Rentboy

even
    expected. William Baillie was lying on his side, slumping forward onto his face. A single bullet hole
    ran with blood. But when Fox looked closer, the hole seemed larger than a single, close-range bullet.
    “Double cap,” Fox said. His father had lectured him on how to kill professionally even though Fox
    knew he would never use the skill. He looked up at the man, who nodded, tipping one corner of his
    mouth in a smile.
    “And that’s your idea of a double cap, a hammer and a spanner. Very professional. Didn’t
    Captain William Baillie teach his son how to kill?”
    “He tried,” Fox said. “But I’m an artist. I create, not destroy.”
    “Killing can be very creative.” The man sounded offended. “There’s myriad ways to do it. You
    were going to bash his brains in with a hammer. How artistic is that, boy?”
    “Not terribly, sir. But I was desperate.” Fox glanced around for the blond young man.
    “He’s not here,” the man said as if he had read his mind.
    “Is he your boyfriend?” The man looked questioningly at him. “It’s just the way you spoke to
    him. The tone, the look in your eyes. You were proud when he told you he killed the dude outside,
    who, by the way, was unconscious because I had hit him with a garden spade. You were proud of his
    work.”
    Ignoring the question, the man said, “In the morning you will call 999 and tell them you found
    your dad shot to death in his bed.”
    “They’ll think I did it. I need the insurance money.”
    “You were prepared to bash his brain in a moment ago.”
    “I’d have done anything to stop him. I didn’t know you were coming.” Fox swallowed hard.
    “You’ve got no idea what goes on in this house.”
    “I know exactly what goes on in this house. I’ve met your father before, and I’ve been in this
    house for the past two hours. I saw everything, including the way he looked at your sister.”
    Fox shuddered. “Two hours watching us? Shit! That’s creepy. You must be fucking good at your
    job if my father didn’t know you were here.”
    “People only know I am present when I want them to.” The man was so self-assured Fox envied
    him. “You’ll get the insurance money. It will all be taken care of, just like the car accident story.”
    Crossing the room on silent feet, the man said, “Let’s go downstairs.” With his arm around Fox’s
    shoulders he walked him down and into the kitchen. The man took the spanner and hammer from him
    and put them away. “These would have made a very messy kill.”
    “He must have known I was going to kill him tonight. I was going to get one of his guns, but he
    locked his office. He never locks his office.”
    The man went into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a set of keys, which he dangled from
    one finger. Fox noticed for the first time that he was wearing latex gloves. “He didn’t know a thing.
    But I knew. I locked the office to stop you attempting to kill him before I did. I also didn’t want you
    waving guns around in confined areas. After I saw the way he behaved with your sister, I knew you’d
    kill him tonight.”
    “Who are you?” Fox asked.
    “A ghost. You never saw me. If you talk, my people will not be nice to you. I won’t be nice to
    you, and that would be a shame because I like you, boy. You’ve got integrity.”
    For reasons he could not explain Fox quickly crossed the space between them and hugged him,
    his head resting against the man’s chest. He felt enormous and solid as rock in Fox’s arms. “Thank
    you, sir.”
    “You’re welcome, boy, and remember”—he held Fox at arm’s length—“be good to your mother.
    She’s had a hard life.” A second later Fox stood alone in the kitchen. The man was gone as if he had
    never been there. Truly a ghost. Fox felt exhilarated, as if he had crept downstairs on Christmas Eve
    and met Father Christmas himself.
    Before he could go to bed, he slipped back into his father’s bedroom to make sure it was true.
    The lamp was still on. William Baillie lay unmoving on the bed, his face stark white in contrast to the
    dark, congealing blood spilling from the wound. It was true. A line from A Christmas Carol came to
    him. Old Marley was as dead as a doornail. William Baillie was as dead as a doornail. Now they
    could begin to live. Fox walked around the bed to flip off the lamp. In the darkness he opened the
    curtains and looked out, hoping to see the assassin leaving, but he was gone.
    Strangely he