Deviants

By Theodore Gospin

DEVIANTS is a thriller that starts in the flawed and ordinary lives of ordinary and flawed people that grows into an international adventure. It takes upon governmental and commercial strategies and ranges from the UK to the Middle east to the USA, following their adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jan 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781664118690

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 by Theodore Gospin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 01/27/2023

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Contents

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

1

2

3

4

5

PART TWO

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

PART THREE

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

PART FOUR

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

PART FIVE

42

43

44

45

46

47

PART SIX

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

PROLOGUE

G LEANING THE STREETS of Edinburgh.

Maybe not the most rewarding form of behaviour and certainly not one that he would have considered, even in a feasibility study, two years ago. But adaptation was the first principle of survival, and survival was not negotiable. Instinctive and irrevocable, it seemed some almost-supernatural quality to existence kept him alive. God alone knows there had been a time when his survival had not been down to his endeavours. Scotch whiskey—over a bottle a day at his height, until he could no longer afford it. Then over time he had gotten better. He had heard that the liver is the only internal organ that is capable of repairing itself, of regenerating when it is injured. Well, he had certainly injured his liver. Paradoxically, some may think, it was poverty that had repaired him.

Not his first choice. He reminded himself as he bent to pick up a particularly generous cigarette end that someone had discarded. He was careful that no one saw him. Probably that didn’t really matter. What if they did see him? If anything, he was doing them a favour, helping to keep the streets clean. And what could they think of him? That he was pitiable? That he was despicable? So what? He’d probably agree with them.

Someone had seen him, and that was exactly what they were thinking. He looked up. The woman was standing by the window of a solicitor’s suite three stories above. Her face, to his tired and alcohol-damaged vision, was little more than a blur, a pale blob against the darker background inside the office.

It was a woman though, he could tell. You could always tell whether it was a man or a woman. Something innate maybe? She felt . . . sorry for him.

He wasn’t sure he liked that. He could stand general classification because that was inane. This, however, was almost personal. She felt sorry for him without recrimination or question. She genuinely felt sorry for him. She measured him as a person and not one of the people—most unusual.

He hurried on, somehow exposed by the pathos he had caused and resolved to be more careful in future. He was letting his guard down. That was a result of the tablets, he knew. The doctor had explained that they would have this effect.

All the things will still be going on, but you will be better able to cope with them.

Dubious. He had been very dubious of this. Surely the analogy was that he was complacent because he was desensitised in some way. No. The doctor had explained these new drugs didn’t work that way. They controlled the chemicals in the brain that lead to high anxiety, panic attacks, and consequently, the physical results to the body that can prove so damaging.

He had come to realise that ease for the bitterness of self-recriminations for unworthiness and remorse was what he had been seeking in whiskey. In fact, he had learnt a lot more about himself, life, and people lately.

The rain started, heavy drops like the initial reconnaissance before the invasion. Looking up, he thought, there’s a deluge to come.

With a sigh, he took the coffee jar from his pocket and secured the lid. On a good day he could almost fill it with the khaki-coloured tabs that people discarded onto the streets. Back at his lodgings in Morningside, he would dismember them carefully, spilling their guts of golden-brown tobacco onto a plain sheet of paper, mixing and blending the rough with the fine until he had something he could use, something that was almost decent.

He felt the shadow accompanied by a chill awareness that came upon him like a ghost wind.

It was the two men again.

He was aware they had been stalking him for three days now. What he didn’t know was who or why.

They must be Social Security spies, but surely they did not suspect him of being a benefit cheat. If they did, what did they expect to learn by following and watching him? He was exempted from work because of a mental condition; he was not faking a bad back or some other physical disability. He was not about to inadvertently relapse into revealing he was shamming by forgetting himself for a moment. So why their interest?

He had heard about these fraud officers, and he could easily understand that if they caught someone who said they could hardly walk running to the bookies to catch the 3.05 off, then that person’s claim for benefit was questionable. Did they think they might apply the same scenario to someone suffering bipolar disorder? Could they say, This person walked five miles today without becoming angry, crying, or attempting suicide. Therefore, his claim is bogus?

They were coming closer, there was an intensity, a focus that was new. Turning, he saw their big black car drawing to a standstill at the curb adjacent to him. Was he about to find out what it was they wanted, why they were stalking him?

Excuse me, sir.

The man leaning from the window of the big black car sounded just like one of the actors in one of those American action series on the TV. He was quite taken aback by this; it was not something he had expected. But then, why should he?

We seem to have gotten ourselves a little lost here. I wonder, sir, could you direct us to Morningside? He flicked the pages of an A to Z, indicating it seemed useless to him with a palms-up gesture.

The rain was getting heavier by the moment. The day seemed to be darkening. They had certainly picked the worst time to effect this contact, but perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

Aye, but it’s not easy to direct from here. Where in Morningside do you want exactly? He shoved the coffee jar, which he had been hiding, back into his coat pocket.

