‘Right,’ said Don, staring down at the corpse lying before him on the table. ‘How do we tackle this?’
Steph stared at the cold, dimpled flesh. ‘I’ll never get used to it. No matter how many times …’
He laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Look, it’s done. Now we just have to deal with it.’
She nodded. ‘I know, it’s just Gordon was so young.’
‘How do you know his name was Gordon?’
Shrugging she said, ‘He just looks like a Gordon.’
Don picked up the cleaver, felt the weight heavy in his hand, raised it high. It scythed through the air, light glinting on the metal, severing bone, sinew, veins, separating neck from body in one blow.
The head fell to the floor with a heavy thump.
‘Next Christmas,’ he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, ‘we need to buy an oven ready bird or go vegetarian.’
Steph handed him a glass of Prosecco. ‘Cheers to that,’ she said.