It wasn’t clear whether she wanted a view on her reading of it or the actual story and he said, ‘Pretty amazing. They know who did it yet?’
Wendy shrugged as if to suggest it had been a stupid question, saying then, ‘Gotta be the uncle. I mean, where are they? Where have they gone? South America, you mark my words.’ Somebody else leaned across to pick up a paper and she said, ‘Okay, hold your horses.’
Dan gave her the money for the paper and said, ‘See you tomorrow, Wendy.’
‘And you, my love. Take care.’ He walked on. She didn’t know his name, and had never seemed curious. He only knew hers because she had a habit occasionally of talking about herself in the third person.
He walked back to the flat and opened the paper out on the kitchen table, pages four and five where the full story was repeated across the double spread, together with a photo montage illustrating the charities that would benefit from her money.
It was a shame, really, because he’d liked her, and she’d been a nice-looking girl, too. But he’d done the right thing; there was no doubt in his mind about that. He’d done for her what he would have done for a lame horse or any other wounded animal.
He’d even played devil’s advocate with himself, asking who he was to decide that she’d no longer deserved to live. He hadn’t judged her, though, nor had he condemned her. He’d simply seen the point she’d reached, beyond ever redeeming herself. Maybe she hadn’t known it, but before Dan had ever met her she’d been fatally wounded; all he’d done had been to put her out of her misery.
The whole thing had been a weird business anyway. He’d given it a lot of thought, too, amazed at the way an entire family could have been destroyed like that, a destruction so comprehensive it was almost like someone had planned it that way.
Turning his mind to better things, he got up now and went over to the fridge, already excited about the meal he was making. He took out the duck breasts he’d marinated that morning, then methodically placed the other ingredients around them, everything within easy reach.
He opened the wine and poured himself a glass, then looked across the counter at an imaginary camera and said, ‘Nice glass of Moore Farm Shiraz, and here are those duck breasts I prepared earlier.’ He carried on talking through what he was about to do, thinking how there was probably a gap in the TV market for something like that.
He laughed then, thinking for some reason or other how one day there’d be a Mrs. Borowski. He didn’t know what had brought it to mind but it was a nice thought. She was out there right now, probably, and she didn’t know how lucky she was.
Acknowledgments
Thanks, as ever, to Deborah Schneider and the team at Gelfman Schneider/ICM. Thanks to Emilie Marneur, Alan Turkus and all at Thomas & Mercer. And finally, a nod to Rob and Lucia – Budapest, a long time ago!
About the Author
Kevin Wignall is a British writer, born in Brussels in 1967. He spent many years as an army child in different parts of Europe, and went on to study politics and international relations at Lancaster University. He became a full-time writer after the publication of his first book, People Die (2001). His other novels are Among the Dead (2002); Who Is Conrad Hirst? (2007), shortlisted for the Edgar Award and the Barry Award; and Dark Flag (2010). The Hunter’s Prayer was originally titled For the Dogs in the USA. The film The Hunter’s Prayer, directed by Jonathan Mostow and starring Sam Worthington and Odeya Rush, will be released worldwide in 2015.