April 2013
The man was tall and lean. He walked slowly. In contrast, the rain fell so fast that it bounced off the road like daggers. His long, black hair, usually glossy, had become lank, hanging in strings down his back. It was hard to guess his age, he could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty. His leather jacket was waterlogged, suffering badly, the way the cheap ones always do. His jeans clung to his skinny legs and his shoes looked woefully unfit for purpose.
Something in the dogged, relentless walk, made clear that clothes and physical discomfort were unimportant to him. A glimpse into his cold, flint-grey eyes would have made the hardest of men look away.
Walking along this desolate highway, he remembered back twenty years. He had followed his girl and found out she was cheating. On a road like this one, he'd flagged her down and she'd stopped the car, all smiles and pretending to be pleased to see him. He'd dragged her out by the hair. He recalled a glint of a blade and blood, a whole lot of blood.
Twenty years on, he hadn't mentioned to the parole board that he heard voices. They told him that she was still alive, that he must finish the job. Instinctively, he put his hand to his pocket and felt the knife.
He heard the noise of a vehicle behind him and he stuck his thumb out. The car drew up beside him, she wound down the window, and she smiled . . . just like she did before.