The Nurse(19)

I didn’t move, but perhaps a cloud had drifted across the sun because suddenly, I could see my reflection in the glass panels. My reflection – Jemma’s eyes – and I would swear – swear – she winked at me.

A shiver slid over me – anticipation, fear, desperation – perhaps a combination of all, or maybe it was simple disbelief that I was really going to go ahead with this, that I was going to kill again. I’d thought this second time would be easier – it wasn’t.

I checked the bag to ensure the knife handle was in the right place for me to grab. As with Jemma, there had been no time to practice, and if I was really going to go ahead with this there’d be no second chances. Only in that moment, did I realise my father would have had a key to the house. It would have been with the keys to the car. I could have asked for them, could have let myself in and dealt with Olivia in a different way.

Or would it always have come down to this? History repeating itself in my use of a sharp instrument. Perhaps it was better to stick to one weapon. Become an expert – in case I ever needed to kill again. Anyway, my tools of destruction were limited to what was easily acquired.

It was time. I reached forward and pressed my finger firmly to the doorbell. I heard it ring inside, a sad ding dong to announce the coming death. Send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee. Or for Olivia Burton in this case.

Luckily for me, the woman who answered the door wasn’t aware her end was nigh. ‘Hello,’ she said, and waited expectantly.

I had time to register her pallor, the reddened eyes, the black shirt and trousers she wore. Grieving for her husband? I wondered if, like me, she was also in mourning for the death of truth. It wasn’t something I could ask. It was better to get on with my plan, the words I’d practised in my head as I’d walked. ‘Hi, I’m looking for Mrs Downs.’ I blinked in feigned confusion. ‘I thought she lived here.’

‘No, I’m sorry, she doesn’t.’ Confusion faded her smile and corrugated her forehead.

‘Oh, that’s strange, this is the address I was given.’ I lifted the bag I held, as if to look inside to check. My hand slipped in to close over the knife handle and I pulled it out in one smooth motion, lunging to drive it into her chest before she’d time to register what was happening, and long before she’d time to react and run from the grim reaper who’d darkened the sunny day.

Instinctively, she stepped away from the knife, backward into the hallway. As I’d anticipated. I followed, keeping the pressure up, driving the blade further in, angling it upward, ducking away from her pathetically reaching hands.

Once inside, I kicked the door shut behind, never taking my eyes from where the blood had begun to seep around the by now deeply embedded knife. If I was right, more blood was filling her chest cavity.

‘I-I-I…’ It was all she could manage in her disbelief and confusion, in the stark knowledge that there was no hope.

I wasn’t sure if it would make any difference, but I refused to meet her eyes. It was possible that her death would haunt me regardless of whether I did or not. It seemed better not to take the risk.

Even when she dropped heavily to the floor, I kept the pressure on the knife. I didn’t have to see her face, I could hear her breathing change, slowing, becoming a desperate gasp, growing quieter, and quieter. Slower and slower.

Only then did I release my grip and stand back. Her hands flailed uselessly as they sought to remove the knife. I could have told her that it wouldn’t have done any good. The time for that had passed.

Blood was pooling from the stab wound, forming a crimson puddle on the cream carpet. Her hands had flopped uselessly to the floor, the movement of her ribcage barely discernible as each breath came slower and slower. Death was creeping over her.

I wasn’t watching its arrival. Not this time. Oddly, although I knew she couldn’t move, I was afraid to turn away from her, and stepped backwards into the kitchen. I washed the blood from my hands and wrists, checking further along my arm for any spatters. But there were none, and none on my clothes. Any pumping and spurting of blood had taken place inside Olivia’s chest.

It seemed a good idea to make her killing part of a burglary. Back in the hallway, I kept my eyes averted as I edged around her dying body and went into the front room. It was a cosy room with a neat traditional three-piece suite, coffee table, dresser, and a bookshelf. It was to this latter I was drawn, my eyes glued to the photograph frames that sat between the rows of books.

Olivia and my father in each one. Smiling, staring into one another’s eyes, his arm around her shoulder, her hand in his. I peered closely at my father’s face looking for evidence that he’d been pretending, because he couldn’t have been as content with this woman as he had with my mother, could he? Yet, in every photograph he looked happy – so damn happy I felt a rage envelop me and I smashed every frame to smithereens.

Upstairs, her handbag was sitting on the bed. I emptied it out and found her purse. There was an eye-opening amount of cash inside; I took it out and shoved it into my jeans pocket. To reinforce the burglary scenario, I pulled out more drawers and tossed the contents on the floor. I would have liked to have ripped her surprisingly sexy underwear to shreds and to have taken my father’s boxer shorts downstairs and soaked them in her blood.

Only the thought that the police might consider such acts indicated something personal rather than a random burglary stopped me. Something personal might have made them investigate her life more closely… and by extension mine. It also might have made that too bright solicitor think that something wasn’t quite right. He might have wondered how convenient it was that her life interest in the house was no longer a problem.