He removed a gloved hand from his trouser pocket and reached into his jacket for the envelope. Yes, a different kind of enjoyment. It was not wrapping fingers around a pulsing artery, but he enjoyed its.., delicacy nevertheless. Popping open a letterbox provided a different kind of thrill from that he garnered when feeling an ordinary life float away under his touch. But, in context, a thrill nevertheless. The end of the game was in sight.
One way or another, this will all be over soon… He was enjoying it so much, it was almost a shame to let Thorne win.
The car park was starting to empty. Thorne decided it was time to leave. He'd now been sitting in his car for over four hours, during which time he'd drunk six cans of supermarket-strength lager.
He'd never felt more sober.
After his meeting with Phil Hendricks he'd wandered back towards the car in something of a daze. He'd popped into the supermarket to pick up the beer, read the paper, and then sat, listening to the radio, drinking, and mulling over what his friend had said. Friend? Had he got any friends?
He knew that Hendricks was right. Everything he'd said was spot on. So he'd thought about it for a while, let one can of beer quickly become four, then turned a bad day into a fucking awful one by deciding to ring Anne.
Where had the caution of the day before gone? He'd decided then that it was probably wise to steer clear of any confrontation until the case had broken. So why, in God's name, had he rung her and told her to stay away from Bishop?
There had been something almost boastful about it.
Some part of him had wanted to flaunt this.., victory. It was becoming about something more than cracking a case and stopping a killer. It was starting to feel like defeating a killer. Like besting a rival. He'd as good as picked up the phone and said, 'Stand back, this isn't going to be pretty.'
It was proprietorial.
He wanted her to know how good he was. How right he'd been.
She told him she thought he was pathetic. Fucking pathetic.
He'd hurled his phone into the back of the car, turned up the radio and polished off the last two cans. Now it was dark outside. The supermarket would be closing soon. The security guard who patrolled the underground car park was starting to give him decidedly dirty looks and mutter into his radio.
Thorne realised that he was starving. Six cans of lager was all that had passed his lips since breakfast. He knew he should leave the car where it was and head for the tube. He was only one stop away from home. Christ, he could walk home in about ten minutes.
Thorne started the engine, pulled out of the car park and pointed the Mondeo south, away from home, and towards the centre of town.
Nobody could say I wasn't comfortable. That's the word hospitals always use, isn't it? When you ring up to ask after someone. They're "comfortable'. Like they're lying there on feather pillows being massaged or something. Well, I'm certainly comfortable with my state-of-the-art mattress and my remote-control bed and my telly and my magazine holder. Comfortable.
And all I really want to do is scream until my throat is raw. I want to scream and yell and, maybe it's asking a bit much, but I'd like to punch somebody in the face as hard as I can and smash a few things up as well, if that's all right. Break things. Mirrors. Glass things. Feel blood on my knuckles, anything… Do I sound frustrated? Well, I am. Frustrated. So. FUCKING. FRUSTRATED!
There's stuff I want to say, to talk about and I've got less chance of doing it now than I had even a week ago. Now that I'm wired up to this superannuated fucking accordion again. Since I found out why I'm the way I am, since I was told that somebody planned this, I've been trying to remember. Trying so hard to remember. Something that might help. Anything that might help them get the bastard. Now there's some stuff in my head that I know isn't a dream or anything I've imagined. I don't know whether it will help. It'll help me for sure.
It's memory and it's fighting to come out.
Memory about what happened after the hen party. It's not so much pictures as words. Actually, not even words. It's sounds. I'm hearing words but it's like they're being spoken to me under water. They're distorted and I can't quite make them out but I can guess the sense of them. I can make out the tone. Soon I'm going to work out exactly what the words are. They're the words he said while he was doing it. The man who put me in here.
NINETEEN
A quarter to midnight and Tower Records was heaving. Dozens of late-night shoppers mingled with those who were just there to listen to the music or read the magazines or kill time.
The young man behind the till didn't even look up.
'Yeah can 'elp you?'
'Yes, I'd like to pay for these, please,' said Thorne, 'and there's a Waylon Jennings import I'd like to order.'
James Bishop reddened furiously. 'What the fuck do you want? I shouldn't even be talking to you.'
Thorne dumped three CDs on to the counter in front of Bishop and fumbled for his wallet. He stared at Bishop until, with a face clouded by resentment, he began picking up the CDs, removing the security tags and running them through the till. He wouldn't look at Thorne, but instead glanced nervously towards his colleagues, thrusting the CDs clumsily into a plastic bag, trying to get it all over as quickly as possible.
Thorne leaned on the counter, waving his credit card.
'What's the matter? Don't want your workmates knowing you've got a friend who buys Kris Kristofferson albums? I did want to get the new Fatboy Slim single but you've sold out.'
Bishop took the credit card, swiped it, and glared at Thorne. 'You're not my friend. You're just a wanker!'
'I don't suppose it's worth asking for the staff discount?'
'Fuck you.'
Thorne shook his head sadly. 'I knew I should have gone to Our Price…'
An assistant with a silver spike through his lower lip ambled over. 'Is everything all right, Jim?'
Bishop thrust the plastic bag at Thorne. 'It's fine.' He looked over Thorne's shoulder to the girl waiting behind him. 'Yeah can 'elp you?'
Thorne didn't move. 'When does your shift finish?'
The girl behind him tutted impatiently. Bishop looked at him with a defiant half-smile. He glanced at the enormous blue G-Shock on his wrist. 'Fifteen minutes. And?'
Thorne pointed towards the door. 'And I'll see you in Dunkin' Donuts. I'd recommend the cinnamon, but it's entirely up to you…'
Twenty minutes later, Thorne was just finishing his second coffee and his fourth doughnut when James Bishop strolled in and sat down next to him. He was wearing a red Puffa jacket and the same black woolly hat he'd been wearing in the shop. Thorne took another doughnut and pushed the box towards him. Bishop pushed it back. 'Suit yourself,' Thorne said. Bishop stared at him. 'I've not eaten all day. Do you want coffee?'
Bishop shook his head. Again the strange half-smile.
'So what is it, then? Do you want to know if my dad's flipped out yet, is that it? If you keeping him awake half the night with stupid phone calls is affecting his work? Maybe costing someone their life? Pretty fucking irresponsible, wouldn't you say?'
Thorne stared at him for a few seconds, chewing. 'So has he?'
'Has he what?'
'Flipped out.'
'Jesus…' Bishop took out a packet of Marlboro.
Thorne's eyes drifted away to the left and Bishop followed them to the no-smoking sign on the wall. He threw the packet on to the table.
'He's pissed off that you're doing it and even more pissed off that you're getting away with it. None of us are going to let it go, you know. Whatever happens, we'll keep making a fuss until you're back in fucking uniform.'