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'Christ！'
He stood immobile； unable to gather his thoughts。 Linda…the dirty whore！ So she hadn't left it all behind in Aberdeen。 With an effort he pulled himself together； and began to struggle back into the main room； extricating himself from the folds of the rotting curtain。 There was a ripping sound as some of it came away in shreds。
Linda still lay as before； her garment now pulled up around her waist； thighs wide； one foot resting on the floor； smiling in the knowledge that her offering was on full view。 Her eyes alighted greedily on the open vent in the front of his trousers； and then narrowed with surprised disappointment at the sight of his flaccid organ。
'You dirty cow！' he spat in rage and contempt； advancing slowly and unsteadily towards her。
'What 。 。 。 what d'yer mean？' She scrambled up into a sitting position； her negligee slipping down again to cover her。 'What the bloody 'ell's got into yer？'
'This！'
He stood before her； holding his limpness； the foreskin held back to display the raw； weeping flesh。
'Gor' Blimey！' She edged as far away from him as the sofa would allow。 'You've got a dose of the pox！'
'And you've given it me！' he snarled。 'It's true what they say about you； you dirty little scrubber。 You've been on the game all your life； and you can't get off it。 You're hooked on it。 Half the guys in this bleeding town are fucking you； and all the time you were trying to make out you had some sort of crush on me。'
'It's a lie！' she yelled。 'You're lookin' for a scapegoat。 It's you what've been sleepin' around； and now you're tryin' to blame it on to me。 You bleedin'； low； dirty bastard。 Go back to your poxy woman； and don't never e back 'ere！'
Richard Coyle's rage erupted。 His one eye was virtually sightless。 His cheekbone felt as if it was broken。 The pain throbbed right up and over his skull； terminating at the back of his neck。 But that was as nothing pared with the searing sensation below； and the full implications of it all。 In the space of only twelve hours he had been brutally struck by his father； and discovered that his girlfriend； no； his sex…partner； had given him VD。 Someone had to pay for all that。 Right now only revenge mattered…and somebody had to bear the brunt of it all。
'You fucking little whore！'
The full weight of his fourteen stone was transferred to the balls of his feet as he delivered the first blow； a stunning right uppercut which caught Linda Lakin full on the point of her jaw。 Bone splintered； bloody broken teeth filled her mouth。 Her head flew back。 He hit her again…and felt sadistic satisfaction at the sound of her small nose breaking。 Miraculously； she was still conscious； gurgling her screams as she swallowed blood； eyes wide with horror。 She attempted to scramble up； but fell back； helpless。
Richard Coyle was now in an uncontrollable frenzy。 He struck wildly at her eyes； laughing as they puffed up into blue…black swollen sightlessness。 It wasn't her he was hitting now； it was his father…repaying that one blow with interest。 Again and again。 His knuckles began to bleed； they felt as though they were broken。 The arms which had initially attempted to ward off his blows now lay still。 Not so much as a whimper from her。 Her head was twisted at an unnatural angle； the features totally unrecognisable； the nightdress saturated with blood。
Then he stopped； a numbness enveloping him from head to foot。 He realised that she was dead； but it did not worry him。 He hadn't meant to kill her…it was manslaughter； not murder。 That would be the verdict。 There was provocation。 She had asked for it。
Slowly his brain began to function clearly again。 He turned away from the revolting； bloody corpse and went back into that stinking alcove。 He didn't even notice the smell this time。 Turning on the single tap he ran water into the cracked basin and began to wash the blood from his hands。 There was surprisingly little on his clothing： a few splatterings that would scarcely draw attention to him。 He bathed his swollen eye。 The cold water was soothing； but it seemed to have little effect on the burning within his member。
He went back into the main room； lit a cigarette； and pondered upon the course of action he would take。 In no way could he disguise the fact that he had killed Linda Lakin。 Her body would be discovered in a day or two； probably when the landlord came to collect the rent。 Richard Coyle's arrest would then be a formality。 Still； he would not make it all that easy for them。
