The Midnight Hour by Neil Davies

killing?
    “So,” she said, smiling slightly and trying to compose her voice to its best detached reporter tone. “Tell me what made you decide to come forward and offer us your story.”
    Harry sighed. Every time he explained his reasons, be it to another person or to his own reflection in the small mirror of another hotel bathroom, he felt a little older, a little more tired, a little more unsure of his sanity.
    But they had left him little choice.
    “My targets told me it was time to quit, time to come clean.”
    Jennifer hesitated, unsure she understood.
    “By your targets you mean…?”
    Harry nodded slowly, his head heavy with exhaustion.
    “Yes. My targets. My victims. My dead victims. They made it very clear that it was time to stop.”
           
    They had arranged to meet at the Sandbach Services on the M6 at 7pm. The cold winter night had already closed in as she had waited, as instructed, in the well-lit entry of the shop. He had pulled up outside the doorway in his dark blue Peugeot 407 and, together, they had driven north on the motorway.
    They were still on the motorway, climbing the incline through the hills of the Lake District, low cloud sitting over them, rolling down the hillsides, pooling as fog in the valleys and across the roadway.
    Neither had spoken for almost five minutes before Jennifer, feeling the interview slipping away from her control, nervously cleared her throat.
    “So…” She glanced sideways at the man driving the car. The hitman. The hitman whose dead victims came back and told him to stop killing.
    He stared straight ahead, concentrating on the fog-wreathed road, his deep-set brown eyes unblinking, his sharp, ski slope of a nose sniffing occasionally with the beginnings of a cold. His square jaw was set in a firm jut, his lips pressed tight together. She guessed his age to be mid-forties, but he was in good shape for it. If circumstances had been different, she might have found him attractive.
    This is insane , she thought. Totally insane .
    She cleared her throat again.
    “These victims of yours… do you see them? I mean, do they appear in front of you? Solid? Transparent…?” Her voice faded as she felt the danger of a mocking tone edging toward her. She did not want to antagonize this man.
    A wry smile twitched at the edge of Harry’s mouth.
    “They talk to me. I don’t see them, I just hear them.” He tapped a finger against the side of his head for emphasis.
    The man is certifiably crazy. Maybe I can work that angle for the story?
    “So, killing all these people over the years must have had an effect on you, yes?” She could hear the slight tremble of fear in her voice and it annoyed her. “It must take some kind of toll on your mind, surely. Do you have nightmares? Do you think about their families?”
    “Am I mad you mean?” He laughed. “No, I don’t have nightmares, I don’t worry about their families and I don’t feel any guilt or remorse for what I’ve done. It’s a job. I’m very good at it. Or was.”
    “And the voices?”
    “Not dreams. Not nightmares. They’re real, I have no doubt about that.”
    He flicked the indicator and turned off the motorway, up a dark slip road, turning left at the roundabout.
    For a moment neither spoke. Jennifer had not even seen the junction approaching and could not make out exactly where they were. Harry peered through the windscreen, watched the twisting of the narrow, unlit country road they were now on.
    “How old are you Jennifer?”
    Jennifer shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the question for reasons she could not fully comprehend.
    “Twenty-two. Why?”
    “I think we can agree that I’m a lot older than you, and I’ve seen a lot more things in my life.” He slowed the car to navigate a particularly sharp bend and then eased down on the accelerator once more. “I’ve seen so many people die, Jennifer, and if you had asked me if I believed in ghosts six months ago I would have laughed in