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Right to Kill

John Barlow
Chapters (60)
  1. Cover
  2. Note to Readers
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. Thursday
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. Friday
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. Saturday
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. Sunday
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. Monday
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. Tuesday
  48. 39
  49. 40
  50. 41
  51. 42
  52. 43
  53. 44
  54. 45
  55. Wednesday
  56. 46
  57. Epilogue
  58. 47
  59. Acknowledgements
  60. About the Publisher

Cover

Cover Image: Right to Kill by John Barlow

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

  • Change of font size and line height
  • Change of background and font colours
  • Change of font
  • Change justification
  • Text to speech
  • Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008408855

Dedication

For Stef

1

It happens so quickly. You’ve got no idea.

Imagine you’re standing somewhere. A bus stop, a quiet road, the park. Somewhere familiar. Then the whole world tilts. There’s a massive rush, like the first breathless lunge down a roller-coaster. You’re carried forward, careering over yourself, unstoppable, so fast you can hardly think.

A second and it’s done. You’re back where you started, and everything’s the same.

Only everything’s different.

It happens so quickly.

Tuesday evening. I’ve taken a short stretch of road that runs beneath an old railway line just out of town. The high walls are damp, the Victorian brickwork almost black, forming a kind of semi-enclosed underpass.

There’s no more than forty or fifty yards of it, including a sharp bend, right beneath where the trains used to go. Not many people come this way. It’s obsolete, little more than a nuisance for town planners.

I like it. For the time it takes to go from one end to the other, the world feels empty, a silent snapshot of times gone by, not a soul to break the stillness.

But tonight there’s a car. Maroon, a bit tatty. It’s parked up on the kerb, just after the bend. I move out and walk in the middle of the road, give it a wide berth. There’s a guy at the wheel. He’s alone and he’s watching me in his mirror. He has a baseball cap pulled down, but I can see his eyes.

He lowers his head as I approach. It looks as if he might be in some sort of trouble. I slow down as I get level with him.

Then he turns his head and looks at me.

Now I know why he’s there.

I’m not scared. When you’ve dealt with enough people like this you stop being afraid. But I’m curious. I want to know what he’s going to do now. So I stay where I am, in the middle of the road.

He lets the electric window down, looking straight at me as it opens.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask, good citizen voice.

He nods very slightly. Nasty eyes. They all have the same eyes. Doesn’t matter how old they are. And this one’s not old. Mid-twenties, scrawny body, bony face.

‘Good!’ I say, upbeat, friendly.

I want him to know I’m not scared.

His eyes are small and ugly, animal eyes.

‘You need somethin’?’ he asks.

I shake my head.