Free The Convictions of John Delahunt by Andrew Hughes Page B

no killing blow was ever faulted for being too hard.
    I allowed the thick handle to caress the back of his head, and picked a spot just above and behind his ear, where a small amount of blood from the first strike had already matted his hair. I stood with my legs apart and knees bent, as if I was about to take a shot in croquet, raised the poker, and mustered every ounce of strength.
    A thought occurred. Too hard a hit would spatter gore all over the furniture and rug. I lowered my arms. It wouldn’t do for the man to bleed all over the place; removing the body was going to be tricky enough.
    I grabbed his damp shoulder and rolled him on to his back, then fished in his breast pocket to reclaim my money. The cleanest kill would be to block his airways. My coat hung over the back of the armchair. Bundled up, it could do the job, but I didn’t want to get it dirty. Looking about the room, my eyes fell upon the only cushion resting on the sofa. It had a simple pattern of flowers in a wicker basket, which Cecilia had sewn when she was little. I can remember my mother and sister sitting by the chimney breast at their needlework. Mother sat beneath a plaid blanket beside the fire, even in summer. She would smile and praise Cecilia upon the completion of each flower, every one in a different colour thread.
    I picked up the cushion and examined it. The threads had begun to unravel, and the colours were faded.
    I knelt beside the man, placed the pillow firmly over his mouth and nose, and pressed down. He was motionless so I couldn’t tell if it had any effect. After a tense minute, I eased back and looked beneath. He was no longer breathing. His chest had stilled and his lips hung slack. I curled my index finger and placed it beneath his nose for several seconds. There wasn’t the slightest draught.
    When he snorted inwards, I pulled my hand back as if I’d triggered a mousetrap. His breathing resumed with a gentle snore.
    I inspected the cushion with a frown. Was it working at all? I held the clean side against my own face and attempted to breathe in. Air did come through at first; it was scant and thick with dust. When I pressed harder, it was indeed possible to prevent breathing. The method was sound. I just needed to be patient.
    To apply more force I shifted my knee to straddle the man’s chest, then bore down on the cushion with all my weight. I could feel his nose and chin through the down. One of his arms was by his side and pinioned beneath my heel. The other still lay outstretched, pointing at the hearth.
    Outside, the wind blew harder and rain rattled against the window frame. Gusts made the panelled doors creak. I continued to listen for any movement in the rooms above.
    Suddenly, the man’s head pulled to the right, and his free hand swiped at my face. He tried to wrench his other arm from beneath my leg, so I clamped against it with my thigh. I squeezed down harder. I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t dying. The pillow slipped down from his brow, and his wide, frantic eyes looked into mine. One was bloodshot, to the extent that the whole white had turned a deep crimson. His other arm was coming loose; my leg seized with cramp as I tried to keep it restrained. At one point he managed to thrust his knee into my side, and I became furious. I dropped my weight on to his chest, and I could feel his strength begin to ebb. He gave up trying to pull his arm free, and after another moment his entire body shuddered.
    I counted to ten, then slid on to the floor and lay panting. The cushion remained balanced on his face.
    I crawled to the chair and poured some wine. But I couldn’t recall if that was the glass which he had used, so I drank from the bottle instead. I slouched with my head in the seat, the bottle in my lap, and I considered the body on my carpet.
    The mechanics of corpse disposal was not something I had ever pondered. Of course, it couldn’t remain hidden in the house. May had been particularly warm, so if