Prim bobbed up and down on the bed. The springs screeched in protest, and he shut his eyes. Returned to the sounds, the smells, the pain and the shame. Needed those sounds now, needed them in order to be sure. After all, he had crossed all the lines, come so far, so why this recurring hesitation? They say taking a life is worst the first time, but he wasn’t so sure of that any more. He rocked back and forth on the bed. Reflected. Then finally the memories came, the sensations as clear as if it was all happening here and now. Yes, he was sure.
He opened his eyes and checked his watch.
He was going to go home and shower, get changed. Apply his own perfume. Then he was going to the theatre.
The final act
The only source of light was the lamps in the bottom of the swimming pool, and in the semi-darkness of the room, the light flickered across the walls and ceiling. Harry’s brain eventually stopped dwelling on details in the reports when he saw her. Alexandra’s one-piece swimsuit seemed to show more of her body than if she had been stark naked. He rested on his elbows on the edge of the pool as she stepped down into the water, which according to the receptionist at the Thief Spa was heated to exactly thirty-five degrees. Alexandra observed him observing her while she smiled that enigmatic smile women display when they know — and like — that men like what they see.
She swam over to him. Apart from a couple sitting half submerged at the far end, they had the pool to themselves. Harry lifted the champagne bottle out of the cooler by the pool, poured a glass and handed it to her.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘Thanks as in we’re even?’ he said, watching as she drank.
‘Far from it,’ she said. ‘After what was in
‘Mm. Like what?’
‘That’s up to you.’ She slipped close to him. ‘But it has to be something from the darkest depths.’
Harry looked at her. She had a look in her eyes not unlike Gert’s when he demanded the ‘Blueman’ lullaby. Alexandra was aware that Harry was Gert’s father, and now he was struck by a crazy thought. That he would tell her the rest. He looked at the champagne bottle. Had already realised when he ordered it — albeit with one glass — that it was a bad idea. Just as it would be a bad idea to tell her what only he and Johan Krohn knew. He cleared his throat.
‘I crushed a guy’s throat in Los Angeles,’ Harry said. ‘I felt it against my knuckles, felt it give. And I liked it.’
Alexandra stared at him wide-eyed. ‘Were you fighting?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
Harry shrugged. ‘A bar brawl. Over a woman. I was drunk.’
‘What about you? Were you OK?’
‘I was fine. I only hit him once, then it was over.’
‘You hit him in the throat?’
‘Yeah. Chisel fist.’ He held up his hand to demonstrate. ‘A specialist in close combat who trained FSK in Afghanistan taught me. The point is to hit your opponent on a specific area of the throat, then all opposition will cease immediately because our brain can only think of one thing, and that’s getting air.’
‘Like this?’ she asked, squeezing the middle joints and the tips of her fingers together.
‘And like this,’ Harry said, straightening her thumb and pushing it in towards her forefinger. ‘And then you aim here, at the larynx.’ He tapped her forefinger against his own throat.
‘Hey!’ he shouted as without any warning she jabbed him.
‘Stand still!’ she laughed, hitting him again.
Harry jinked away. ‘I don’t think you understand. You risk killing someone if you hit them right. Let’s say this is the larynx.’ He pointed to one of his nipples. ‘And then you need to utilise these...’ He took hold of her hips under the water and showed her how to rotate in order to generate power in the punch. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
After four attempts she had landed two punches hard enough to make Harry groan.
The couple at the other end of the pool had gone quiet and were watching them with anxious expressions.
‘How do you know you didn’t kill him?’ Alexandra said, as she got in position to strike again.
‘I don’t know for sure. But if he had died, I don’t think his friends would have let me live afterwards.’
‘Have you also considered that if you had killed him it would put you in the same boat as those you’ve hunted down throughout your entire career?’
Harry wrinkled his nose. ‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe? Arguing over a woman — you think that’s a more noble motive?’
‘Let’s call it self-defence.’
‘There’re a lot of things that can be classed as self-defence, Harry. Honour killings are self-defence. Crimes of passion are self-defence. People kill to defend their self-respect and their dignity. You yourself have experience of people killing in order to save themselves from humiliation, don’t you?’
