I was coming up the stairs when I heard the screams. Somewhere in the back of my drunk little mind, I wondered how long they'd been going on, how long I'd been hearing them before I realised what they were. Then I realised they were screaming my name.
Adrenaline is a great cure for inebriation. I hit the top of the stairs in a second. As I spun round the corner, I was wheezing from the effort, so I smelt it before I even saw it.
Blood. Lots of blood.
A woman covered in it, bashing on my door, screaming my name. I knew her. Abby. She screamed again when she saw me, and lurched, grabbing and holding my arms like a walking frame, the blood covering her hands so warm it burned my skin at the touch. Between her breaths, I heard "husband" and "knife" and "kill". I got the idea.
A turn of a key, inside, door slammed and locked. I pressed my back up against it, straining to hear. Even with her sobbing in my ear, it wasn't hard. Loud, running footsteps. Heavy breath. And screaming.
Not shouting. There was far too much panic in him to be shouting now. He was screaming her name, over and over again. Then he stopped. I heard him come over to my door, and smash his heavy fist into it like a jackhammer. In one move, I scooped up Abby and held my hand over her mouth. She fought like hell, fear ripping through her body like an earthquake, while the whole place trembled with each pound of his arm. He screamed her name, he screamed mine, he kicked and cursed and wailed for her to come, and she cried and bled and shivered in my arms, until finally, we heard him stop, and slowly, quietly, creak back up the stairs.
For a long time, I kept holding her and she kept shivering. But her hands were bleeding badly, so eventually I lowered her gently to the floor and let her slip out from my arms. By the time I got back from the bathroom, she'd passed out.
Her palms were shredded - maybe a dozen thin cuts on each and the flesh dangling down like strands of spaghetti. You'd need a long, sharp knife to cut like that. There were a few minor cuts on the arms too, so I guessed they were defensive wounds. Although why her husband had slashed her so often without stabbing didn't make any sense. Still, it meant she'd probably be able to move her fingers again one day, because the wounds didn't seem that deep. I wondered how long they'd been bleeding, to cover her body in that much blood.
I bandaged them as best I could, and then I called the cops. It seemed to be a logical step. Then I went into my room and got my gun.
Let me get something straight: I'm no hero. I wasn't going up there because I was brave, or because I wanted to make sure he wasn't hurting anyone else. I was going up the stairs because I wanted to put a bullet in this guy's head and watch it explode.
The door was ajar when I got there, and even though I was covered in it already, the smell of blood hit me like a truck. My head swam and I had to turn away and breath clean air a few times. Then I took a deep breath and eased open the door with my toe.
Something - someone - was lying on the carpet in the centre of the room. Female, definitely, but daughter, mistress, maid - I couldn't tell, there was that little left of her. The flesh was so chewed up, I couldn't even tell where she stopped and the blood began. The smell was like a wave of fire, filling my eyes and tearing at my throat. I doubled over, coughing, gasping for air as fear burned out my lungs. I tasted bile, but I couldn't vomit, thought I desperately wanted to.
Somehow, I stumbled blindly into the kitchen, were the smell was less intense. I desperately wiped my eyes on my sleeve and looked around. Nothing. And then bloody footprints, out through the back door, onto the fire escape. Bloody footprints all the way up, one story, on the landing, up the next, and onto the roof.
There was no moon, but in the flashing neon of Soho, he was clear as day. His hands hung limp by his sides, his head was bowed and he walked a deathly slow pace across the cement. But he heard me reach the top, and he turned around. He stank of blood, and fear, and rage, and his eyes sparkled with the complete assuredness of his own damnation. And as he came towards me, he spoke in a cracked, raw voice.
"This" he said, spreading his hands, showing me the blood that covered him. "All this. I did this. It's all my fault." He looked right at me and nodded. He wanted me to know. "I did this!" he screamed it this time, and by instinct, I brought my gun up. But he was already too close, and suddenly leaping into the air, throwing his whole body at me, a tonne of force coming down like a missile. But I was well trained in these sorts of things. It was a reflex action for me to drop and roll clear, and come up ready to shoot. Which was when I realised he hadn't been aiming for me at all.
He made a lot of noise when he hit the ground.
Sometimes, you just have to turn yourself off. So I just sat there for a long time, sighting along my gun, listening to myself breathe. Dimly, I heard a siren draw closer and closer, and car doors being slammed, but I just kept on staring. Until finally, my pulse began to slow down, and the world started to come back into focus, and I figured I had better go down and see them. I had a lot of explaining to do. Slowly, very slowly, I stood up, walked down the fire escape, back into the kitchen and shut the balcony door behind me, without ever once looking over the edge.
I walked to the door to the lounge and shut my eyes and took another deep breath. I was about to start moving when I realised I was standing on something. I looked down. It was a knife. A big, long, kitchen carving knife.
See, let me tell you something about psychic abilities. Once you turn them on, it can be a real bitch to turn them off. And this morning, I'd pulled off what was probably the longest and deepest psychometry I'd ever done. That's why I was still flashing. And that's why I got the hit. Clear as day.
As I raced down the stairs five at a time, I realised just how stupid I'd been. How typically stupid like a big stupid guy. I thought I was a hero, the way all guys do. We all like to think that when a woman comes hammering on our door in the middle of the night she wants to be rescued, and she wants us to do it, like the heroes we are. And usually, the truth is really quite different.
I'm fast, but I'm still too late. There's a blue uniformed arm sticking out of my doorway and blood is already trickling into the hall. But I'm close - I hear running footsteps on the stairs below me. I turn on the speed again, wondering if she had enough reason left in her to take their guns.
It's a long way down, and I'm taller and faster. By the time we hit the lobby, I'm close enough to see her go out the back. Through the door, she's gone left. Down the alley, around the side, over the gate like a gazelle. Fear gives her power and strength that she's never known before. Out into the street. A siren wails again, very close, and for a moment, she stops, unsure. That's my chance.
I fire over her head, screaming for her to stop. This gives her all the target she needs. Whipping around, her arm comes up. She has the gun. And suddenly, all my training kicks in and without thinking, I shoot her once, twice, three times, in the heart. Dead.
I throw the gun down a drain and just run. I'm fast, and I know how to hide. Twenty minutes later, I'm halfway across the city, with a new shirt on my back and a pint of Guiness in my hands. I'm busy patting myself on my back when I realise I've done it again. They weren't actually combing the streets for me. Hell, they didn't even see me leave. And leaving was probably the dumbest thing I could have done anyway. So what exactly am I congratulating myself for doing?
But you see, that's the thing about us humans: no matter what the story, we've always got to make ourselves the hero. Or, at least, the villain.