Mid-, Midmar Drive, I think it is. I don’t know how you say it. The American referred to a piece of paper he’d held between his fingers as he leafed through the pages of the book.

Aye. Midmar Drive. Well, it so happens I have to go that way myself.

There was a moment of awkwardness as the passenger spoke in subdued tones to the driver then he turned back, the driver turned away, obviously in disagreement.

Well, why don’t we drop you en route, friend? You can direct us from there.

You’re very kind. He climbed into the back of the Land Cruiser. What brings you to Scotland anyway? I take it from your accent you’re American?

Oh, it’s business.

Really? You’ll not find much of that happening this side of the Atlantic. There’s thousands been put out of work every week. He realised that they weren’t moving. You can go straight on, drive. I’ll tell you when we’re near.

The driver looked generally ahead, and although the road was clear, he made no move to proceed. The rain was lashing down the windows now, but for some reason, the driver turned the wipers off and the view down the Coniston Road quickly became a blur in the streaming water.

Did you not hear me? You can carry on straight ahead. He felt very real stirrings that something was very wrong, not just the duplicity of these two.

They took their seatbelts off slowly and turned to face him. "The truth is, Jock, our business is with you."

Ah! So you’re getting to the point then, so come on then, boys. Let’s be having it: What’s your business with me?

PART ONE

1

W HEN THE WIND blew, she always felt this way: kind of dreamy, not scared any more. The fear seemed to be under control now, thanks to Dr Handson and his magic pills. All in all, she was coping much better, with everything. OK, so she no longer had a job, not at the moment but that was of piffling little consideration given that this time ten months ago she had seriously contemplated going to the railway lines and lying down.

No, that was not the truth, not really. She had never actually contemplated it. It had been a consideration; that was all. A get-out clause that made the rest of it somehow more bearable—like watching a hideously morbid programme on the TV but knowing that if you could only be bothered, you could always turn it off.

What Dr Handson had done was help her to find a different channel, a more benign and almost boring channel that had programmes that were almost sublime in their capacity to soothe, placate, and calm and yet somehow hold a whole new fascination. Not a fascination of new things, a new fascination for the old things, for the things that had always been this way. Even the things that had driven her half mad, for the nameless fear that crept upon her in the dark and when the wind blew or when the heavy snowflakes kept falling in her mind no matter how tightly she closed her eyes. Heavy globular cloying flakes seemed to be filling her head, filling her life—stifling and claustrophobic. And all the time, she felt it to be her own fault. If only she could steer away from the thoughts, the fears, but instead, she homed in on them, zeroed in like a moth to a candle where she had grown to relish the sweet agony of her turpitude.

Why the snow and the howling wind had grown to affect her so deeply she was at a loss. She had played in the snow when she was little and when she was not so little. There had been the great winter of 1964, or was it 1965? It didn’t really matter which. The point was it had been the first heavy snowfall that any of the infants had seen, and apparently, there hadn’t been that many since! What with global warming. The class project had been to build a snowman. Even in those days, the teachers disdained the throwing of snowballs and the rough and tumble in the drifts that was all the children really wanted to do. After school had been different. Unseen by her parents as her mother served Father his dinner, she had rolled and gambolled in the fluffy white fresh snow. So much so that it had caked in her ear and would not come out until she developed a dull ache that necessitated seeking her mother’s aid. A warm flannelette was all that it had taken, and in minutes, she was back in the fray with the other children of Swan Road.

As for the wind, well, her earliest memories of the howling cry that had so assailed her in later life were listening to it dreamily as she went down for her midday nap, curled up in the big brown chair that smelled of her father’s tobacco, safe and secure and snug as a bug in a rug. Knowing her mother would wake her in a little while with a cup of tea and a biscuit. If she was lucky, a custard cream so she could dismantle it and scrape the filling from whichever half it adhered to. Her mother always said she was lucky they had some custard creams. It was never anything else! Later in life, she wondered if this was a psychological ploy of her mother’s.

The wind thundered around the corner of the block, slamming across the windows with the occasional particle of rain. It was not, however, one of the grey, depressing days that one associated with England in the early summer. There was sunshine on the horizon, and the beads of water were multicoloured and bright, glistening diamonds against the backdrop of the city that was alive and thriving, perhaps not with wealth and commerce but with people with all their woes, cares, loves, dislikes, fortune, and vicissitudes. In a way, she was glad that she was no longer a part of the hustle and bustle, the daily commute, dealing with the public and compiling reports and stats. Truly, whilst she had held the post of customer complaints manageress for the large department store, she had been proud. It had been a big part of her life. Too big a part of her life, she now thought. Maybe she missed the car, the expensive dinners when she had to attend some meeting or seminar. Maybe she even missed her old flat overlooking the canal with the bar on the opposite bank, a short walk across an ornate iron-and-tarmac bridge. She did not miss these things that much though, and she certainly did not miss the two-faced fawning of her subordinates. It had recently been her birthday, and she had not received a single card, let alone the presents she used to have heaped upon her. She enjoyed most of the gifts as thoughtful and well meant, with just a few ringing of self-promoting goodwill hunting. The gifts she received from suppliers she normally passed on to her team anyway; perhaps that was a kind of inverse obsequiousness.

