I explain that they would have come sooner if I had told them, they would have asked him directly about it. No answer is good enough. He asks me if anything happened between DS Adrian Miles and me and I say no, how could it? I was barely conscious when he found me. He knows the real answers to all of the questions he is asking. This isn’t about me, this isn’t about the detective, this is about R making me squirm.
I flash back to the night of the attack again as he is talking to me. This time it feels more complete, not just a snapshot. I remember him asking me if Simon and I had fucked. I remember telling him no and then I remember him pounding Simon every time I said no. There was nothing else to say, if I had said yes then he would have killed him on the spot. I shudder at the thought of remembering anything else from that night, knowing that for me to block it out it must be so much worse.
Back in the present, he tells me that I need to make the police go away. He grabs me by the shoulders and whispers. I feel his breath on me and I recoil. He throws me backwards until I collide with the dresser. Something cuts my hand. I feel the sharpness followed by the familiar feeling of blood leaving my body. I fall to the ground and look at my hand. I remember that night again, another fragment of information to build on. I’m in the back of a van, Simon is lying next to me and I can’t wake him. It’s dark and I am afraid.
I am pulled back into the present by shouting. DS Miles is swinging for R and a silent cheer erupts in my mind as his fist connects with R’s jaw. The glee is short-lived, as R punches DS Miles back and then gets hold of the detective by the hair before smashing his head against the counter. DS Grey is tending to me and I find myself more worried that R is really going to hurt DS Miles.
More police officers turn up and break things up. I enjoy seeing R being pulled to the ground and cuffed like the criminal he is, but he is still smiling through it all. He knows he will get away with it. He always does. He knows I will say what he wants me to say, like I always have done. The few times I have spoken out against him, someone other than me has got really hurt and I can’t stand feeling responsible for that.
They cart him off in a police car and DS Grey makes the usual assurances to me about how they will get him. I smile and nod, because it’s futile explaining to them how smart he is – they won’t understand. How could they? They don’t know him like I do. No one does.
I watch her speaking to her partner and I realise there is more going on there than just a working relationship. It explains why I feel her bristling whenever we speak – she can see me pulling her partner in. It’s not my fault; I don’t want to. God knows I’ve told them to leave me alone enough times.
I give a statement of events, not entirely correct. I maintain the police have the wrong end of the stick and that I fell into the cabinet. No one believes me, least of all myself. Before long I am alone in the house. I start to clear away the broken glass and crockery, restoring the house to look as though nothing has happened, ready for when R is released tomorrow and comes home. I am grateful for the respite, though.
Chapter Forty-One
At her flat, Imogen tried to call Adrian. It had been a couple of hours since she drove off and left him licking his wounds at the Corrigan house. He wasn’t answering his phone. She had gone back to work and filed her report alone. Telling the truth but putting Adrian in a more favourable light than maybe he deserved. She guessed he was probably sulking in a pub somewhere. Maybe she should just find him and apologise again, or maybe she just needed to give him some space.
In the meantime, she went home. She pulled her hair into a bun so tight it pinched at her temples, a punishment for letting her mouth run away with her, for falling into Adrian’s trap. He had been spoiling for a fight; it was his preferred method of escapism.
Grabbing a pair of rubber gloves, she filled a bucket with hot water and bleach before making her way into the bathroom. He wouldn’t still be angry about it in the morning, would he? They had fallen out before, of course, but never over something so personal; usually it was just disagreements at work, or what to eat for dinner. This felt more serious, somehow. Some things stick and no matter how many times you say sorry, you would be better off if you had never said them in the first place. Once they are out there, it’s impossible to put them back in their box, back in your mind where they should have stayed.
Her modest flat felt neglected. Since they had fully embraced the idea that they were a couple, she spent more time at Adrian’s house; it was bigger and he liked to be where his son could find him. Not that Tom knew about them yet.
As she scrubbed the tiles in the bathroom, she felt a rising panic that this was the end of them, that he would disappear and she would never see him again if he didn’t call her this evening. Abandonment had always been in the background of any relationship Imogen had ever had. Residual anxiety from growing up without a father.
She thought about her ex-boyfriend, Dean, and how he had left her. How if she called him, he would answer. He always answered. Their relationship had been doomed from the start. He was fresh out of prison and she was a police officer when they first got together. The reality of the relationship set in and they accepted that neither one of them could change, so they broke up. The only way to stay apart was not to contact each other or the pull would be too much.
It’s not that she wanted to be with him more than she wanted to be with Adrian; it’s just that they had a connection that was hard to ignore. Dean and Adrian were so different and yet she’d loved them both. They both made her feel like a completely different person when she was with them. Adrian made her feel normal and quieted the storm inside her. He was a calming person, because he was so totally at ease with himself, which somehow transferred to her.
Then there was Dean, who was the complete opposite. He’d made her buzz with confusion, but there was something about his survival instinct that made her feel completely safe, as though he could protect her from anything. He could take the world on so she wouldn’t have to. Those feelings Dean gave her were nice to begin with but exhausting after a while. She entirely preferred the feeling she had when she was with Adrian.
