did you think was going to happen?’ Even her voice had changed. Instead of rising to a hysterical shriek it had dropped to a growl. ‘That I’d find relief by letting you fuck me all night?’ She spat every word. ‘Is that what you thought? Me with tears on my face, you with a grin on yours?’
‘What are you talking about? It was just a kiss. I didn’t mean to …’
He took a step forward, she took a step back, until she found herself pressed against the sink. Her elbow knocked a wine glass to the floor. It shattered but her eyes never left Proctor. She felt the cold water splattering off the plates on to her arms. And then she felt the knife on the chopping board. She grabbed the handle and thrust the blade at Proctor who froze.
‘Come one step closer to me and I’ll kill you. I swear to God, I will.’
He raised his hands. ‘Take it easy, Stephanie. Just calm down –’
‘I mean it.’
‘Look, I’m sorry if I upset you.’
‘Sorry?’
‘If I misread the signals, I apologize. I didn’t want –’
‘Signals?’
‘I thought there was something … happening. Between us.’
‘Like what?’ Her fury was still building. ‘Do you see some neon sign over my head? You can fuck me if you want. What bloody signals?’
Proctor was bewildered beyond reason. ‘Stephanie, please …’
She was shaking. Her face had reddened at first but now the colour had drained from it entirely. He had never seen eyes so black or so brilliant. Her voice quietened to a brittle whisper: ‘If you ever touch me again …’
Proctor slowly extended his right hand towards her and said, softly, ‘Give me the knife.’
The swipe was so quick that neither of them saw the blade properly.
Stunned, Proctor looked at his palm, at the slice that extended from the base of the index finger to the edge of the wrist. For a second, it was a perfect scarlet line. Then the cut started to flow, streaming over his hand and fingers, curling around his wrist, coiling itself around his forearm, slicking the sleeve of his shirt, splattering on the tiles of the kitchen floor.
It was the sound of the front door closing that prompted him to gather his senses. Stephanie was gone and he needed medical attention.
At two in the morning, the busiest places in London are the night-clubs, the police stations and the Accident and Emergency departments of the city’s hospitals. Proctor descended from the first floor of St Mary’s Paddington and stepped out on to South Wharf Road. His palm had been stitched and bandaged. It was a freezing night. He glanced both ways, wondering which direction would most likely lead him to a taxi, even though Bell Street was not far away. To his right, he recognized the vast curved roof that covered the platforms of Paddington Station. Only a handful of lights were burning in the high-rise beyond. It stood out against the night, lit by the glare from the streets below.
Proctor turned left. He never saw Stephanie standing still in the shadows of the hospital. And she never saw him alive again.
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