Too much time on her hands now. That was the problem. She’d been sitting here looking down upon the world both figuratively and physically for too long. Watching the tiny people going about their business, she had no business of her own to go about. It was time for her to make the concerted effort; she thought yet again: To strike out and leave her mark yet again on that living world out there.

But she thought with a sigh, what chance did she have at her age? Oh, she could disguise her recent history; there was no reason for prospective employers to know just how badly her misfortune had hurt her. In every real, sense she was just another victim of the cruel age everyone lived in. It was just harder for her because . . . well, maybe because she had actually cared too much. Rubbish! She told herself, she had sat behind that desk for nearly ten years. It had been a big part of her life. It would be a big part of anybody’s life; it was natural that she would miss it, mourn for it, except, of course, that was not the only thing that she was mourning. The memory of Alban was still a tentative sore spot.

As ever, she breathed deeply and sought something to do in order to take her mind away from the dangerous fields it had begun to tread.

The young mother who had the flat across the landing was returning with her shopping. Why oh why didn’t her young man go with her? It looked so precarious to have plastic carriers dangling from the handles of the pushchair. He really should be helping her instead of sitting in that flat, probably playing computer games or some such puerile waste. Thank heavens her own daughter had not turned out like that, though it had been a close thing at one stage. That was many years ago and much water had passed under the bridge since then.

A shiny black SUV pulled into the car park just as her neighbour was tilting the wheelchair back to lower it down the curb and cut across the tarmac. She heard, or imagined, the snatch of its tyres as it stopped dead. Her neighbour looked for a moment at the occupants of the car, but it didn’t seem an altercation was about to start. Nodding, the girl lowered Florence onto the tarmac and pushed her directly across towards the entrance to the flats. The SUV turned in a tight circle to park nearly directly beneath. She put her empty coffee cup down and stood to get a better view. Two men were getting out. They were dressed in dark clothes, suits. Some kind of businessmen? Perhaps they were part of some religious order. No! They were bailiffs or debt collectors of some kind; that was the most likely explanation in these times. Certainly she did not recall seeing them about before. The one who didn’t have a phone pressed to his ear seemed to be saying something to someone who was too directly below her for her to see them, but she guessed it must be her neighbour now standing by the main front entrance. For a moment, the one with the phone looked up at the building. He then pocketed his phone and ran to catch the other, who was striding purposefully to the door.

She found herself mentally berating her neighbour’s lack of regard for the security of the building. They’d all had people asking to let them in because they’d lost their microchip pass or wanted to see someone they knew was in but wasn’t answering. Those two men in black suits were obviously bad news for someone, and now that person would not be prepared for their impending arrival.

Maggie!

What? Oh.

The light above Dr Tully’s name had been blinking; she quickly found the next name on his schedule and invited them to go to room 4: an elderly woman with her daughter dutifully attending to her, both with stern expressions of serious concern.

You want to pay a little more attention, young lady, if you really want this job.

Maggie knew that Mrs Petifer had secretly wanted her niece to get the job in the medical centre reception, also was no secret to Maggie that the practitioners frowned upon Mrs Petifer’s nepotism. Maggie had known this might be a bumpy ride.

I’m sorry I was just—

Just daydreaming about your boyfriend. Just concentrate on your work.

Maggie decided it was better to ignore the harridan; she was liable to take things too far. Maggie was not impressed in the least by her senior’s lack of professionalism. At first she had thought the woman must be hard of hearing. That was the usual cause of people raising their voices above that which was normally acceptable. She now knew, however, there was nothing wrong whatsoever with Mrs Petifer’s hearing. It was pure posturing. Maggie couldn’t help but imagine that if the woman’s ways were not soon curtailed she would soon be saying things to the patients like "Did you take the tablets properly? or You shouldn’t be back. That cream worked on Mr Brown’s piles."

And stop smirking.

Sorry, Mrs Petifer, I just—

I don’t want to know.

Maggie was relieved that the phone had started ringing. Medical Centre.

Mrs Petifer, robbed of her victim for the moment, went back to sorting prescriptions into alphabetical order.

Watching all this, he felt amused. It seemed that people had no limit to their ability to entertain. The young woman, well, little more than a girl, obviously harried by her elder who had been the matriarchal figurehead of the practice for the three years he had been a patient. Not that he used to visit as often. The doctor said he wanted to see him every month; he wouldn’t just complete a repeat prescription docket. It was a bit of a chore, but then with entertainment like this, he should not feel aggrieved.

