From Secrets, a psychological thriller set in Lancashire, UK.
The aim? Psychological immediacy, atmosphere.
You did it, you did it. You did it and you ran away because you were a bad lad.
I catch a rhyme in the words, a northern dialect. The tone is similar, too similar, to the tone of the anonymous notes I received from Vince Macarthur nine years ago. I can almost smell him here in the flat. Pigeon smell, bird food smell, paraffin fuel from an old paraffin heater. Greasy hands, rough hands, with cracked finger lines. Nails yellow-brown and discoloured from years of smoking. Vince Macarthur dressed in a donkey jacket and cap, shuffling around with a large bag of bird food.
I phone the police station and leave a message for the officer I spoke with this morning. Then, I drive off with my laptop, away from The Factory, to the first town where there are people around. A coward’s way out, maybe, but I have to think of Robert and Mel, how they would cope if something happened to me.