The Killing Hour

The Killing Hour by Paul Cleave




About the Book

'They come for me as I sleep. Their pale faces stare at me, their soft voices tell me to wake, to wake. They come to remind me of the night, to remind me of what I have done.'

Only Charlie doesn't know what he has done. His shorts are covered in blood, there's a bump on his forehead and on the news it says the two young women he was with the night before were brutally murdered. Charlie knows Cyris is the murderer - except the police don't believe Cyris exists. Nor does Jo, Charlie's ex-wife, to whom he goes for help. He desperately wants her to believe in him, and when she doesn't, he knows he must force her. As Charlie goes on the run with Jo bound and gagged in the car boot, he tries to figure out whether Cyris is real or imagined, while the killing hour approaches yet again …

As gripping as his first powerful novel, The Cleaner, The Killing Hour is a fantastic story keeps you guessing until the last page.




To my parents — who between them aren’t as insane as I tell everybody.





1


They come for me as I sleep. Their pale faces stare at me, their soft voices tell me to wake, to wake. They come to remind me of the night, to remind me of what I have done. They do not smile, they do not accuse me; they are just there, looking. I wish only to be alone, only to forget, but I have no voice to ask them to leave. I fear what they want, though I already know. They are here to blame me. To hate me. And I share their feelings. They cannot touch me because they are merely ghosts. I cannot touch them either, cannot push them aside, and words alone will not make them disappear. I stare into their eyes and see the guilt they want me to feel, and I do feel it, I barely feel anything else, and when I wake it is with a scream in my throat that I just manage to hold in. It tastes like blood and death. I pull myself out of the nightmare but nothing changes. It is five o’clock in the afternoon and I am bathed in sweat.

I wipe my eyes. The ghosts disappear but their message remains. There was a time in the morning when I was unable to feel guilt or pain. But that was before the killing hour arrived and Evil took my hand and whispered to me about death. I try to shake away the dregs of my dreams. I try to shake away the entire night, but all I do is stir the ingredients into a headache.

It’s Monday. I roll over and see my clothes lying on the floor. My shorts are covered in blood. My muscles ache as I sit up. The movement sets off a throbbing deep inside my head. When I touch the bump on my forehead my world sways but not enough for me to overlook the fact that the clothes I’m wearing are those a dead woman gave me. I move to the edge of the bed. I sit still, my elbows resting on my knees. The blood patterns on my shorts are made up of red droplets in various shapes and sizes. I shiver in my hot bedroom. It feels as though a thousand spiders are weaving up and down my spine. Their furry legs and tiny fangs clutch and prod and bite me. I brush them away and stand up.

I walk to the bathroom, hunched over as if the ceiling in my hallway has been lowered. The house has been closed up since yesterday. The air is tainted. I open the bathroom window, strip off a stranger’s clothes and climb into the shower. A breeze enters the room. Occasionally it pushes the cold shower curtain against my body. I embrace the water, letting it wash over me but unable to be washed clean by it. I feel nauseated, foul, and a moment later I drop to my knees, vomit burning my throat and splashing on the floor. The water falls around my head and rinses my lips but the taste of death remains.

I force myself to my feet, turn off the shower. Climb out. I can’t be bothered drying myself. I feel like giving up, just giving up on everything. I check my body. All the cuts have stopped bleeding. In the mirror the dark blue skin on my forehead looks like a golf ball has been lodged beneath it. Seeing it invites the headache deeper into my brain. It builds a residence in there, hangs up a sign and settles in for a long stay.

I wrap the towel around my waist and trudge through the house. Water rolls off my hair and down my body. I leave wet footprints on the carpet. The stuffy air feels like a damp overcoat. It feels like I’m walking through a tomb. Perhaps that’s exactly what this is. I close my eyes and the two dead women waiting in my thoughts agree. In the kitchen I knock back two painkillers. How well the two words, pain and killer, go together. Is that what I am?