The older one felt the younger had stepped over the mark or was trespassing in some fashion. He felt he’d like to know how this had come about because Maggie was more interested in her social life than anything the medical centre or Mrs Petifer could offer. In fact, she was madly head over heels in love with someone who was perfect, too perfect. It was like a dream. She could hardly believe it, but she wanted to savour every moment; the bit of her mind that could be dragged away to focus on Mrs Petifer’s concerns was minute and wriggled to rejoin the warmth and glory of her mainstream bliss.

He began to stand.

Mr Verne, Dr Hanson, room 3.

Thank you.

It was as if the wind lightly kissed the front door and then the bell rang once. She sat for a long moment just looking down the hallway. She could see the door from where she sat by the window, and as surely as if she could see through it, she knew it was the two men from the SUV who awaited her attention there.

The bell rang a second time, and she got to her feet and advanced along the hall.

Who’s there? she called, trying to sound halfway between friendly inquisitiveness and interrogatory self-assertion, though in a way, she felt that she already knew. But it was very complicated.

I know! I was shitting myself!

I don’t think they’re police now though. Andy had his eye pressed to the spyhole in the door. They’re some kind of officials though. She’s not foreign, is she?

Mrs Hardcastle? Angie was pulling the notes out of her knickers and stuffing them down the back of the sofa. You soft bastard, she’s more British than I am . . . more British than the queen.

Florence was crying in her pushchair.

Shut her up. I can’t hear.

Angie refastened her jeans and lifted the baby out of her cot chair, There, there, keep disturbing you, did they? Then to Andy: "Get that stuff out of her chair and back in the stash closet. You never know, they may be pretending to be interested in her."

If they come this way, it’s going out the window, not in the closet.

Angie was about to carry Florence into her room but turned abruptly back as there were raised voices and a loud thud from outside.

What the— Andy twisted to get as close to the spyhole as he could. I don’t believe it. Man, it’s going off, it’s going off!

What the fuck’s going on? Angie carried Florence back to stand by Andy. Let me see!

Man, it’s going off! They’re kicking the door in!

Angie carried Florence halfway down the hall then turned. Andy! Andy! They may have the wrong flat!

Andy looked at Angie for a long moment before it sank in. Oh God! Oh no. No. No. He ran to the pushchair and began to throw the blankets on the floor to retrieve the drugs that hadn’t been sold.

Angie rushed Florence into her room and put her into the cot and ran back to the front door to look through the spyhole. A breeze brushed her wispy blonde hair and she went to shout but then thought better of it and ran through to the living room where Andy had the window open.

Don’t be a fucking idiot—wait! We don’t know they’re onto us!

Andy paused, his hands full of small plastic envelopes. He looked at Angie for a long moment and then said, Well, go and keep watch, then. Warn me if they come this way.

Dr Hanson was hiding something; it was high in his mind that he couldn’t reveal it, whatever it was. Doug decided to fish a little.

No, I haven’t noticed any difference. Have they recalled the old tablets?

No, not at all. They’ve just been superseded by a different formula. It’s still an inhibitor, but it’s a bit milder, if anything, than the pills you’ve been taking. You did know that they may have some side effects, well, these are much safer.

Well, I didn’t want to take them in the beginning, but I’ve got to admit I quite like them now.

Oh and why is that?

Dr Hanson rested back in his chair, intent to listen to Doug’s explanation. But Doug knew that the doctor wasn’t at all interested really. It was merely a diversion, and they were going off track from the truth behind the change of medication.

Well, I suppose that I have felt more relaxed. I haven’t lost my temper so easily. I’ve felt more easy-going, less pressurised.

Good, I’m glad they’re working. These new pills will work just as well, and if nothing else, they’ll give me peace of mind.

"It’s not really your mind we’re talking about though, Doctor."

Dr Hanson laughed gently. Very good, no, it isn’t, but I have a duty to do the best that I can for my patients, Mr Verne, and believe me, this is the best thing for you.

Well, if you’re sure, Doctor.

Absolutely.

Outside, Doug Verne breathed deeply, counting. There was something other than what the doctor was telling him, he was sure of it. He had heard once that doctors actually got kickbacks and incentives from pharmaceutical companies for issuing their product. He hadn’t really found that very plausible; however, these days, it seemed some form or degree of corruption in some area or other was always in the news. Certainly he had the distinct impression that Dr Hanson felt closely and personally involved. At least there seemed to be no ill feeling or machinations towards himself.

Anyway, what choice did he have? In a way, it was like the start of the adventure all over again, the taking of a new drug. He wondered what the future held for him this time.

It was a short walk from the medical centre to his mom’s house. He found himself opening the iron gate to the garden while he was still idling, mulling things over in his mind. The garden looked much better now. He had surprised himself with a degree of proficiency with a fork and spade and a green thumb he had never suspected. Nothing that special, but the edges of the lawn were neat and straight, posies and bluebells that he had planted as seed had come through. The typically English rhododendron, honeysuckle, and roses all looked healthy enough. It almost made him wonder if such proficiency could be put down to nature and not nurture. Certainly he felt he had paid little enough heed to his father when he had tried to interest him in gardening. And yet look now, his mother’s garden was nearly as kempt as when father was still alive and able.

