Fade to Black by Steven Bannister

fine. Thanks, Mathew.”
    She knew he’d gotten the message and that he was chastising himself for not getting to Mr. Lin earlier. She saw him hurry toward the restaurant owner as she snapped her phone shut.
    Reaching her bike, she glanced across the road. A big, black Triumph motorcycle was parked facing slightly in to the gutter. She didn’t think it had been there when she arrived, but the rain was heavy then too. She walked over to it, making a note of the registration number. There was no sign of the owner, but she was almost sure it was the bike she had admired at the Chelsea Hospital last night.
    Her mobile phone chirped announcing a text message. No, I am not the killer, so don’t be afraid. It has begun. I’ll be outside your house in thirty minutes. Michael
    Of course, it was the mysterious Michael. Who else? She looked around and saw no one, but decided to up the ante. She typed: Why don’t we just meet here, now?
    His reply was instantaneous. That’s not my bike, Allie. Wait there as long as you like, but I’ll be at your house in thirty minutes
    A million questions flashed through her mind. This was bizarre. If he wasn’t here somewhere, how did he know she was standing by a motorcycle? But the strangest thing was, she already knew deep down that he wasn’t the killer. And she knew with absolute certainty what he’d look like when they met.
     
    *****
     
    Arthur Wendell curled into a fetal ball in his tiny, tiled bathroom. He did not want to live a minute longer. He knew what he had done earlier that night. The girl’s desperate pleading was still competing in his head with his own moaning. Clamping his hands over his eyes, he also tried to shut out the images. But it was not to be. His mind watched the movie reel as the scene replayed itself again and again for him. He saw himself standing above her, almost hovering, as she begged for her life, her eyeballs having already been nonchalantly flicked over the high wall. He watched as he calmly bent down and ripped out her long tongue with a pair of electrician’s pliers, the muscles attaching her tongue to the back of her throat coming away with a crisp pop.
    He convulsed at the vision. He saw again how she vomited great gouts of blood as she gurgled and clutched at her throat. He saw his own impassive face, but yet, not his face. It was as if an image superimposed itself on him. Arthur thrashed about in his bathroom, desperate to put an end to the images. But the scene continued on in living color. The girl, Georgie, now lay on her back writhing and gargling blood, finally exposing her bare stomach to him. He saw himself calmly look over at the restaurant with its lantern lights and chattering diners. They only had to glance up from their Char-Su for a moment to pick him and the girl out of the gloom in the lane. But no one did. He saw the filleting knife appear in his hand—God only knew where he had gotten it from—and watched as it approached her alabaster white abdomen. Arthur Wendell, Chartered Public Accountant and Tax Advisor, vomited into his shiny, white hand basin.
     
     

 
     
     
    Chapter Eight
     
     
    Donning her helmet and glancing back at the now brightly illuminated laneway, Allie mounted her bike, turned the key to start, and promptly stalled the engine. She knew without looking that everyone had noticed. As calmly as she could, she started the bike again and described a graceful arc in the street, sweeping past the black Triumph and accelerating south on Earl’s Court Road.
    Mercifully, the rain had eased enough for her to throw back the dark visor on her helmet. She knew she shouldn’t do it, but she felt claustrophobic with the heavy polymer barrier across her face. She wanted to feel cold air on her skin, subconsciously hoping it would cleanse her mind of the frightful images from the lane. The road was slick and shiny. A mist formed. She came out of the corner of Earl’s Court Road, flicked her indicator on and worked the