Free The Killing Hour by Paul Cleave Page A

starts to fade and I call out to it because it has lied to me, lied about that conversation because it couldn’t have happened. Has it lied about anything else? I cry out, desperate for the dream to continue, desperate to see what I did next, but there’s nothing. I clutch my beer tightly but can no longer feel the glass beneath my hands. The women are ghosts again, telling me to wake, to wake.
    I wake as I woke yesterday, submerged in guilt and aware that the design of life is to be full of useless hopes. I feel more tired than before I fell asleep. I open my eyes and see Jo standing above me. She’s holding the mallet I purchased earlier this afternoon.
    I roll aside and the mallet hits my pillow. Jo’s face shows the surprise I’m feeling, and a moment later also reflects the rage. She starts to take another swing at me only this time I kick out at her, aiming for anything that will keep my skull from being crushed, and make contact with her stomach. She falls, throwing the weapon at me so that it skids off the side of my head, bringing back the headache. I wobble back and hit my head against the concrete block wall. The world darkens and for a moment I’m back in the dream – two dead women are waiting there for me – so I grip onto this world as tightly as I can and claw myself from the blackness.
    Jo is lying on the floor, her hands pressed into her stomach. I climb off the bed and use the phone cord to tie her up. Was she ever planning to help me? The letter, the car, the tools, they were all elements to fool me into trusting her. Well, it worked. Does that change the plan? Why should it? I still need her to believe in me and that need makes me feel ill.
    It isn’t dark outside yet and won’t be for another couple of hours. I check the clock and see the alarm would have been going off in twenty minutes. I figure we may as well leave now. We need to get to my house before Cyris does, and I’m assuming he won’t get there until after sunset. I would put Jo in the boot of the car but she won’t fit. I bet that’s why she suggested swapping cars.
    I’ve bound her hands in front of her. I grab her wrists and sit her upwards.
    ‘I thought you were going to help me.’
    She doesn’t answer, just stares at me silently.

    ‘Please, Jo, let me prove to you I’m not lying.’ I figure it’s a reasonable request. I figure I’m allowed to be angry with her right now, and the fact that I’m not yelling at her goes a long way to prove just how sane I am.
    She still doesn’t answer. I look outside to make sure nobody is around, then open the door and quickly load our suitcases into the car before pushing Jo into the passenger seat. She doesn’t struggle or complain. It’s as though she’s given up, but I don’t trust her. A minute later we’re pulling away from the motel.
    The day has warmed up but the dream still has me chilled. There are no clouds in the sky and the earlier breeze has died away. You’d be crazy to think it had even rained. The headache has faded but only a little. I hang my arm out the window. At this rate it will be thirty-five degrees by nightfall, and I think about the old guy giving the weather report on the radio this morning.
    We drive through town, and for the first time I’m able to see past the garden city postcard image and see Christchurch for what it really is. People are getting killed here every few weeks. It’s a building statistic that everybody seems to be keeping a secret. We even have serial killers here now – at the moment a man dubbed the Christchurch Carver is awaiting trial for God knows how many murders. His face and his story have been in the papers non-stop for the last few months. It’s becoming a part of modern-day life, like rising petrol prices, and we just sit back and accept it because nobody is showing us an alternative.
    In the distance, on the Port Hills, the sun glints off house windows. It looks like a giant tub of glitter has been spilled over