His mom was sitting in her favourite chair in the front room. It faced the mirror on the far wall so she could see most of what was going on outside. The radio was tuned to her favourite chat show host.

Hello, Mom, want a cup of tea?

Love one, please. How did you get on at the doctor’s?

Same old thing, gave me another two or three months at the most.

I do wish you wouldn’t—

Has the home help been today?

"It’s not home help any more. It’s a proper nurse now."

I take it she has been, then, he called back as he went through to the kitchen. Did she have anything to say?

Just all the usual stuff: am I taking all my pills and are my movements regular?

And what did you say? Doug couldn’t find a clean cup and so had resorted to washing the cleanest from the draining board. He resolved to himself he would do all the washing up after he had sat with her for a while.

"I just told her yes. She has to get on anyway to see someone else, some other old biddy she can treat like a child."

Doug stood in the doorway, drying his hands on a tea towel while waiting for the kettle to boil. What’s she like? Do you like her?

I think it was better when I had proper home help. Most jobs are below a nurse—well, you don’t like to ask them, do you?

Why, what is it you want?

Well, the bulb in the bog’s gone. I couldn’t see to clean up.

Surely you can find your own behind, Doug observed as he headed for the whistling kettle.

It happened so fast that Angie wasn’t sure of the exact sequence of events. The men in the black suits who had ridden up in the elevator with her were talking loudly through the door she noticed that at least one of them had an American accent.

Come on, Dee, open the door—there’s a good girl.

And as this was being said, they pushed something into the lock and threw their weight against the door. It burst in to stop on three inches of chain.

Mrs Hardcastle started screaming for help and shouting at the intruders to go away.

Angie rushed into the bedroom, snatched up Andy’s baseball bat, and ran back, shouting, Andy! Come on!

Before she had even realised the implication, she had the door open and was brandishing the bat at them. What the hell do you think you’re doing?

The men were kicking frantically at the door one after the other with all their weight, but the chain was holding, so far. They both looked around; one said something like get her back inside before stepping up his efforts to get through the door by throwing his shoulder against it. Angie weighed the bat carefully as the man approached her, his hands extended palms towards her.

Don’t be silly now, miss. This has got nothing to do with you. Just go back inside.

One more step and I’ll cave your fucking head in!

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The man pulled the cuffs of his jacket up slightly and seemed to stoop, ready for a charge.

Angie!

She was grabbed from behind and twisted back through the door. Caught completely off guard from a direction she hadn’t expected, she staggered around, just barely keeping her balance. It was Andy, and he was scrabbling at the edge of the door to close it with one hand while still holding her collar with the other.

She flung the bat at the man, and it bounced up from the floor directly in front of him with a hard wood clank, hitting his knees and, she hoped, his testicles. At least he gave a half grunt and seemed to crouch a little lower. Then Andy had slammed the door and was throwing the bolts and putting their own chain on. The door lurched with a thump as the man either kicked it or shoulder charged it, and Andy dragged Angie quickly along the hallway to the living room.

What in fuck are you doing, girl! Don’t get us involved in that!

When Angie had gotten free of Andy, she went halfway back down their hall and shouted. I’m phoning the police, so you’d better fuck off! I’m calling the police, do you hear?

Andy was hopping from one foot to the other, shaking his head in disbelief.

A police car screamed past as he came out of the shop, its blue lights and siren cutting through the scene like a jagged knife. They’ll never sell any ice cream going at that speed, he thought.

They’ll never sell any ice cream going at that speed, the Sikh shopkeeper said.

Doug was mildly surprised to find the man had come to the shop doorway behind him without his noticing, but then his attention had been on the police car with its cargo of studied urgency.

"Morecombe and Wise," the shopkeeper added.

I know.

Anyway, say hello to your mother for me. I hope she enjoys the light bulb. Mr Singh’s sense of humour was the stuff of legend in the area.

Doug’s mother seemed quite well. He had grown to accept that she would have her good days and bad days. He had learnt not to raise his hopes with the highs. She had hardly broached the subject of his moving back in permanently; they had that conversation his every visit. The simple facts were that financially they stood to lose too much if he was in permanent attendance to his mother.

He had trouble fitting the new bulb. He suspected the bayonet fitting on the short lead was decaying and, lifting the toilet lid and seat, stepped up to be able to use both hands to secure the fit. When he pulled the cord, it seemed to work fine, and anyway, it was too high to be a hazard for his mother. As he steadied himself to step down, his eyes fell upon the blood-spattered pan of the toilet bowl. He froze as the inevitability of the situation hit him for the thousandth time.

2

H EAD UP, DOUGY boy, it may never happen.

Oh, it will definitely happen.

"What? What will happen?"

