What happened last night? All I can remember is getting into the taxi to go into town - after that, nothing. No memories, no recollections, no glimmer of anything - zilch. My clothes are still on, even my shoes, which seem to be caked in mud, the bedsheets are covered in it.
I have rummaged through my pockets, both in my jeans and my jacket, but there is no phone. My wallet is still there, along with a good selection of notes. The twenties stick out a little and even they seem to have mud smeared all over them.
Looking around the room, all seems normal. The sun is shining through the window, and it looks to be quite high in the sky; must be at least noon then. The curtains are open, letting the light clamour in, reflecting off the glass and not helping at all with the steady throb behind my eyes.
Where have I been to get in such a state? Fair enough, just lately I have been on quite a few benders, but nothing like this. This has never happened to me before and it is quite scary not to remember any of the previous evening.
Time to get up I think, although my legs feel like dead weights - as if someone has pumped them full of lead. It is a massive effort to swing them out of bed, letting gravity take over as each one thumped down on the carpet with a bang. I'm not sure I trust myself to stand, knowing that to do so would result in the inevitable face-plant. In addition, my stomach feels a little unsteady and any sort of movement may see me lose its contents all over the floor.
I pause for a while, trying to bring my breathing under control and calm the storm that is currently raging deep in my guts. I can hear something. It sounds like a dripping sound, maybe a tap. It is quite insistent in its rhythm, plop, plop, plop.
This time, I do manage to rise to my feet, standing for a few seconds, swaying like a drunk, kicked out at last orders. One foot in front of the other that is the ticket; nice and steady, easy does it.
The landing outside the bedroom door is seven or eight strides away. Not far in the grand scheme of things, but with the situation being as it is, it feels like trying to scale Everest in flip-flops.
The door is most definitely my friend, I grasp at it for dear life, as a drowning man will do at a scrap of flotsam. A pause once again, thinking, what to do next? The dripping was louder now, and close by - just around the corner maybe, from the spare room?
The bathroom was on my left, the door ajar - letting in more of the midday sun, casting its warmth through the house. Dust motes dance before my eyes in the sunbeams that arrow across my path.
Leaving the bathroom behind, I shuffle along the short corridor that ends at the spare room, which seems to be the source of the noise. Drip, drip, drip, still it goes on. Now I am a little closer to the room, I can hear something else - quieter and more sinister. It sounds like someone breathing.
The banister is now on my left, and it provides a convenient stopping place to rest for a few seconds, to gather my thoughts.
Fragments of memory began to filter through the fog, snatches of this and that; stood at a bar, talking to the barman, eating pizza, waiting in line for a taxi. Usual things you would expect. Then, something else slammed into focus and I almost let out a yelp.
To reach the stairs, I had to walk past the open spare room door. This did not fill me with glee, for I had an idea what, or who, might be in there. Still, pondering it would not get me out of here and so I manage to get my betraying legs to work again.
The sound of the dripping is loud now, echoing through the dark and empty halls of my mind, striking terror. Still moving, closer and closer still, a quarter of the room revealed itself to me, and then a third, half and finally I am standing looking in.
The breathing sound was coming from the man sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from me and staring out of the window, seemingly. His hair looks dank and straggly, unwashed, and greasy. He has no shirt - bare on his top half, his shoulder muscles bunched up as if tense, waiting to pounce. His arms look huge, biceps bulging.
The dripping was causing a pool to form on the wooden floor of the room, dark and sticky. The throat of the woman, slashed from ear to ear, reveals a dark open wound that looks like a yawning mouth. Her face is as white and pure as a snowdrift untrodden. She is hanging by her ankles, upside down, from the trap door that leads to the loft space.
More memory continues to bombard me, even as I gaze over this monstrous scene, I begin to recall.
We ran through a field, trying to get away, from whom? From this crazy sat on the bed? I snatched the phone from the front pocket of my jeans - that bit is now clear. Then something hits me from behind and I go down. The woman was with me, she was screaming.
I look up once more, into the room and my gaze settles on the dead woman. What was her name? Carol? Was that it?
A gasp escapes me, and the man slowly turns. I am stuck in a paralysis; legs welded to the floor. He is coming at me, teeth bared in a terrifying grin. Blood, caked over his mouth and chin, his torso, covered in it. He moves swift on legs clad only in a pair of shorts.
