The Patient by E.V. Seymour

Author:E.V. Seymour [SEYMOUR, E.V.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-01-30T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Seven

I parked down a side street and arrived at the apartment block shortly after three thirty. Lizzie’s door was resolutely shut. I contemplated the outcome of the discussions that had taken place behind it. No matter what Lizzie said, they’d sell. I couldn’t blame them. As soon as Stannard moved in, I’d have to sell up too — unless I could coerce him to pull out.

Entering the flat, the stench hit me as if I’d been pushed head first into a cesspool. Suspicion wired me for sound. Reduced to its essence by the sweltering heat, the smell was sour, rotting and faecal.

Clapping a hand to my mouth, I searched for the one thing that was wrong, my eyes fixing on a thick dark fog of bluebottles. Beneath, parked on the hearth, a large black plastic bucket, the sort that might be used for coal or cleaning the car. Placed with precision, painting directly above, framed by the fake marble mantelpiece, it sat squat and glowering. I approached warily, thumb and finger pinching my nostrils. Flies lifted in unison and buzzed around my head in a frenzied cloud. Batting them madly away, I peered inside the bucket, my jaw tensed to stifle a cry. Filled to the brim, festering in the heat, glistening intestines, bones, blood, hair and, if I wasn’t mistaken, shit. A single eye from a butchered cow stared up from the surface, like a macabre piece of conceptual art.

I sprinted to the bathroom, resisted the urge to be violently ill and splashed my neck and face with water. I wanted to be rid of his games, his twisted calling cards, HIM. Wrapping a towel around the lower half of my face as if about to run through fire, I tore back into the sitting room, picked up the bucket and, dashing back to the bathroom, threw the contents down the lavatory, flushing it three times.

Then gaped at what I’d done.

Anything he sends, bag it, Simon had told me in no uncertain terms, and in five fevered seconds I’d destroyed the best evidence I had, my instinct to wipe out the traces stronger than pragmatism. To do anything else seemed unthinkable, and what was I supposed to do? Hang on to it? Oh, excuse me, officer, I’ve just had a bucket of guts delivered. Hysteria nibbling at my brain, I laughed out loud.

I threw open all the windows, filled the bucket to the brim with hot water and disinfectant and walked round, checking the points of entry for signs of break-in. There was no escaping the fact that someone had gained access to my flat. He’d already set a precedent by driving my car. He could easily walk in again, do what he liked, when he liked, only this time when I was there.

I left the apartment, walked quickly at first, then, sure that I wasn’t being followed, slowed down, sauntered almost, making sure that my movements did not betray my intention.

Cutting down an alley from Lypiatt Road,

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