Chapter Thirty Two
Bridger was sitting in the dark office, alone. It had been a week since they recovered Marion, a week since he had sent Daniel to his death outside the old Woodhaugh Hotel. It had been a week since he had seen his wife outside the Cafe. It had been almost a week since he had his last drink.
After his discharge from the hospital he returned to an empty house, Bridger had found himself at a loss; he had no idea where he went from there. John Maine's words were festering in his head. He was beholden to men of no character; he was beholden to his own frailty of emotion.
He had looked in the cupboard for his solace; he almost found it in the half-empty bottle of Jamesons. Catching his reflection in the glass as he poured, the image had distorted in front of his eyes, it turned into something ugly, something that looked just like the puppet bride, strung up in an abstract image of hell. That was something he never wanted to see again. He had hurled the glass against the wall and smashed the image into a thousand pieces.
Placing the bottle back in the cupboard, he had closed the door. When he looked at the smooth texture of the wood, he could not see any image there. As long as the door stays shut, the image stays locked away.
He had not opened the door since.
Matthews had started a closed investigation into John Maine; his involvement in the hostage drama kept under wraps. The official line was 'Historical abuse of power complaints'. He had suppressed the exact details. Matthews had then tied Gallagher into it. Whatever Gallagher had on him must have been of no use in the end. Alternatively, Matthews just did not care anymore.
It is funny what perspective things take when death and all his angels come to visit, he thought.
No one had said anything about Jonas Clifton, he had let it lie, but he knew he would have to face that skeleton one day.
The phone started ringing in the darkness. Bridger looked at it with disinterest.
It continued to ring.
He picked up the receiver.
"Mike, its Gillian", her voice was slightly shaky, "John Maine has just thrown himself off Lawyers head".
"Shit".
"That's not all, Marion Watson is downstairs… She was there when it happened".
"I'll be right down". He placed the receiver on the cradle and looked into the darkness of the room.
Taking a deep breath Bridger stood up and stretched his back.
When it all came down to it, you had one of two options, make the best of what you have, face your past, make amends and move on, or run away and join the circus.
John Maine had not done either.
Walking out into the hall, he hoped that Marion would choose the right option. He would find out either way...
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Wasted Lives
A Detective Mike Bridger novel
By Mark Bredenbeck
Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel Page 33