The front door is at the bottom of the stairs. Can I make it before he reaches me? Even if I do, will he catch me before I make it a hundred yards even?
I must try, at least. One foot in front of the other, legs are responding thank God, but he is behind me, I can hear. His breath is on my neck, halfway down the stairs, reaching out for the door handle. Please be unlocked. The last couple of stairs and I am there.
My hand turning, praying, hoping. It feels like an eternity, as if the handle itself is spinning, and I will never get to the end. Then, a click and the door swings open. I have made it! I start to move, one foot outside, one still in. The fresh air hits me like a mallet to the head, causing me to grimace against it. Still, I move and step over the threshold into the mid-day sun. Expecting a cruel hand to fall on my shoulder at any moment.
The hand does not come. I pause halfway down the path, my breathing laboured and painful, and chest hitching with the effort of drawing oxygen into my lungs. I chance a quick look over my shoulder and all I see is an empty path leading up to the open door - the dim light from inside making it look like the mouth of a cave. A dark and dangerous one, with maybe a big bad bear lurking inside.
I back up until my rump bumps against the gate, staying still - watching cautiously. After a moment or two, I feel things changing once again. Almost in a trance, my feet begin to take me back towards the house, towards the horror. I cannot seem to stop it.
Inside, it feels cooler than it had done before, calmer too. I close the door gently behind me and it locks itself on the Yale. Upstairs, the dripping has stopped. I walk through the kitchen, living room and utility room - no sign of anyone. The steps creak under my weight as I make my way upwards; the noise seemed to shake the whole house, alerting whoever was waiting for me.
The spare room is empty - other than the woman, who continues to hang from the loft hatch, her eyes blank and lifeless. At least the blood had stopped dripping - for that, I am grateful.
The other rooms are also empty. I sit on the edge of the bathtub, memories returning with each passing second.
There was no man, no killer. I had seen him with my mind's eye, nothing more. I was running away from something, but it was not what I thought. No. I look down at myself, at my clothes covered in mud - only it is not mud is it.
I had killed her. I had done it with one of the knives from the kitchen drawer - the one with the serrated edge that we use for cutting up raw meat.
Why, I cannot even begin to say or to understand. I am crying - I can feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. There is a mirror above the sink facing me and I can see my reflection looking back. I don't recognise the man who stares at me, the blood-streaked face, the wild-looking eyes, and hair askew at every possible angle.
She will be waiting for me, I need to go to her, soon, before it is too late, and she is lost forever.
I walk back to the spare room and pause at the door. Her eyes regard me with indifference. They are glazed over, half-lidded, making her look as if she was in the process of nodding off. I should join her - I am tired. The night has been a long one; my whole life has been tiring come to think of it.
The knife is on the floor, by the bed. I can see the dark stains that cover the blade. The handle is sticky, but somehow comforting. It fits in my hand perfectly, cupped in my palm. The weight calls to me.
I am going to sit on the bed now. The knife rests uneasily across my knee, I think it is time to put it to good use one last time. The sun is so bright, glinting off the blade. It makes my head pulse with a steady beat of pain. It's time to go to sleep.
Epilogue 1
The news report stated that two bodies taken away this morning were a male and a female - believed to be married couple, John, and Carol English. Police say that they have both sustained injuries consistent with a knife attack and that they are treating the deaths as suspicious.
Later - another report stated that 'John English, 36, an unemployed labourer, had a history of mental illness and had only recently spent a period at a mental health unit in York. Relatives are calling for an enquiry into why Mr. English was deemed fit to return to his home when he clearly still had issues,' the statement concluded.
2
"Are you excited," the young man said to his girlfriend, who stood by his heel, almost jumping around in her haste to get inside. They had bought the house for twenty thousand less than the asking price so had picked up a real bargain. The man unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding it open for his partner to follow. She gazed around at the empty spaces, visualising where the furniture would go.
They had waited almost five years to be able to buy, scrimping to save the deposit and then looking for the right house to come along. She had a feeling they would be happy here.
On the way to the kitchen, she heard something. At first, maybe it was just her imagination, but now she concentrated, it was clear. She stopped at the foot of the stairs, her head cocked to one side, listening. "Andy," she said, "What is that dripping noise?"
