—
“Here they come,” I said, “so you might as well get ready to leave.”
“I understand.”
“You understand nothing.”
Right then I was trying to work out why I’d let him stay. Just a few minutes earlier, when he’d told me why he’d come, my voice had ricocheted off the dishes and gone right for the Murderer’s throat:
“You want what?”
Maybe it was the belief that this was already in motion; it was going to happen anyway, and if the moment was now, so be it. Also, despite the Murderer’s pitiful state, I could also sense something else. There was resolve there as well, and sure, throwing him out would have been such a pleasure—oh, grabbing his arm. Standing him up. Pushing him out the door. Jesus H. Christ, it would have been bloody beautiful! But it would also leave us open. The Murderer could strike again when I wasn’t around.
No. Better like this.
The best way of controlling it was to have all five of us together in a show of strength.
Okay, stop.
Make that four of us, and one betrayer.
* * *
—
This time, it was instant.
Henry and Rory might have failed to sense the danger earlier, but now the house was rich with it. There was argument in the air, and the smell of burnt cigarette.
“Shh.” Henry slung an arm back and whispered. “Careful.”
They walked the hallway. “Matthew?”
“Here.” Pensive and deep, my voice confirmed everything.
For a few moments, the four of them looked at each other, alert, confused, all rifling through some internal catalogue, for their next official move.
Henry again: “You all right, Matthew?”
“I’m brilliant, just get in ’ere.”
They shrugged, they open-palmed.
There was no reason now not to go in, and one by one, they stepped toward the kitchen, where the light was like a river mouth. It changed from yellow to white.
Inside, I was standing at the sink, arms folded. Behind me were the dishes; clean and gleaming, like a rare, exotic museum piece.
To their left, at the table, was him.
* * *
—
God, can you hear it?
The hearts of them?
The kitchen was its own small continent now, and the four boys, they stood in no-man’s-land, before a kind of group migration. When they made it to the sink, we stayed close in together, and Rosy somewhere between us. It’s funny that way, how boys are; we don’t mind touching—shoulders, elbows, knuckles, arms—and all of us looked at our killer, who was sitting, alone, at the table. A total nervous wreck.