. When he had everything in the lift, he took it down to the ground floor, praying that it wouldn’t be stopped on its descent.
The doors opened to silence.
He unloaded the bags, then lugged them out to the Toyota as quick as he could. Only when he had locked the vehicle and returned to the flat did he breathe a sigh of relief.
He hadn’t been seen – he was sure of it.
That meant he was almost home and dry.
He sneaked into the bedroom, undressed and climbed into bed. He thought at first that he had done so without disturbing Gemma, but she spoke to him with a clarity that suggested she hadn’t slept a wink.
‘I thought you were never coming to bed,’ she said.
‘There was a lot to do,’ he answered.
‘But it’s finished now, right? We’re in the clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then promise me something.’
‘Anything. What is it?’
‘Never tell me what you did tonight. Can you do that?’
‘I can do that.’
‘It’s not that I don’t want to be there for you. It’s just that . . . I can’t cope with hearing the details, Scott. I can’t.’
He slipped his arm around her. ‘You don’t have to. I promise.’
He pulled her close to him and tried to absorb her warmth. Tried to force out the chill that seemed to have settled in his core.
9
Ronan Cobb’s heart sank when he pulled up at the old sandstone farmhouse. It looked worse every time he turned up here. His mother’s dilapidated Land Rover was parked on what used to be a lawn and was now just churned-up mud. It stood in front of a line of other rusting vehicles that his now-deceased father had bought to renovate and never bothered with. Hedges were overgrown. Paint was peeling. Roof slates were missing. A length of guttering had broken away and was angled downwards, so that when it rained it would channel water onto the roof of the dog kennel, sadly no longer inhabited. This place had been picture-postcard beautiful once, and his mother had sparkled. Now, both were wretched shadows of their former selves. His father, a man who had demanded and received respect, would have been horrified to see how his legacy had been allowed to perish.
Myra Cobb was where Ronan expected her to be: at the kitchen table, watching one of the shopping channels on television and swigging gin. It was early on a Sunday morning, and already she had downed much of a bottle. He wondered if she had even been to bed last night.
She accompanied the gin with plenty of tonic and bowlfuls of dry-roasted peanuts. The combination had the most unfortunate effect on her digestive system, and the room stank.
Ronan studied the labels on some of the numerous unopened boxes dotted around the kitchen. One contained a fondue set; others contained a brass oil lamp, a pair of bookends shaped like horse’s heads, a year’s supply of bird food, a beer-making kit, a set of Disney character pastry cutters . . . His mother had a habit of ordering stuff when she was drunk and then not doing anything with it when it arrived. It was a complete waste of money, but Ronan guessed she wasn’t running short of that. She had paid outright for his flat and Joey’s, and he imagined that one day her two sons would come into a decent inheritance. Sooner rather than later if her appearance was anything to go by. Ronan had often been tempted to suggest that she spend some of it on a new house for herself, but what was the point? She was not yet fifty, but she was already knocking on death’s door, and any place she bought would simply be turned into another shit-heap.
He gave her a peck on the cheek and made the mistake of breathing in her alcohol fumes. He liked a drink as much as the next man – the occasional bit of weed, too – but not at this hour of the day.
‘What’s for breakfast, Mam?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean, breakfast? Doesn’t she feed you, that tart of yours?’
‘Donna’s not a tart, Mam. She’s a good lass.’
‘Then tell her to get off her fat arse and rustle up some breakfast for you. I’m not having my lads starting the day without a decent meal inside them.’
Ronan bit his tongue. The last time she had prepared a proper meal for either of her children was long before they had left home.
‘I’ll make us a cuppa, shall I?’
‘You have one, if you want,’ she said, raising a tumbler covered in greasy fingerprints. ‘I’ve got this.’