He had no intention of returning home。 In his present mood he would probably kill his father； too。 Not that that would be a bad idea； but in his predicament it would not help。
First； he needed to visit a VD Clinic。 That was what worried him most。 He had read all about venereal diseases； but there was something about his own particular symptoms which worried him。 He'd heard of guys going on for weeks with just minor disfort； yet this pain was like a searing heat； radiating through the rest of his loins。 Maybe it was a different type of pox。
He would head south！ The thought came to him in an instant。 The petrol tank of the Norton was almost full…enough to get him to London； maybe。 He'd been there once before。 Guys and girls slept rough。 Nobody bothered them。 They queued up at the VD clinics。 Nobody would give him a second glance。 That also went for most of the major cities： Manchester； Birmingham； and such。
'I stayed in this fucking place one day too long。' He did not look back as he let himself out。 'Should've moved out months ago。'
He winced； almost cried out aloud； as his genitals came in contact with the saddle。 Burning； blinding pain seemed to be eating away his lower regions； as if they were being consumed by fire 。 。 。
He kicked the starter； it fired first time。 Swaying precariously； mainly because one eye was now totally sightless； he hunched over the handlebars； and roared off into the early autumnal night。 The journey south had begun。
Chapter 6
'Richard didn't e in at all last night。 His bed hasn't been slept in。' Bob Coyle barely glanced up from the morning issue of the Sun； and replied with his mouth full of toast： 'So what？ He's old enough。 Sleeping rough probably。'
'More likely with that whore。'
'Well； I'm not going down to the police station to list him as a missing person。 He'll e home when he runs out of money and gets hungry。 Kids his age are doing the same all over the country。'
'And meanwhile； you'll pursue this obsession of yours about the world being blown up because some ancient wizard put a curse on Craiglowrie。 Fathers all over the country aren't taking that tine； thank God。'
'That's just the trouble with the British。' He pushed his empty plate away； stood up； and reached for his coat。 He wanted to be out of the house before Sarah came down。 One bickering woman was enough at that time of the morning。'
'Going out early aren't you？' There was resentment in Jane's voice； a hint of suspicion； too。
'I've a lot to do today。'
'Which means you'll be late home。'
'Yes； I'm afraid so。' He averted his eyes from her searching gaze。 'Don't fix anything for me。 I'll eat out tonight 。 。 。 if I get time。'
'Sometimes I almost think it would be better if you had another woman；' she snapped。 'At least it'd make you more human。 Work； work； work。 And by the way； this boyfriend of Sarah's who keeps on lavishing all these clothes and things on her…why doesn't she bring him home？ We don't even know his surname。 Just David。 What are his intentions？'
'Why don't you ask him？'
'How the hell can I； when I don't know who he is。 I reckon he's a married man。 Maybe Mrs Bean will have heard something。'
'The town's prophet of doom；' Coyle called back as he went out the door； hastening at the sound of Sarah's footsteps on the landing above。 'You'll never hear glad tidings from that source。'
The printers and typesetters were surprised to see Coyle arrive so early。 He nodded to them as he passed through the workshops； and flung himself into the battered old chair in his tiny office。 Anne would not be here for another three…quarters of an hour。 God； how he needed her； just her pany。 He pulled the much depleted bottle of whisky from the cupboard； and poured some of it into the unwashed glass。 He needed time to think。 It was too early to make any phone…calls。
Something had definitely gone wrong up at Holocaust。 Maybe it was just a repetition of what happened to Wind…scale's pilot oxide plant in 1973。 That meant contamination； however slight。 He wished Sarah didn't work up there。 Christ； there were obstacles at every turn。
Anne arrived promptly at nine； in time to catch him draining the last of the whisky from the glass。
'My God！' There was concern on her face。 'You look bad； Bob。 Domestic or 。 。 。 '
'Both；' he sighed。 'Something's definitely gone wrong up at the new plant。 I'm afraid it's go