Doug Verne wished he hadn’t come into the pub. In fact he didn’t know why he had. He had been in one of those existential dazes that seemed to happen more since his mom had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Or was it more since he had been on those tablets the doctor had prescribed? Whatever. He had been walking back towards his flat, his thoughts—well, his thoughts had been upon his mom, upon the inevitable finality that was coming and perhaps the futile nature of everything. He had walked into the Barley Shovel just as he would have in the old days, before his near breakdown through alcohol addiction. It was just the natural place to go. One could assuage one’s deepest troubles here, lose the tensions of the day, the pent-up strains. Talk rubbish with people you hardly knew, argue the banal.

I thought you’d given up anyway, Kenny said when it became obvious Doug wasn’t going to give a simple answer to a simple question.

Yeah, well . . . I’m just having the one.

Come and have a game of arrows. We’re teaching this Yank how to play.

What Yank? Doug turned to face Kenny and look along the bar generally in the direction of the dartboard.

Phillip Something-or-other American—he’s going out with Maggie Carter.

The one who went to work in the doctor’s? I saw her today.

"Bet he’s seeing a lot more of her. Come on, the guy’s throwing money around like confetti."

She felt quite ridiculous, sitting there with a cup of coffee whilst her daughter lambasted the police officers in the hallway. It was like a complete reversal of roles, as if her daughter was driven to protect her. Her daughter was consigning her to be aged and vulnerable, and she did not want that!

We’ll be watching, but it’s unknown for this kind of crime to be repeated so soon.

And that’s supposed to be some kind of comfort, is it? There must be more you can do. You got descriptions from them across the hall. You run that through your computer or something?

The detective in charge of the case already has statements from all concerned. The best thing now is to try to settle down. I know that seems hard, but it’s the best thing for everyone.

Come away, Belinda. Leave the officers to their job.

Her daughter turned a scowling accusatory face to her as she had appeared in the hallway unseen. Mom! You should be taking it easy.

I am. It’s you. I was here when it happened. I’ve had time. It’s understandable that you should feel angry now. It’s a natural reaction, but the officers are right. There’s nothing more to be done at the moment. Just let them get on with it.

When the police had gone, Belinda came and sat next to her in the living room, with her own cup of coffee. I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Mom.

Don’t be silly, Linda. People can’t be everywhere, and anyway, there was nothing you could have done. There was nothing anyone could have done. It’s a sign of the times we’re in.

You’re taking this very well.

"There’s not much else I can do, is there? It just all seems so strange."

What do you mean?

Oh. She hesitated a moment. I mean, you hear and read about these things, but you never think it’s going to happen to you. The truth would certainly upset her daughter more, she knew. The truth was this had not been an opportunistic strike by thieves set on stealing what they could from vulnerable lone people. That had become obvious during her interview with the grey-haired detective. These unknown men had specifically targeted her. They had called her by name—well, a shortened version. They had even asked Angie, the girl down the hall, about her as they rode up in the lift. The detective was quite sure this was the start of a possible series of incidents by a semi-professional gang who planned their robberies. What he didn’t know at this stage was what they were using as a database to select their targets. He had spent well over an hour going over the details of her life, his male companion making notes.

At the end, Belinda still had not arrived from Harpenden; he had even offered that he could have her moved into safety until they had investigated further. By this time, the shock and fear had morphed into a kind of fascination topped with controlled anger, and she was not about to be frightened out of her own home, such as it was, by these people. The detective had to go but left the fingerprint team busy on the outside of the front door and made sure the two officers who had arrived first, a man and a woman, would wait until Belinda had arrived before they went.

Well, this brings back memories. I’d better get the spare bed made up, Belinda said, crossing to the window to look down at her car. Do you still keep everything in the same place?

I’ll do it, she said, standing up. You’ve had a long drive.

And you’ve had a terrible shock.

But I’m all right now.

Let’s do it together. I left some of my stuff here, you know. I wonder if it’s still there.

In the chest of drawers., of course it is. She gave her daughter her cup. You wash the cups while I get the bedding.

His breath was loud in his ears; the fever of the hunt burned in his brain and throbbed in his veins. Predatory drive pushed at his back, propelling him to the edge of the alley. Here he pulled back and stopped breathing despite his long run. She was nearer than he thought. He could hear the sound of her heels clacking on the pavement as she approached. He pulled back further, needing to breathe, his blood still boiling from running.

She was so close now, he could smell her perfume.

This is wrong.

Oh! For a moment, the edges of reality itself seemed to blur. Something seemed to move deep below the surface, something that was deep inside at the back of his head.

This is wrong. Wrong.

It was part of him, his run across the road from the club, his vault over the railings. Watching, watching until she came out. She turned to the left, going home. He watched her, craved her. Then he was running, down the slope, across the car park with its low walls, under the overpass, over the wheelie bins and over the wall into the back alley. She had left alone!

This was it. This was it. This was it!

This is wrong. This is wrong.

A kind of duality . . . He began to feel lightheaded.

