Staggering to the bathroom, he filled his hands with water and slurped as much of it as he could. He had given up looking for the plastic beaker. He had given up looking for his phone too, but there was a buzzing now like it was ringing on silent. He stumbled back into the room and froze when the noise stopped, unsure if it hadn’t just been a rhythm beating in his head. But it started again. He found it face down and pushed someway under his bed. Turning it the right way up made him grimace at the bright light. It was his wife. He felt panicked. What if she wanted to invite him round tonight? He couldn’t go. Not feeling like this. Not after what he had just done. He couldn’t think of an excuse either, not one that she wouldn’t see straight through. She would know that it would take something catastrophic for him to stay away. Something like shooting a stranger twice in the chest.

The phone rang out and he sighed his relief. Maybe he would say he lost his phone. It wouldn’t be the first time. He threw it onto the bed. He couldn’t talk to her, not now. All he could think of was getting another drink, enough for it all to fade away again: the bloodied corpses, the mysterious private detectives. At least he was done with him now – there was something to drink to.

His gaze lifted to where he was standing in front of a small mirror. He hadn’t got undressed from yesterday’s clothes and now his shirt hung out and was creased, and his trousers had a dark stain from the knee down. He would shower first. Then he needed to get rid of these clothes. He would burn them like he had seen them do on the movies. The movies about murderers.

Sharon Evans swore then covered her mouth when her twelve-year-old son spoke behind her.

‘What did Dad say? Is he coming?’

‘I couldn’t get hold of him. I’ll keep trying.’