He grabbed the remainder of Butler’s corpse by the legs and dragged it along to a gap in the railings, leaving a snaking trail of blood. He checked once again to see that no one was watching. It was just after dawn and everywhere was deserted. Out at sea, a lone fishing boat, adorned with fairy lights, rocked on the waves.
Quigley picked up Butler’s body and effortlessly hauled it onto the rocks below. A moment of vertigo and he steadied himself by holding onto the wet railings. Closed his eyes. Waited a moment. Shivered and yawned. Fumbled with the unopened packet of Marlboro in his coat pocket, opened it and then decided to wait.
Soaked by the early morning sea spray, he fastened his black overcoat tightly. The cold autumn wind blew harder still and he pulled a flat cap from his pocket, put it on his shaved head and set off along the promenade, slouched with Sisyphean resignation. His meeting with Marta wasn’t until noon and he still had plenty of time to head back to The Seaview Hotel and catch a short nap, if he could. Another yawn crept out of him.
Quigley decided to take a short cut across the muddy town moor, the rain now attacking him from all sides. He jolted alert, a hand immediately on the pistol in his coat pocket, as he noticed an old woman wearing a bright headscarf and yellow anorak heading towards him, gauchely propelled by a pair of Nordic walking sticks. Her head was down and she was listening to an old pink Sony Walkman. Without looking up, she barged straight into him, jabbing him in the foot with one of the walking sticks.
‘Sorry, luvvie,’ she said in strong local accent.
‘No problems,’ growled Quigley. He hadn’t spoken to a soul for the last three days and his throat was like sandpaper. His foot began to burn.
Their eyes locked for a moment and there was a flicker of recognition there but the woman seemed to dismiss whatever thought passed through her mind as ridiculous and continued on her way. Quigley watched as she disappeared down the cobblestone alleyway that led up to St Hilda’s church. She stopped at the church gate and turned back to look at him. He took a moment of cruel satisfaction in the fact that Lydia Mulcahy had aged so much – and so badly – but realised that it was only a matter of time now before word of his return would spread across the town like cancer. He would have to expedite his plans. He limped toward the hotel feeling ever older with each step but also with a sense of resignation, like before the break of a particularly fearsome storm.
Rear the rest of The Bucket List in the first issue of All Due Respect magazine which also includes stuff from Chris F. Holm, Todd Robinson and more.