Quickly now, get ready. She’s nearly here, she’s nearly here.

The excitement was almost overwhelming. The trepidation, the fear, the shiver of certainty—this was it.

He had her around the neck! Dragging her into the alley. She had started with fear and pain; he was so rough, now she was building up towards a full-blown scream he could feel her marshalling her breathing for one big explosion.

Don’t! He jerked her savagely, half punching the side of her face and wrenching her head backwards savagely.

Toppling, he fell on top of her, his forearm across her throat. She was pinned down. Her eyes looking up at him were wide, terrified.

This is wrong. This is not me.

It was like he was caught by some greater gravity sucking away, pulled away from her.

This is not me. THIS IS NOT ME!

It was like trying to walk on the deck of a ship in a roiling sea or swing on a hammock suspended on bungee cord. Who am I? He struggled, his every fibre trying to grasp some thread of reality, floundering, unable to swim, not knowing which way the surface lay. Get a grip.

He rolled to the side and vomited over the side of the bed then lay back, breathing deeply. At once, the smell and shame began to affect him. God, what a dream, what a nightmare! It had been as if some beast within him had been released, as if he could bend reality to suit his whim.

The walls rolled towards him as he made his way to the bathroom. He had to steady himself, first one side and then the other. He barely had time to turn the light on before he had to double up over the washbasin and was sick again and again, until he was dry and his stomach began to hurt.

He looked at his eyes in the mirror. They looked almost dead, soulless like the eyes of a shark, he thought.

Dougy, Dougy, what have you done? He washed the sink and then doused his head in cold water and drank from his hands until he began to feel better. He felt he could stand without bracing himself against the washbasin.

Well, that’ll teach you. Don’t drink when you’re on pills.

He put the kettle on for coffee while he filled a bowl in the kitchen and cleaned the mess from the side of his bed. He realised his sheets were soaking wet and rolled them off onto the floor. He’d deal with that in the morning.

The TV was on quietly in his living room. He sat down on his sofa with his coffee and dug out the cigarettes he had stashed in case his willpower dwindled. His first inhalation set him to coughing painfully for half a minute until he thought he was going to be sick again. Then the irritation and pain subsided as the anaesthetic effect and the tobacco high set in. He leaned back on the sofa and took another long luxurious draw on the cigarette. The news channel was saying something about raids on suspected terrorists. He sipped his coffee and thought about finding the remote to change channels, see if he could find something interesting; mind absorbing. He changed his mind just as quickly. The clock on the DVD player said it was 03:34. He’d finish his coffee and get back to bed.

How long had he stayed in the pub? He had a feeling he’d been there till closing time. Such a fool—if nothing else, he could no longer afford that kind of expense. Had he been buying drinks for other people? Had he gotten cabbaged? It was too hard to remember.

Then he had nearly choked in bed, and there had been that dream. That dream . . .

Mom, Mom, wake up.

She roused herself from the depths of a childhood wonderland. That voice had sounded like Belinda, but Belinda wasn’t . . . Then she awoke fully.

What is it? What’s the matter?

It’s all right. You were just having a dream—that’s all. I thought . . . Well, I thought it was best to break it in case . . . Belinda had turned the lampshade on her bedside cupboard on and she squinted at the clock in the glare.

It’s half past three in the morning.

I know, but I was worried that you were having a bad dream, a flashback or something.

What was I doing?

You were talking.

In my sleep? Was I loud?

Not really, no. But I could hear something and I came to see, I thought you were on the phone or something at first. Can’t you remember what you were dreaming? Belinda sat on the foot of her bed.

No. Yes, well, I mean. It was silly. What was I saying?

It sounded like ‘get away’ and ‘don’t touch my baby.’ Belinda smiled at her mother. What were you dreaming?

It was silly . . . I dreamt I was a little girl again, but I took you in a pushchair to school for the other children to admire. They really loved you and they were all jealous. When the teachers came, I’d cover you up so they’d just think it was an empty pushchair because they’d be jealous of me if they saw you. They’d feel I was undermining their authority with the other children. Sometimes they’d find you though, but it didn’t really matter. Nothing bad could really happen, and the next day, I’d do the same thing again. I felt happy.

Belinda was smiling wanly. Are you sure you’re all right?

Of course. Go back to bed now. We’ll talk in the morning.

Goodnight, Mom.

Goodnight, Linda.

Morning, Doug, it’s Jessica Heggarty. I hope you don’t mind my calling you?

Oh, er no, no, that’s fine. How are you? Doug rubbed the back of his neck, which was stiff from the acute angle he had lain on the sofa. He had meant to turn the damned mobile off when it had started ringing but, in his befuddled state, had opened the connection. It was too late now, and he was waking up fast and painfully. He couldn’t just hang up on her.

I’m very well, thank you. How are you?

Good. I’m fine, thank you. Long time no see.

Do you remember at our last meeting I said I was putting you down for group therapy sessions?

