Downstairs Rushworth was tied to a chair, his eyes covered and an old cloth stuffed into his mouth to keep him quiet. He was already weary of the man’s voice, his sorrowful whine no better than an infant’s, grating in the ears and on the brain. Wyatt took a tired apple, its flesh withered with time, from the table and used his knife to cut it in two. The autumnal smell rose and made him smile. So far everything had been so easy. He’d expected some problems, but there had been nothing. He’d prepared carefully, calculating everything, his plans immaculate. It would be harder the next time, he knew that. That was the challenge and he relished it. Gain something too simply and there was no triumph in it, no sweetness. He thought of Rushworth downstairs, talking inanely, grovelling to stave off the inevitable. He knew the man was hoping for mercy, but there’d be none of that. He’d waited too long for this, endured too much to be magnanimous. This was his time and he’d relish every moment of it.
