Ford didn’t seem to smell a rat and hurried away, ending up at Al’s Internet Shack ten minutes later. He had been holed up here ever since, barely moving from his seat. What was he up to? Why was he typing so furiously? What was he planning?
Lucas had been tempted on more than one occasion to get up and pass behind him. She couldn’t see his screen from her seated position – he had chosen a terminal in the far corner of the room – and would only be able to do so by inventing an excuse to pass by. But there was no toilet here, no drinks machine, nothing that could legitimately take her in his direction. She had considered talking to him – asking him for a pen – but had chickened out. If there was any hint in her manner that she was not what she seemed, if she gave herself away by even the briefest of glances at his screen, then she would have blown their cover. They had all worked too hard and too well for her to allow that to happen and, besides, she wouldn’t fancy facing DI Grace to explain that, so she stayed where she was, scrolling through yet more pictures of Kim Kardashian’s backside, wondering to herself what was going through the mind of Richard Ford.
78
Blog post by firstpersonsingular.
Thursday, 10 December, 21.00
When people come to judge me, they will see that none of this is my fault. Some people have addictive personalities. If you’ve experienced that sense of compulsion, you’ll know what I’m talking about. I’m not in control of this thing any more.
Just stop.
Well, I would, but that would hardly be fair. Who would I stop for? There’s no one out there who gives a shit and now that I’m on the side of the angels, why should I stop? Too much has already been done and the road ahead is long. There is so much more to do. It makes me feel funny just thinking about it.
More boots on the street. As if that can stop this thing. It just gives me more puppets to play with. Do you ever step outside yourself and look down? I do all the time. What do I see? Ants, loads of tiny little ants, scurrying around, crawling all over each other. Panic, panic, panic. And what do you do with ants? You tread on them. Tread on them until they don’t move any more.
I read an e-book recently called ‘Footprints in History’. By an American dude who took out his entire class with a Mac-10. He was a smart guy with a bitch of a mother and a dad who liked to hold his son’s head to the stove. They told him he was a worm, a germ, a piece of shit who should never have existed. But he did more than any of them. He did something, then wrote a book about it. He’s going to be as famous as Hitler or Jeffrey Dahmer.
I don’t have a book in me, not got the patience. And my hands get tired with all the typing. Perhaps I should get a speech recognition program??? I would but I can’t say out loud what I’m thinking. I’d say LOL if it wasn’t so dated. Anyway, I’m rambling now, so I’ll sign off. You can talk all you want, but it’s actions that count and I can’t sit here gossiping all day.
I have work to do.
79
‘So, what’s she like?’
‘Strange.’
‘Strange good or strange bad?’
Jonathan Gardam sat back in his chair and considered Sarah’s question. They had just finished a late dinner – an exquisitely prepared Dover sole – and were now working their way through what remained of the wine. This was their customary end-of-the-day routine – they weren’t great box set people, nor were they devotees of Facebook. They liked to sit and talk.
‘Good mostly. She’s very talented. Very committed and the most fearless officer I’ve met.’
‘Probably because she doesn’t have a family to go home to.’
‘Perhaps, but, whatever, it works.’
‘So why do you say she’s strange?’
‘Because she’s so hard to read. She’s a great team leader, good at inspiring the troops, but she’s determined to keep everyone at arm’s length.’
‘Some people are like that,’ Sarah said, shrugging.
‘But how does she do it? How does she take the hits and then go back to an empty flat?’
‘That’s for her to know. It’s not your place to ask.’
‘But I’m curious. I know I couldn’t do it. You need someone to come home to, someone to change the mood music in your life, to distract you from yourself.’
‘You say the sweetest things, honey,’ Sarah mocked as she rose, taking their plates to the sink. ‘Now finish up that wine and come upstairs. I’m going to run a bath and there’s room for two if you’re interested…’
Jonathan did as he was told, placing his empty glass on the marble top. Upstairs, he could hear the hot water thundering into the tub and it made him think. Here he had warmth, love and more besides. Out there in the dark somewhere was Helen Grace. What did she have? Who did she have? How did she make her world work? Their discussion earlier had been embarrassing but also illuminating. Brilliant as she was, she was terribly alone and who could say what the eventual cost of that might be? He never felt paternalistic towards his staff but he did worry about her. She was the bedrock of Southampton Central, if she broke they would all suffer.
Sarah was calling for him now, so turning he headed upstairs. He wondered if Helen had ever enjoyed such simple pleasures. Who was out there for her?
80
Helen cried out in pain and her body slumped forward. The impact of the blow had temporarily winded her and for a moment she struggled to breathe. But then the feeling subsided, though her heart was already thundering out a terrifying rhythm.
Max Paine raised the paddle and brought it down hard on her back. Helen bucked fiercely but straight away ordered him to strike again. He obliged, harder this time and Helen felt it go right through, piercing pain from her temples to her feet and back again. But still it wasn’t enough.
She couldn’t dispel those familiar feelings of hopelessness tonight. Was this because Max was new to her? That she wasn’t comfortable in his presence? There was an edge to things tonight for sure. He seemed in a heightened, energized mood, barely bothering to conceal the lines of cocaine he took in the back room before their session, and Helen’s instincts told her that he enjoyed looking at her. He kept a professional face on at all times, playing the role he was paid for, but she could feel his eyes on her nevertheless, tracing the contours of her body, no doubt asking himself questions about the many abrasions and scars that covered her.
‘Again.’
Why couldn’t she stop thinking tonight? Why couldn’t she relax into it, as she had with Jake so many times previously? Why did she suddenly feel self-conscious and stupid, parading herself in her underwear for a man she neither knew nor cared for? Was she really that lost?
The paddle slammed into her back once more, pushing her hard against the wall. Max seemed not to be waiting for instructions any more and, as Helen regained her footing, the paddle struck again. Helen closed her eyes and swallowed the pain. She wanted this to work. So gritting her teeth, she took the beating, hoping that Max could drive her dark thoughts away. For an hour or two at least, she needed to be free of the world and, more importantly, free of herself.
81
It was raining. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on her, yet still she was getting soaked. The rain swirled around her, saturating her clothes, getting in her ears and eyes, dripping from her hair. Where had this sudden storm come from? And why was she the only one getting wet? None of it made any sense.