Perhaps the best way to kill himself would be to cut the main artery.
He began to tremble again.
No, he couldn’t stand the blood spurting out. He would have to feel it drain from him and would try desperately to stop it. Gas was the best way. Once he got used to the smell it would be easy and peaceful. He’d drop off to sleep, that was all.
Sleep itself would be worth while. He had slept so little of late, moving furtively from place to place, haunted by his fear as well as hunted by unknown men. Had “they” known every one of his hiding-places? Until the note had come he had believed that he was fooling them but his brief respite may have been part of their damnable cat-and-mouse game. That didn’t greatly matter now that he had made his decision.
The best way to disappear was to die . . .
He began to stuff the dusty flock round the side of the door and lost himself in the task. It wasn’t difficult but would take longer than he had hoped; pity he hadn’t some cotton-wool or adhesive tape. He almost forgot why he was doing it. The feeling of relief from unbearable tension remained, bringing with it a sense not far from exhilaration.
Now and again the dust made him sneeze.
* * *
In the rest of that house and outside, the people of the East End of London went about their daily round. Women hurried along dingy streets to tiny shops, traffic grumbled along the wide, sprawling main roads, smoke rose sluggishly from countless chimneys and added to the gloom of the early Spring day.
* * *
Judith Lome sat over the drawing-board, wishing drearily that her drawings would come right. She had been both wishing and trying for hours. They weren’t right and it was useless to take these sketches to an editor who knew exactly what he wanted. Judith also knew that; and usually she could satisfy him without great difficulty but these were just so much waste-paper. Her fingers seemed stiff and the pencil wouldn’t run smoothly, because every time she drew a man’s face, the man looked like Jim. She couldn’t get away from