Everything was ready.
She laid the syringe on the edge of the washbasin and stowed the instruments
neatly away in her handbag. The sounds of voices and laughter filtered dimly down
from the floor above. The party was in full swing. She had made the call from the
basement storeroom five minutes ago. Even if Roland had heard the sound of the phone
being replaced in its cradle, there was nothing he could do about it. The new exhibition
had attracted a lot of attention and there were at least fifty people in the gallery. In any
case, he had no reason to be suspicious. She brushed her hair carefully back from her
face and applied fresh lipstick. Death was a friend: one should go to meet him looking
one's best. There was a whole gram of heroin in the syringe, ten times the normal dose.
She had left nothing to chance.
She sat down on the closed toilet seat and rolled up her sleeve. Since she had
made her decision two days earlier she had been conscious of a vast inner lightness, as if
a weight had been lifted from her heart. Subconsciously she had known for a long time
that this was how it would end. Heroin was another country: it had no frontiers. No
one escaped. There was only one way to get free of it. She had tried five times to give
it up and she was weary of struggling. Even if Philip hadn't been coming back next
week, she might have done it now anyway.
Someone tried the door handle. "Just a minute," she called, and picked up the
syringe. Time was running out. Soon Roland would notice her absence and start
fretting that there was no one to replenish the glasses and hand round the petits fours.
She started looking for a vein in her left arm. Faintly in the distance came the sound of
police sirens, growing closer. She was not afraid. Now at this moment, all she could
think of was the shoot. Still she had a moment's fleeting regret for Philip. It was a
shabby way to treat him after all he had done for her. But he had always understood
her, better even than their parents, and maybe, after reading the note she had left in the
flat, he would understand this too.
She found the vein on the third try. Now that the shoot was just seconds away,
everything else was wiped out of her mind. Blood began to seep up into the syringe.
The sirens stopped. There was a sudden silence on the floor above. Now. She pressed
the plunger. Her heart felt as if it was being torn apart and her skull wrenched off her
head. The flash, the glorious, the ultimate flash. And then the darkness hit her like a
dead weight.
When the police arrived three minutes later and broke the door down, she had
slipped off the seat on to the floor. She was lying on her back with her eyes open. The
needle was still stuck in the vein. Her heart had ceased to beat.
She laid the syringe on the edge of the washbasin and stowed the instruments
neatly away in her handbag. The sounds of voices and laughter filtered dimly down
from the floor above. The party was in full swing. She had made the call from the
basement storeroom five minutes ago. Even if Roland had heard the sound of the phone
being replaced in its cradle, there was nothing he could do about it. The new exhibition
had attracted a lot of attention and there were at least fifty people in the gallery. In any
case, he had no reason to be suspicious. She brushed her hair carefully back from her
face and applied fresh lipstick. Death was a friend: one should go to meet him looking
one's best. There was a whole gram of heroin in the syringe, ten times the normal dose.
She had left nothing to chance.
She sat down on the closed toilet seat and rolled up her sleeve. Since she had
made her decision two days earlier she had been conscious of a vast inner lightness, as if
a weight had been lifted from her heart. Subconsciously she had known for a long time
that this was how it would end. Heroin was another country: it had no frontiers. No
one escaped. There was only one way to get free of it. She had tried five times to give
it up and she was weary of struggling. Even if Philip hadn't been coming back next
week, she might have done it now anyway.
Someone tried the door handle. "Just a minute," she called, and picked up the
syringe. Time was running out. Soon Roland would notice her absence and start
fretting that there was no one to replenish the glasses and hand round the petits fours.
She started looking for a vein in her left arm. Faintly in the distance came the sound of
police sirens, growing closer. She was not afraid. Now at this moment, all she could
think of was the shoot. Still she had a moment's fleeting regret for Philip. It was a
shabby way to treat him after all he had done for her. But he had always understood
her, better even than their parents, and maybe, after reading the note she had left in the
flat, he would understand this too.
She found the vein on the third try. Now that the shoot was just seconds away,
everything else was wiped out of her mind. Blood began to seep up into the syringe.
The sirens stopped. There was a sudden silence on the floor above. Now. She pressed
the plunger. Her heart felt as if it was being torn apart and her skull wrenched off her
head. The flash, the glorious, the ultimate flash. And then the darkness hit her like a
dead weight.
When the police arrived three minutes later and broke the door down, she had
slipped off the seat on to the floor. She was lying on her back with her eyes open. The
needle was still stuck in the vein. Her heart had ceased to beat.
