The Quiet Man

The Bellwether

What the hell is that? Wait: stay still. Listen.

What is it? Is there someone in the flat? That rash of burglaries, they killed a woman in her bed. They killed that woman. Did I lock the door last night? I did. Didn’t I? I’m sure I did. But I left a window open. Did someone manage to break in? They must have. Something woke me. Wait. Listen.

I can hear Mary breathing beside me. If someone were in the flat she’d wake up. She wakes up if I open the fridge, surely she’d wake up if someone opened the door and crept in. Was it a rustling in the sitting room? A window being propped open? It was something. Something woke me. Maybe a murderer. I heard something.

My gun is still in the drawer, but it’s not loaded. I could load it fast enough, if I have to. Two seconds to get from the bed to the desk, I could have it loaded and ready in less than a minute if I have to. No point threatening anyone with an unloaded gun; no point in that. Mary would have to stop complaining about me keeping a gun in the flat after this. There’s always an upside.

Get the gun; that’s first. Walk out into the sitting room, see what (or who) I can see. I’ll shoot him in the chest and end up having a nice chat with the Met. Just like old times.

Why’d you kill that bastard? It’d be jovial. It’s been ages since we last stood together over a body.

Well, he broke into my girlfriend’s flat, Greg. He was pointing a gun at my face, I thought it behooved me to illustrate his situation to him. Mary won’t appreciate her flat being a crime scene, but that’s not my fault. It’s the bloody murderer’s fault, isn’t it. Bringing it right here, into my own flat. If I don’t go out looking for a crime scene, it will come find me.

Sherlock would have laughed at that. Not too many other people laugh about crime scenes.

We could bring a cleaner in to get the blood out of the carpet. It will be fine.

What the hell is that noise?

Oh. Oh, my phone.

Well, that’s disappointing.

There’s no one in the flat. It’s just my phone. It’s ringing. Well, vibrating. Sounds like a knife rattling between the slats of a metal fence, Jesus Christ, that’s loud. All right. Relax. It’s just a phone call. It’s nothing. Stand down, soldier. Stand down.

Who the hell calls in the middle of the fucking night, anyway? It better be a bloody fucking emergency, Jesus Christ. What time is it?

The floor is freezing. Damn. There it goes, vibrating again. As long as I keep it in my hand, it shouldn’t wake Mary. Let’s hope. Out to the sitting room, I’ll answer it there. How many times has it rung already? Whoever it is will probably hang up just as I answer, and I’ll spend the rest of the night wondering what the hell that was all about. As if I need something to encourage my insomnia.

I guess I could write a bit before I go back to bed. Could make it productive.

Unknown caller. Probably a wrong number. Some drunk idiot trying to call his mate from the tube. Bet he’ll just moan incoherently at me and then hang up. This is ridiculous. I should ignore it.

Shit, it’s three in the morning. Who the hell is calling me at three in the morning? Did someone die? Harry is already dead, there’s no more middle-of-the-night news for me to hear. That’s not a nice thing to be reminded of. It wasn’t the most surprising phone call I’ve ever received, but I still wasn’t entirely ready for it. I suppose you’re never entirely ready to accept the death of someone you love. About the same time in the morning, too. About the same time. We’re sorry, Dr. Watson. She passed so quickly. A blessing in her case. It really was. This call won’t be like that one. A wrong number, that’s all. Nothing personal. Push the button, hard. Yes. Okay. What?