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for Alice. Try as he might, it was always there, seething away.
    An old semiautomatic pistol lay on top of Ed’s survival kit, wrapped in an oiled rag. He’d stolen it from the one-legged Iraq war veteran in the flat down the hall. He peeled off the rag and put the gun in the pocket of his combat jacket. Then he hefted the bag onto his shoulder and took a last look at the half-finished picture on the easel: a messy and expressionistic portrait of Alice as he remembered her on the evening of her wedding to Verne, three years ago, standing on the terrace outside the hotel.
     
    Verne and Alice decided to get married in the autumn, almost a year after they first met, and they asked Ed to be the best man.
    Towards the end of the evening, as he stepped out onto the hotel’s terrace for a breath of air, he saw her leaning on the stone balustrade, picking at her skirt.
    “You look really good,” he said.
    She laughed and flattened the hem down.
    “I look like a meringue...” She gave him a sly look. “Hey, Ed. Have you got a spare cigarette?”
    “You don’t smoke.”
    “Not usually, but tonight all bets are off.”
    He pulled a pack from his inside jacket pocket, tapped out a couple and lit them both. He handed one to her.
    “Thanks.” She took a hit, and then sat back, trailing curls of blue smoke from her nose.
    “Ah, that’s better.”
    Behind her, the hotel gardens were dark. The sun had set, leaving the clouds piled like embers on the horizon, the sky purple as a bruise, the moon white as a splinter of bone. Coloured party lights had been strung in the trees and music drifted out through the open doors from the dance floor.
    Ed cleared his throat.
    “Look, would you like to dance?”
    Alice raised her eyebrows. For a moment, she looked like she was going to make a smart remark. Then she dropped the cigarette and smoothed down the front of her wedding dress.
    “Okay.”
    Ed reached for her hand. He was going to take her inside, but she pulled back. She looked around at the lights and the sky and said, “Here’s fine.”
    She held him tight as they started to sway. She had goose bumps on her bare arms and her hair smelled of pine-scented shampoo.
    “Tell me,” she murmured. “How’s it going with that girl Verne introduced you to? What’s her name?”
    Ed looked away. “Her name’s Gill. We’ve been out a couple of times.”
    “And...?”
    Ed stopped dancing, feeling suddenly foolish. He let go.
    “Oh, she’s nice enough.” He ran a finger round the inside of his collar. “But she’s not as pretty as you.”
    Alice lowered her eyes. Inside, the final song wound to its end. The house lights came up on the dance floor.
    “Look, I’d better go and find Verne.” She had her hair teased into short curls, her lips and nails painted silver. Her arms were thin and cold, her eyes wide and bright.
    She put a hand on his sleeve.
    “But thank you,” she said.
    Ed stuck out his bottom lip. “What for?”
    “I know you have feelings for me, Ed. I know how hard it must have been for you today, but you’ve been great, you really have.”
    He looked away.
    “Thanks for the dance,” he said.
    She paused a moment.
    “Are you going to be okay?”
    “I expect so.” He forced a smile and shooed her in. “Go!”
     
    Verne’s old farmhouse lay at the end of a lane off the A420. When Ed arrived, he found Alice waiting in the yard in front of the house, with a shotgun in one hand and a backpack in the other.
    “Nice car.” She threw the pack onto the back seat. “Where did you get it?”
    “From a friend.” He’d stolen the long-wheelbase Land Rover up off the street after a taxi ride to Bethnal Green. It had been pimped out with an engine snorkel for deep water, and black wire grilles to protect the headlamps. It belonged to Grigor the Serbian butcher, and Ed had had his eye on it for weeks.
    “Where’s the arch?” he said.
    Wind chimes hung on the farmhouse gate. The night air smelled of cut