The overpowering smell of bleach forced her to pull away from the floor. She raised her arm and covered her mouth for a moment, breathless, her eyes stinging from the fumes. She should open the window.
Why was she even thinking about Dean? He hadn’t contacted her and she knew he wouldn’t unless she asked him to first. The only thing that had changed with their circumstances was that she had Adrian now and that was an added reason to keep Dean at a distance. She knew that Adrian had his insecurities about Dean and maybe he was right. But she did find her mind drifting to what could have been every now and again. Not that she wanted it, but every relationship she managed to get into was fraught with complications that were insurmountable without some kind of life change.
This wasn’t about Dean, though; she wanted to speak to Adrian. The idea that she had upset him made her feel uneasy; she didn’t want to be the source of his pain. Not to mention the fact that it was probable that right now he was on some kind of bender, where more than likely he was talking his way into a punch in the face. It was a habit of Adrian’s that Imogen couldn’t get her head around. A throwback to his teens, from what she could ascertain, more than likely to do with the fact that he had felt a sense of achievement when he managed to goad his father away from hurting his mother and hitting him instead.
She felt like such a bitch for not being able to understand the draw the Corrigan investigation had for him. Besides which, that wasn’t her job. Her job was to make sure the bad guys went to prison.
Confident that she had scrubbed every inch and happy that she had suffered enough, she pulled her rubber gloves off, pulled her phone out of her pocket again and pressed the A icon on the screen. It rang and rang. Answer the damn phone.
Chapter Forty-Two
In the pub, Adrian sat alone at the bar. A group of guys chanted at the TV as the football came t
o an end. The bar was rammed with men in blue shirts. Chelsea had won at home and so there was much celebrating from a load of men who had probably never set foot inside the London borough. He ordered another Jack and Coke before going back to observing the rabble.
He picked up his phone and looked at the screen: no messages from Imogen, just a couple of missed calls. He felt guilty for storming off, but not guilty enough to apologise. He didn’t want to speak to her right now. He needed this time alone, but he had a knot in his stomach from earlier, a bad feeling. He hated arguing with Imogen and hated the fact that he had made her feel like she had done something wrong. They were both at fault here.
He knew he was feeling sorry for himself without good reason. As usual, he was hardly blameless. Either way, he couldn’t face that conversation tonight; it could wait until the morning.
He welcomed the feeling of light-headedness the drink gave him, but it wasn’t enough – he wanted to be drunk, to stop thinking altogether.
He ordered two more drinks and looked at the clock. The bar was open until two in the morning. He had a good four hours drinking left; he could do some real damage in that time. He felt like people were looking at him, judging him for being alone. He wasn’t sure exactly who he was rebelling against. Adrian had always struggled with being told what to do, even when it was himself doing the telling.
Over time, the pub emptied of football fans and filled with other revellers, either on their way to or from elsewhere. The music from the jukebox got louder and the corner nearest the toilets turned into an impromptu dance floor. It was a fairly central pub, so the clientele largely consisted of people passing through.
By midnight, Adrian had had enough. Tempted as he was to be the last person in the place, he had work in the morning and should probably sleep it off.
His phone buzzed again in his pocket, but he wouldn’t answer it now; he was too drunk not to say what he was thinking and he knew he wouldn’t be thinking it forever, so better to avoid saying it. For once, he was going to be sensible and wait until he had a chance to calm down before he did any permanent damage to their relationship. Imogen was too important to have this disagreement with. He had also lost count of how much he had drunk, but he was way past merry. After polishing off the dregs of what was left in his tumbler, Adrian left.
The streets were quiet, almost eerie. Considering how busy the pub had been, Adrian expected more people to be out, but owing to that pub’s late licence, most of the other bars in this area were already closed and any other people had moved on to the nightclubs, none of which were situated in this part of town. He walked down the hill towards St Thomas. It was a brisk fifteen-minute walk to his house and he had done it a thousand times or more. After the few people he saw on the lower part of Fore Street, the road ahead emptied with barely even a passing car.
Even through his drunken haze, Adrian’s instincts were sharp. Something was wrong; he wasn’t alone. Walking faster, he crossed the roundabout with ease, as there wasn’t even a car on the road. The silence was noticeable. Almost suffocating. There was an apocalyptic atmosphere, where anything could happen.
He kept his eyes ahead, looking for the St Thomas the Apostle church tower in the distance, which meant he was getting close to home. He approached the railway bridge on Cowick Street and heard the sound of a bottle being kicked somewhere behind him.
‘Who’s there?’ Adrian said, pausing for a moment.
Silence.
The red brick railway passage in front of him was like the entrance to another world, so close and yet so far. The archway was pitch-black. He could feel danger now. His skin prickled and his hairs stood on end.
Adrian picked up the pace and started to jog towards the railway arch. He could hear footsteps, running faster than him, but couldn’t tell if they were in front or behind him. Had someone followed him from the pub? He hadn’t noticed anyone watching him, but then again, he hadn’t really been paying attention.
