The Killing Hour

The phone rings and we both reach for it. If you call the emergency 111 number then hang up, you’ll be phoned back. It’s standard procedure. Just for this kind of problem. Jo grabs at the phone but before she can snatch it up I push her away. She stumbles into the kitchen bench and falls. When she looks up at me her eyes flash with tears and anger.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, moving towards her. The phone is still ringing. ‘I didn’t mean …’

‘Get out, you bastard. Get the hell out and don’t come back!’

‘I’m sorry, Jo. I was just trying …’

‘Get! Out!’

No, no, this is wrong. All wrong. ‘I’m sorry, Jo, I’m stressed, that’s all, I’m stressed.’

‘Get the hell out, Charlie.’

If nobody answers the phone a police car will show up within minutes. I can’t let that happen. ‘I’m going to answer the phone, okay? I don’t want you to say anything.’

‘Go to hell.’

‘Jo …’

‘You heard me.’

The phone must have rung twenty times by now – the monotonous shrill seems more urgent each time. I pick it up and hear a woman saying she’s from the police. I want to tell her to go away, to tell her this is none of her concern, that I can take care of things. I want to tell her to leave me alone, I want to ask for her help, I want to confess to what I have done. I suck in a deep breath and try to calm my nerves, then tell her she has the wrong number. I hang up before Jo can start screaming.

‘I want you to leave,’ she says.

‘Why? So you can not call the police again?’

‘So what are you going to do, Charlie? Are you going to kill me too?’

Her comment isn’t a physical slap but I react as though it is. I stammer for a few seconds, trying to say something that will convince her that she’s safe, but is she?

‘How can you think I killed them?’

‘What am I supposed to think?’

‘You’re supposed to trust me.’

‘Trust you? You must be pretty far gone if you think I should trust you after this. So what are you going to do now? Kill me, or stay here and monitor who I call?’

‘Come on, Jo, stop overreacting.’

‘Stop shouting. I’m sick of you shouting.’

Well, I’m sick of people dying. I’m sick of seeing blood. I’m sick of being chased by Evil and spoken to by ghosts. I’m sick of guilt resting like a bowling ball in the pit of my stomach. I hate that I no longer have any control in my life. I hate this Real World, the killing hours that make up the days. I think I have the justification to scream and shout until my throat is raw.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. All I want is for you to believe me.’ I try to keep my voice low and steady. As if I’m talking to a woman on a ledge, a woman about to make a very important decision.

‘I believe you, Charlie. Is that it? Does that make you happy enough to leave?’

‘You don’t believe me.’

‘Gee, you think? Are you surprised?’

Surprise? I had the element of surprise last night and when I ran from the tree line to confront Cyris the only thing I did successfully was step on the torch and lose my balance. Seconds after I hit the dirt, Cyris started hitting me. Surprise was my ability to tell Cyris to leave Kathy alone even though he was beating on me. Cyris had laughed before telling me she was already dead. He said she was like a baby flying through a windscreen that hadn’t landed yet. He told me surely I could see that, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t see any windscreens. Any babies.

‘I think you might be in danger,’ I tell Jo.

‘You have a talent for seeing the obvious.’

‘Why are you being this way?’

‘Why the hell do you think?’

‘What can I do to convince you?’ I ask.

‘Pushing me wasn’t a good start, Charlie.’

No, and following it up by kidnapping her isn’t the best way to go either but I can’t see any other way of protecting her. I push her to the floor and we struggle but I’m heavier and stronger and more determined to save her than she is to save herself. I bind her hands and feet with the phone cord and gag her with a tea-towel. Action Man has taken the wheel and he’s steering me right past morality and into an abyss. I take a step back and look down at her shaking body. I spend the next thirty seconds almost untying her and the following thirty convincing myself this is for the best. For both of us. She isn’t safe by herself. Not now. I pack a suitcase full of her clothes and dump it in the back seat of the car, hurrying to beat the arriving police.

I try to get Jo to her feet but she refuses to stand. I’ve bound her arms behind her so I pull up on her wrists and the pain in her shoulders forces her up. I cut the cord by her feet, then lead her out to the car.

‘It’ll be easier for us both if you co-operate, Jo, otherwise I’ll put you in the boot. Come on, Jo. Help me out here, okay?’