As Seven Daze is out next monday, here's a taster of the first chapter...
Jim looked again. They didn’t look like
killer’s eyes. Brown surrounded by bloodshot white. Pale eyelids that
flickered. Shifty, nervous as hell. Yeah, they were hiding something; something
dark. But they weren’t killer’s eyes.
He turned from the
mirror. The bedside clock still read six fifty-five a.m.It
hadn’t changed since his last look. He briefly wondered if it was broke, but
digital clocks didn’t freeze or go slow. When they break, the display just
blanks.
Moving, he sat on the
hotel bed. Bouncy. Springs long gone from illicit overuse and age. He knew he
shouldn’t be feeling like this. It was the first day of his new job for fucks
sake. He should be happy. It definitely shouldn’t have made him throw up. After
all, it was the chance to meet new people. The start of a new adventure.
He wondered if that
was the problem with contract killing. The only new people you met, you killed.
The display changed. Six fifty-six. Waiting was the problem. No one had
mentioned that. It was all glamour, high risk and money. He’d spent last night
checking and double checking everything. In hindsight that had been a mistake.
There was nothing left to do but wait. Just clock-watching, daydreaming and
waiting.
His stomach gurgled.
That wasn’t helping either. God knows what muscle it was, but it had perfected
twisting and spinning. He looked back at the clock. No change. Should he leave
now? Despite all the planning, maybe something had been missed.
There was the other
reason too. It kept filling his head. The room was too small. Walls everywhere;
you couldn’t walk without being next to one. It reminded him of the cell.
Occasionally the walls would creep in and pin him to the bed. First his hands,
then his face would feel hot. He’d need to stand. Opening a window didn’t help.
He had to get out.
Standing, he shook
his head. He had to get a grip. Walking the four steps to the bathroom, he took
the top off the toilet cistern. Fishing out the floating polythene zip-bag, he
dried it with a towel. His gloved hands fumbled with the seal before it opened.
He breathed out while looking at its contents. A pistol wrapped in another
waterproof layer. This was it; no turning back.
His hands hacked at
the sellotaped seam. The gloves were useless; fingers and thumbs worked against
each other trying to rip it. The seam wasn’t giving. All that planning and he
couldn’t unwrap the gun. The walls moved in again. The heat came back with a
vengeance to his neck. His armpits felt wet. So much for the earlier shower.
The hotel room was just like the cell. Even the windows had bars. It was too
much. That was where this had started. That cell.
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