Giving in
Pounding like a remorseless drum, the thrumming of blood was all around him; it was in a way impossible to concentrate on the inane conversation in front of him. Blinking away the black from his eyes, there was no choice but to feign interest. What had she been talking about? Some low-level form of office politics, or the fact her sister in law was no better than she should be? He didn't care, but still the façade had to be maintained. Focus on what this woman is talking about. Eyes away from the neck, focus on the hair - dyed blonde and mousey brown roots - that'll do. Down past the brown eyes, past the slightly smudged lipstick around her lips. He started to listen again.
He shouldn't have come in here, he knew it as soon as his hand started to tremble, but here he was talking to a woman who, as an old friend would say, wore her discontent like a shroud. True in this case: the shroud was a thin blue waterproof, unzipped, so baring the garishly orange uniform shirt underneath to the rest of the world.
"So I says to Miss High and Mighty" - right, still no clue - "'if Mr Roberts wants to give Jess the promotion over you then he will.' As if she'd done anything more than work on her back. 'Live with it'" Then a humph of affirmation followed. Right then, office politics it was.
Choosing his moment to interrupt this vitriol, he leaned forwards and moved a strand of the lank hair from her eyes. "I know. They never listen, do they?" It seemed to work very well at these moments, the assumption that they were never listened to. Then give them the sympathetic voice, with the slight tilt of the head showing them that you care. The faint nod of agreement signalled a victory.
A few more conciliatory words, and an offer of seeing her home (with a insinuation it might be to his home) did the trick, and like a little lost lamb she followed him outside. The night sky obscured by the flickering neon street lamps as he took her from the pub.
Her feet were by now unsteady as he guided her into the alleyway. Breathing in the scent of drunks' piss on the walls he allowed the beast to take control - his teeth penetrating flesh, the sweetest taste imaginable flowing into his mouth and down his throat, the muffled screams disappearing into the night, the futile attempts at freedom leaving two limp arms by her side.
`Reaching into his pocket he dialled by touch alone, it was already being answered on the other side when the phone reached his ear. "Hello. B. Edwards funeral service. How can we help?" Running a hand through his dark hair Mitchell sighed and gave a location to whoever was on night shift.
Well, he'd better phone Seth to tell him that he'd be at the café soon. What kind of trouble he got up to when left with Marco and Turlow to egg him on didn't bear thinking about. Bending down to pull the body further into the alley he looked at her briefly and wondered, not for the first time in the ninety years of his second life, why. Then he gave up thinking about it and arranged the corpse so that it looked like she'd just passed out drunk. Then he paused and looked down at her again, and reached into her bag, and found what he was looking for. There in her purse was a staff ID card with her name: Debbie Anderson. With a sigh he dropped the purse back into her bag, rose up and looked at the sky.
He hated these moments the most - more than the hunger, more than the pain of the memoires. It was the moment where he'd proven himself weak and had given in. And the guilt attached to that moment, knowing that he would never be free of what he was. Well, it's not like he'd had any luck in stopping in the past. Oh, a few months now and then - but he always slipped up in the end. Yet, as they say, tomorrow is another night, and it wasn't like he had any reason to stop.