86

Vaughn’s house was dark against the soft glow of the dawn sky. Red sky in the morning. A bad sign, if you believed in that kind of thing.

The front doors were unlocked. I took the stairs two at a time. No sign of the Blackshirt. He’d been left to guard -Margaret. Keep her hostage, in case Vaughn or I decided not to follow Lord Howe’s script.

I walked along the bedroom corridor. I wanted to run but I didn’t give in to it. Don’t give in, and it’s not real.

I opened the door and stopped at the threshold. It was too much to take in: a collage of images telling a violent story. Blood dripped slowly down the wallpaper. Blood pooled on the floor. Blood smeared across the window. A chair lay in pieces, its legs broken.

There was something on the floor on the far side of the bed.

A shoe.

Margaret’s shoe.

*

Spots of blood on the back stairs created a trail. I followed them, like Hansel and Gretel following breadcrumbs.

Since I’d come back from the war, I’d been empty. I’d gone through the motions. I’d found things that got me through the day, and through the year. Ploughing a hundred acres, row after row, day after day. Expanding the farm, letting the profits pile up in the bank. Sitting in the pub with Doc, letting the drink dull the edges. None of those things brought colour or feeling.

Margaret had changed things. I’d started to think about the future. The two of us. Getting through the war. Growing old. Children perhaps. Grandchildren.

Blakeney had taught me better. Planning is useful, he used to say, but only a simpleton expects things to go according to plan.

Another bloody handprint on the patio door beckoned me outside. I thought about ignoring it, staying inside. But my brief glimpse of a life worth living was over, so I had nothing to lose. Hard to shock a man whose light has gone out.

The trail of blood continued out on the patio, across the flagstones, to an ornamental pond. Stone steps led into the water, a peaceful spot for a swim. Wet footsteps told a story. Someone had walked into the water dripping blood, then emerged, dripping water.

The footsteps were smaller than mine. Considerably smaller.

‘You took your time,’ she said, from behind me.

Margaret sat on a deckchair, wrapped in a blanket, her hair wet.

‘Got a bit messy,’ she said.

‘Looks like an abattoir up there.’

She nodded.

‘Mission accomplished?’ she asked.

‘Difficult to say.’