Wishing he wasn’t so drunk, he kept moving forwards. The surge of adrenaline was sobering.
But there was still someone there with him; they were closer than before. The feeling inside that he had written off as paranoia earlier that evening was growing in intensity. He remembered an experiment he once read about that proved you could tell when someone was looking at you, an inbuilt instinct called a gaze detection system, largely to do with survival or attraction. Right now, Adrian knew that someone was looking at him. He was a target.
There was something wrong. The streetlights on the other side of the passage weren’t working; it was darker on that side than it was on his. Someone must have smashed them. He wished he had the strength and stamina that Imogen had when it came to running. She was a machine. He kept meaning to do more, to try harder. He was fit, but running for a long time took a set of skills that Adrian didn’t have. He would start tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
Sucking in a big gulp of air before entering the passage, which was barely fifty feet long, Adrian sped up and ran full pelt. If he could get to the streetlights, he would feel safer.
Before he knew it, he was out the other side of the passage. Just as his body untensed, he felt something swipe hard across the back of his head. A fist. He fell to the ground.
Chapter Forty-Three
Imogen pounded on Adrian’s door. There was no answer. She looked around and saw that his car was parked a little further up the road. It was gone midnight, but she couldn’t sleep. She didn’t want to be one of those girlfriends who couldn’t spend a night away from her man, but at the same time, she didn’t want to leave it the way it was.
She had scrubbed her kitchen and bathroom until they looked practically new again and then she had hopped in the shower. After drying her hair and jumping in bed, she accepted that she couldn’t just go to sleep. She at least needed to try to speak to Adrian again. Her mother had always said that you should never go to sleep on an argument. It was strange which pieces of advice stuck.
He wasn’t answering, so she decided paying him a visit was the only way. Wherever he was, it was just a walk away. She could take a punt and try a few pubs, find him and tell him again that she was sorry. She hated the way she was feeling. She felt like a bitch.
Usually that would come with some implied victory, but this was not deliberate – she didn’t play games with Adrian; there were no points to be won by upsetting him. Why couldn’t he stay in and binge-watch TV like everyone else did when they were pissed off?
She could probably get into Adrian’s place through the back if she wanted to, but he wasn’t at home and so there was no point. She looked at her phone again, but there had been no activity. This is bullshit. She was going to save herself the humiliation of ringing him again just to have her call ignored.
She didn’t understand his need for conflict. She could go to a pub if she wanted, flirt with some guy and get into some kind of disagreement with his girlfriend who she could pretend she hadn’t seen before, knowing full well that it was never about the flirting, more about the fight afterwards. There were worse ways to blow off steam, she supposed, but it wasn’t something she could ever imagine herself doing to relieve stress. For Adrian, it seemed to be the only way.
She got back into her car after a few minutes of waiting for him to turn the corner and walk towards her with his cheesy smile, telling her he was happy to see her and all was forgiven. The same when she pulled out of his street – she just expected Adrian to be walking right there. He wasn’t.
That familiar feeling of anger mixed with dread settled inside her. Anger that he was ignoring her, out somewhere getting drunk, mixed with the fear that the reason he wasn’t in touch was because he was lying dead somewhere. Try not to overreact. Imogen drove back to her flat; she would deal with Adrian in the morning.
Chapter Forty-Four
Dazed from the blow to the head, Adrian tried to get to his feet. It was so dark. There was a man there, but Adrian couldn’t make his face out. As Adrian tried to pu
ll himself up, the man kicked him, hard. He kicked Adrian again. A steel-toed boot crashed into Adrian’s rib and he screamed out in pain.
‘Shut up, pig,’ the man hissed.
This wasn’t random, Adrian realised. He knew Adrian was a police officer. Did Adrian recognise the voice? Had the man seen that little video clip of him rescuing Angela Corrigan online? Is that how he knew he was police?
The man grabbed Adrian by the collar and punched him in the face before spitting at him. Adrian felt warm, wet saliva on his face, mixed with his own blood from where his face had hit the pavement. He was dazed. His nose, taking the brunt of the impact and still sore from earlier where Corrigan had smashed it into the kitchen counter, was starting to swell.
Still holding Adrian’s collar, the man pulled Adrian towards the foot of the concrete stairs that led up to the Exeter St Thomas station platform. Parked next to the bottom of the stairs was a white van with the side door open.
The man heaved Adrian inside before jumping in himself. There was another man in the driver’s seat and small light overhead, which he turned off as he started the engine. The van was dark inside; all Adrian could see were shadows.
‘You’re both making a huge mistake.’
‘I told you to shut up.’ The man hit him again.
‘What is it you want?’ Adrian could taste blood in his mouth.
‘I told you not to fucking speak.’
Adrian felt fabric go into his mouth to shut him up. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it wasn’t clean; it was dusty and tasted of chemicals and grease. Adrian went to pull the fabric from his mouth and the man punched him in the ribs, a sharp pain shooting through him as the bones fractured. Breathing was difficult. His nose had swollen and without his mouth, he had to really concentrate on not panicking and making things worse.
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