Free Knife Edge by Fergus McNeill Page A

it flutter away like confetti across the garden.
    Emily and Christopher would probably be settling down on the sofa about now – a quiet evening in front of the TV now that their entertaining was done. They were lucky to have each other.
    He took another drag, exhaling and watching as the smoke drifted up and was lost in the eastern sky. Sue Firth lived over that way, somewhere on the other side of Victoria Park. She’d mentioned the street – that evening when a group of them had gone down to see a film at the Watershed – but he couldn’t remember where it was. She’d looked different out of uniform, her dark hair down and her round face lit up with a bright smile as they’d walked and talked. Absently, he wondered if she was at home just now, or on duty over at Portishead …
    From the kitchen he began to hear the kettle rattling on its base as it boiled, then the click of the switch as it turned itself off. He took a last draw, stubbed the cigarette out and dropped it into the butt-filled flowerpot by the wall before returning inside to make himself a coffee.
    A main meal seemed unnecessary after the generous Sunday dinner, so he took a half-packet of biscuits from the cupboard to go with his drink, and wandered through to the front room. A quick flip through the channels confirmed that there was nothing worth watching on TV, so he put in a DVD and settled back to stretch out on the couch, his head propped up against one armrest, his feet hanging out over the other. Action films made the evenings pass more quickly, and his watch showed 9.20 p.m. when the gunfire ceased and the end credits appeared. Wearily, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, one hand moving to rub away the stiffness in his shoulder, and yawned. Then, stooping to retrieve his empty cup, he got to his feet and went through to the kitchen to clear up.
    Another lonely evening, almost over.
    The bathroom light flickered into life above him as he tugged the cord, then leaned over the bath to secure the plug and open the hot tap. A good soak would ease his shoulder, and help him get a good night. He knew all too well how elusive sleep could be – the thoughts that lurked in the darkness of the small hours.
    Leaving the water running, he made his way along the landing and into the bedroom. It was at the front of the house, and the window looked out onto the street, but the curtains were still closed from this morning – he often forgot to open them. Yawning, Harland removed his watch and placed it on the small bedside cabinet. He undressed slowly, putting items away or pitching them into the laundry basket as he went. Then, gathering up a charcoal grey bathrobe and a large blue towel, he padded back through to the bathroom.
    From habit, he pushed the door closed behind him to keep in the warmth, then paused as he glimpsed himself in the bathroom mirror. Letting the robe and towel drop to the floor, he stepped forward and leaned over the sink, wiping away the condensation to study his reflection properly.
    When had he got so old?
    There were lines starting to appear around his eyes, tiny crow’s feet that hadn’t been there before. His short dark hair was flecked with so many bright silver strands, and even his sideburns were peppered with grey. He sighed, then frowned, noting the creases in his brow, but his eyes were drawn back to tiny dark hairs that he’d spied in his ears.
    Great. Just great …
    Remembering the water, he bent over and switched off the tap, then returned to the mirror. Grimly, he took his razor from the cabinet and twisted it around in his hand, pressing the tiny button on the handle to activate the trimmer. Leaning towards his reflection, he angled his head to one side and eliminated the hairs, then turned and did the other ear.
    He wasn’t
that
bloody old.
    Standing back a little, he looked at himself. From here, the grey wasn’t so bad, the lines not so obvious. His body was in reasonable shape – maybe a little