‘If you’re unhappy, leave. You’re free to walk out, anytime.’

She says softly, ‘You’re sick.’

He chuckles. ‘Really? You get your own reward, it isn’t just me.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You know what I mean.’ There’s something unpleasant about his voice. The girl feels that she is short of breath, her throat tightens. ‘You like watching.’

‘You sick fucking . . .’

He interrupts her. His booming voice wipes out her protest and, although the girl doesn’t fully understand what he means, she knows that he is right.

‘You like watching. You think I don’t know, but you sit at the top of the stairs and look round the corner like a little fucking peeping Tom. You like watching. If I’m wrong, then let her go.’

The girl takes a short intake of breath in the reticence that follows.

Then, satisfied, he snarls, ‘No. Didn’t think so.’

The owner exhaled. Scratched across the gauze and cut deeper into the wound. Soon it would be time. Years of waiting were drawing to a close.

Soon, the world would know the truth.

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

It was Sunday morning and London was covered in a thin layer of frost. Apparently, the shoppers outside of Priest’s penthouse hadn’t been deterred by the cold and were scurrying around from shop to shop, bags and kids in tow, cramming their baskets with the latest fragrance from Chanel or a new gadget from Apple; all of which would be out of fashion by the time they got home.

Priest was thinking. He pulled himself away from the window and went into the bathroom. Studied himself in the mirror and was drawn to the bags under his eyes, which were as dark as his mood.

When Jessica had stormed out of his flat last night, a realisation had dawned on him. He wanted to be with her. He had had a taste of the rapture she had enveloped him in and he wanted more. Now he felt adrift, like a boat with its anchor line cut, helplessly bobbing on the water.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

He struck the mirror with his fist, hard. The glass exploded instantly, crystal-like shards rained down on to the sink, then to the floor underneath. A jagged section remained stuck to the wooden frame; half of his distorted face stared back.

He inspected his hand. The skin was broken around the knuckle, and it throbbed painfully. He spent some time cleaning up the mess, wrapping the shards of broken glass in old newspaper before binning them.

He went upstairs to the rooftop garden, oblivious to the cold, and lit a cigarette. His phone rang. Fuck off, whoever you are. He answered it anyway.

‘What?’ he coughed through the cigarette smoke.

‘Priest – you OK?’ It was Okoro.

‘Fine. Woke up with a headache, that’s all.’