rasping of dry flesh beneath cracked yellow nails. His hair was turning smudged grey, his beard grew in erratic patches from a once-scarred chin, and when he beat me to death, he only did it for the money to fill his belly, and his belly was so empty
my belly was so empty
as I discovered, when I switched.
I didn’t want to touch him, since he had just killed me. But I didn’t want to die alone so, as my vision flooded like wine in a cup, I reached out and grabbed his shoulder as he pulled my purse from round my waist, and in that moment I became him, just in time to see myself die.
Chapter 11
Awake at 3 a.m. in a hotel room.
The light still on.
Nothing on TV.
This body needs sleep.
I need sleep.
Sleep does not come.
A mind that will not stop, thoughts that will not cease.
At 9.40 a.m. a woman called Josephine Cebula left a hotel room in Istanbul, heading to the waterfront. Three days ago she’d met two new friends, who’d said please join us, we’ll teach you how to fish off the Galata bridge.
I’m too beautiful to fish, the mind that wore the body of Josephine Cebula had thought. Are you sure you don’t want me to change into someone more appropriate?
Fishing would be delightful, my fresh red lips proclaimed. I’ve always meant to learn how to fish.
By midday I’d seen someone in the corner of my eye, and by 12.20 p.m. I was running, grateful that my shoes had flat soles, for the crowds of Taksim, for the easy way out, my bare fingers flicking from skin to skin as I searched for a suitable exit route, and then, as I stumbled against the body of a woman with swollen ankles and the taste of coconut in her mouth, the gunman at my back had fired, and I had felt the shot tear through my leg, felt flesh burst outwards and arteries snap, seen my own blood sprinkled on the concrete in front of me, and as I closed my eyes against the pain and opened my mouth to scream, my fingers had tangled against those of a stranger, and I had run and left Josephine Cebula to die.
And then
inexplicably
he’d killed Josephine.
She was fallen and I was gone, but he put two bullets in her chest and she died, even though he was coming for me.
Why would anyone do that?
In a hotel room, 3 a.m., and my left leg ached, though there was no sign of scarring or apparent cause for pain.
A Manila folder from Nathan Coyle’s lethal travelling bag.
I’d glimpsed it when I stole his car, and now, as the night crawled towards dawn, I spread its contents across the bed and looked again, and saw the faces of my life stretched out before me. A single name was written across the front of the file: Kepler.
It seemed as good a name as any.
Chapter 12
I checked out of the Edirne hotel at 7 a.m. Breakfast was from a bakery around the corner, which served hot croissants, cherry jam and the best coffee I’d had in this body so far. With my bags on my back and hat pulled down low, I went looking for the first bus to Kapikule, and out of this country. In a murderer’s body I couldn’t think of any good reason to linger.
How unusual it felt for me to be the innocent in any crime but my flesh to be the hunted.
The thought made me smile all the way to the ticket booth.
There were eleven people on the short bus ride to Kapikule, which seemed apt, as the bus was no more than a converted minivan with a paper sign in the front which read, KAPIKULE . LEV OR LIRA ACCEPTED , NO CHANGE GIVEN .
An ageing man and his aged mother were sitting in the twin seats behind me, bickering.
She said, “I don’t want to.”
He said, “Mother…”
She said, “I don’t want to and that’s that.”
He said, “Well, you’ve got to, Mother, you’ve got to, and we’ve had this conversation and this is your future as well as mine so we’re going and you’ve got to and that’s it.”
She said, her voice rising almost to the point of tears, “But I don’t want to!”
Their conversation continued in this vein all the way to the
my belly was so empty
as I discovered, when I switched.
I didn’t want to touch him, since he had just killed me. But I didn’t want to die alone so, as my vision flooded like wine in a cup, I reached out and grabbed his shoulder as he pulled my purse from round my waist, and in that moment I became him, just in time to see myself die.
Chapter 11
Awake at 3 a.m. in a hotel room.
The light still on.
Nothing on TV.
This body needs sleep.
I need sleep.
Sleep does not come.
A mind that will not stop, thoughts that will not cease.
At 9.40 a.m. a woman called Josephine Cebula left a hotel room in Istanbul, heading to the waterfront. Three days ago she’d met two new friends, who’d said please join us, we’ll teach you how to fish off the Galata bridge.
I’m too beautiful to fish, the mind that wore the body of Josephine Cebula had thought. Are you sure you don’t want me to change into someone more appropriate?
Fishing would be delightful, my fresh red lips proclaimed. I’ve always meant to learn how to fish.
By midday I’d seen someone in the corner of my eye, and by 12.20 p.m. I was running, grateful that my shoes had flat soles, for the crowds of Taksim, for the easy way out, my bare fingers flicking from skin to skin as I searched for a suitable exit route, and then, as I stumbled against the body of a woman with swollen ankles and the taste of coconut in her mouth, the gunman at my back had fired, and I had felt the shot tear through my leg, felt flesh burst outwards and arteries snap, seen my own blood sprinkled on the concrete in front of me, and as I closed my eyes against the pain and opened my mouth to scream, my fingers had tangled against those of a stranger, and I had run and left Josephine Cebula to die.
And then
inexplicably
he’d killed Josephine.
She was fallen and I was gone, but he put two bullets in her chest and she died, even though he was coming for me.
Why would anyone do that?
In a hotel room, 3 a.m., and my left leg ached, though there was no sign of scarring or apparent cause for pain.
A Manila folder from Nathan Coyle’s lethal travelling bag.
I’d glimpsed it when I stole his car, and now, as the night crawled towards dawn, I spread its contents across the bed and looked again, and saw the faces of my life stretched out before me. A single name was written across the front of the file: Kepler.
It seemed as good a name as any.
Chapter 12
I checked out of the Edirne hotel at 7 a.m. Breakfast was from a bakery around the corner, which served hot croissants, cherry jam and the best coffee I’d had in this body so far. With my bags on my back and hat pulled down low, I went looking for the first bus to Kapikule, and out of this country. In a murderer’s body I couldn’t think of any good reason to linger.
How unusual it felt for me to be the innocent in any crime but my flesh to be the hunted.
The thought made me smile all the way to the ticket booth.
There were eleven people on the short bus ride to Kapikule, which seemed apt, as the bus was no more than a converted minivan with a paper sign in the front which read, KAPIKULE . LEV OR LIRA ACCEPTED , NO CHANGE GIVEN .
An ageing man and his aged mother were sitting in the twin seats behind me, bickering.
She said, “I don’t want to.”
He said, “Mother…”
She said, “I don’t want to and that’s that.”
He said, “Well, you’ve got to, Mother, you’ve got to, and we’ve had this conversation and this is your future as well as mine so we’re going and you’ve got to and that’s it.”
She said, her voice rising almost to the point of tears, “But I don’t want to!”
Their conversation continued in this vein all the way to the
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