Yes, but you said you had to be very careful about admittance to groups, keeping them upbeat and positive as opposed to a commiseration debacle.

That’s right, but I’ve got a vacancy and the group profile would fit you to a tee. I take it you’re still clean?

Yes. Doug squeezed his temples with thumb and forefinger of one hand, his eyes tightly shut. I er, I’m pretty busy though, as you know, Mom and all that.

How is your mom now?

Well, she’s not going to get any better. Doug regretted it as soon as he said it, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so aggressive, but I mean, one must face up to the truth.

Of course. To tell you the truth, it’s your pragmatic approach I’m most interested in. I think you would be good for other members of this group. I think you could help them.

Me?

Yes, why not? Do you think you could spare a few hours for one meeting? The only thing I ask is that you stay once you’re here. It would look very negative if you got up and left and would be very bad for the other members. If you really don’t like it, you need not come again,

Well, I don’t know . . .

I could use your help, Doug.

When is it?

You know you’ll have to teach me properly how to do these pancakes, Belinda said as she poured maple syrup over her bacon.

I’ve told you over and over: There’s no secret to it, just batter mix, ordinary batter mix.

They were sitting at her table, having breakfast, and she had to admit it was good to have Belinda here. She supposed it was good to have anyone here. Loneliness was an insidious thing.

Do you always have bacon and pancakes for breakfast?

No, of course not.

I’m honoured. I used to love it when you did this when I was little.

It’s funny . . . she started and then wished that she hadn’t but had to continue. I used to hate doing things like this then, all the trouble. I was so involved with my career. I thought that was all that mattered.

I know. I understand. But that’s not a bad thing. I’m not doing so bad, you know, and I put it down to your genes and your example.

But nothing lasts, you know, Linda. Some things are more important than work.

Have you thought about going back? Into work, I mean. I know you can’t go back to the store.

What would I do? She watched her daughter carefully, amused at the prospect of what her daughter would think her capable of.

Anything, I’m sure you could do anything you fancied, really. Have you thought about it?

Not much. If anything, I’m glad of the rest.

Belinda concentrated on her breakfast for a moment, her brow furrowed. She knew what was coming. I saw you’ve still got those tablets in the bathroom. Do you still take them?

There was no point in lying; she knew her daughter would have checked the date on the box. Yes, they’re nothing special. Anyway, a lot of people take pills.

Yes, but you said it was only going to be temporary. You said you didn’t want to become a sedative junkie.

Well, they’re not as bad as I thought. I mean do I seem any different to you?

I don’t know. If anything, you seem too well. I mean, you’ve just had two gorillas trying to get in the door at you and yet—

Thanks for reminding me.

And yet you seem as right as rain. In fact, it’s as if you’re thriving on it.

Better than curling up and submitting, I would have thought.

Belinda pushed the plunger down on her café tier and poured herself a cup. Why don’t you come back to Harpenden with me, just for a short while?

And what would Bruno think of that?

I’m sure he’d be fine, I only mean for a couple of days, a week at the most, just so I can be sure you’re really OK. You can’t blame me for worrying about you.

No, it’s no good, Linda. I couldn’t stand to be in the vicinity of that man.

Mom, if I can forgive him, then why can’t you? After all, it was me he did it to.

That’s just the way it is. Maybe that’s what mothers are for.

The black SUV was parked on the roof of an NCP in the centre of the city. The two men sat in the front; the passenger had a notebook laptop. OK, I’m in the room.

Who else?

Golden Gate and Eiffel—uh, Great Wall’s just entered. He started typing briskly and professionally. I’m telling them we’ve temporarily missed the mark.

"I like the temporarily. We can’t go back there."

We may have to.

They sat in silence for a while, the passenger typing in reply to lines that appeared on the screen before him.

EIFFEL: THE FISHING TRIP IN CANADA WENT VERY WELL.

GREAT WALL: GLAD TO HEAR IT. WE NEED THE UK ANGLE TIED UP FIRST THOUGH. WE NEED YOU GUYS TO GET A WIGGLE ON THERE, DO YOU READ ME?

They’re saying they want to see results and fast.

Tell them we’ve got a second mark, see what they think.

TOWER BRIDGE: THERE MAY BE A SHORTCUT AT OUR END. A NEW LEAD HAS PRESENTED ITSELF. IT MAY BE QUICKER THAN RE-SEEDING THE EXISTING PROSPECT.

GREAT WALL: SEND ME THE DETAILS. IN THE MEANTIME, RE-ESTABLISH THE ORIGINAL CONTACT. I’LL LET YOU KNOW ASAP.

OK, they want the details.

TOWER BRIDGE: WHITE. NAME: DOUGLAS JULIAN VERNE. CAUCASIAN, 34 YEARS. BEEN ON CYTODOL FOR 14 MONTHS. PREVIOUS HISTORY OF ALCOHOL AND SUBSTANCE ABUSE AND ATTENDED