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When he went into work that morning, Ian Blenkinsop felt as if he’d just got up after a night of heavy drinking. His stomach was hollow, his head throbbing.

On arrival, he was greeted cheerfully, as always, by his secretary Sally, which made him feel positively nauseous. It wasn’t Sally’s fault. She was forty, but very well kept, with a sizeable bosom, slick, chestnut red hair and handsome, feline looks. Many was the time he’d nursed an erection in the lavatories while thinking about her. He’d once had similar designs on Sally to those he’d had on Louise; in fact he’d told himself a couple of times – usually in his cups – that should the ‘thing’ with Louise go okay, he’d generate a plan for Sally. Now the mere thought of that was unbearable to him.

He closed himself into his office, which was not his custom – normally he’d leave the connecting door open between his and Sally’s work areas. Then he walked to the window, which ran floor to ceiling, and opened the blind, admitting the morning sunshine that was breaking through the thin wash of clouds in ethereal shafts.

From this side of the building, the dome of St Paul’s cathedral dominated the skyline. To Blenkinsop’s mind it was still the most majestic structure in London. Born from the ashes of the Great Fire, it had withstood everything the centuries could throw at it: time, the elements and of course Hitler’s aerial onslaught, which had flattened so much of the surrounding city. He realised that he’d taken its magnificence for granted until now. What a dauntless symbol it was: of man’s fearlessness in the face of tragedy, of his devotion to the might and mystery of God – things that Ian Blenkinsop felt hugely distanced from at this moment.

There was a tap on the door and Sally came in with his coffee. She seemed a little subdued. He wondered why. Was it because he’d been abrupt with her on his arrival, or could it be that now he knew he was a brute on the inside, it was starting to show on the outside? That was nonsense, of course. Even Dr Jekyll, when he’d become Mr Hyde, hadn’t manifested as a physical monster.

Jekyll and Hyde.

There’d been times in the past – poring sweat-soaked over some particularly lurid and illegal pornographic imagery, or being driven back to his hotel in downtown Lagos or Sana’a, or wherever it was, in the early hours of the morning – when Blenkinsop would consider himself in these terms. But it was no solace to think that way now. These things – especially the thing he’d engaged in last night – weren’t nearly as romantic as Robert Louis Stevenson’s famous romp. The popular image of Hyde was a wicked but likeable rogue, who flitted among the ladies of the night in a dapper suit, a topper and a cape, winning them over with his wolfish smile, and then abusing them in masterful ways that might, in some cases, leave them begging for more.

Sexy anti-heroes of that nature were rarely to be found in real life. And they weren’t to be found at all in Ian Blenkinsop.

He stared out at the City, at its towers and temples of commerce. Would this wonderful view ever be the same to him? Would he ever again feel part of this frenetic, good-natured hive that he so loved, knowing what he now knew for certain about himself – that he was a beast, an aberration? He tried to remind himself, as he had tried many times since yesterday, that this wasn’t as wholesome a place as it appeared on the surface; that there were numerous individuals walking these streets right now who had dark and deadly desires. But how many of them actually converted those desires into reality? How many were so driven by lust that they could destroy the lives of others at a whim?

Only a small few shared that inclination – a marginalised few, a reviled few.

But was he really one of them – because of one incident?

To all intents and purposes, he was normal. He was honest, he worked hard; he engaged in philanthropy when the mood was on him. And yes, alright, there was that other side to his personality, that secret side, but he only unleashed that when he visited foreign shores where such deeds were a form of currency, where they might not be approved but were tolerated so long as they were out of sight and out of mind, where the other participants – if not always willing – were at least prepared to endure it for the sake of their families. It was hardly what you’d call ‘vanilla sex’, quite the opposite in fact, but at least it put money in their pockets and bread on their tables, at least they benefited in the long run.

But that wasn’t the same thing.

For all the ‘experiments’ he’d indulged in while overseas, all the taboos he’d broken, all the cruelty and brutality he’d inflicted, there’d always been that all-important factor of consent. And of course, never before – never once – had it ended in murder.

Murder.

Once again, the magnitude of that simple word was immense. Rationalise it though he may try, deny it if possible – and he’d tried that too, reminding himself over and over that it had never been his intent to kill – it still haunted his every thought. He’d barely slept a wink last night even though he’d taken tablets to try and knock himself out. When he did manage to sleep, it had filled his dreams. And it would certainly never diminish in this environment. Even as he stood in his office, he heard a snippet of conversation from the next room, where Sally was speaking to someone on the internal phone: ‘No, that’s Louise Jennings’s department. But I don’t think you’ll get her today – apparently she’s off. No, I don’t know whether she’s reported sick or not, I just know she hasn’t come in for work. Strange really, because you know how dependable she is.’

He continued to gaze down through the window – and his heart almost skipped a beat.

A City of London police car was prowling along Cornhill. It clearly wasn’t coming here, because it headed off along Leadenhall and vanished from view, but was this now something else he’d always need to be wary of – the law? Would he quake with fear every time he saw a police uniform?

It still amazed him how, in one fell swoop, the orientation of his entire world had changed around, and how there was nothing he could do to restore it. That was the worst part of it: if he could only have the choice again …

‘Mr Blenkinsop,’ Sally said, sticking her head in. ‘I have Mr Rylands from Newline Exports to see you. You’ve an appointment with him at nine-fifteen.’

Blenkinsop glanced around, and nodded. She regarded him with puzzlement, and he realised that he hadn’t even taken his coat off yet, and was still holding his briefcase.

‘Two minutes, Sally.’

‘Are you alright? Under the weather maybe?’

‘I’m fine.’ He stripped his coat off, sat at his desk and forced a smile.

‘You work too hard, Ian. Should’ve gone on holiday with your family.’

‘Rarely have truer words been spoken.’

When she closed the door, he had to struggle to fight back tears. That wouldn’t do – someone was about to come in and chat with him. But the tears flowed anyway, and as they were mainly tears of self-pity – for the mess he’d got himself into, and the fear and insecurity he’d ushered into his family’s life – he hated himself all the more for it.