She would put her fingers in her ears and scream. She had no choice.
She thought about Alison, so removed from everything. More than anything she wanted to bring her back. But with the fear and hate and mistrust that seemed to be so much part and parcel of everything, she couldn't help but wonder if Alison might be better off where she was. She turned the radio on. There was nothing worth listening to, but she was nearly home anyway.
The bath was starting to get cold.
Thorne sat up and looked at his watch, which was lying next to his mobile phone on the toilet lid. Nearly one o'clock in the morning.
He'd been lying, completely still, with his head under the water. His eyes were open and he stared up at the ceiling swimming above him, waiting for the water to stop moving around him and seeing how long he could hold his breath. It was a game he had played as a kid, lying in a steaming bath in that big old, echoey bathroom, pretending to be dead. He had stopped the night his grandmother came in, saw him, and took a bit of a turn. He'd sat bolt upright the second she screamed, but he would never forget that look on her face. It was a look he'd seen many times since.
He'd usually have a glass of wine in the bath, but tonight he had thought better of it. It wasn't that he was or the wagon. He'd clambered aboard that particular vehicle a couple of times and it was a very dull ride. He just didn't think he should have a drink.
Not on a Tuesday night.
It felt, in so many ways, like the beginning of something. Since last night he'd thought about Jan a few times, but not in a maudlin or sentimental way. Being with Anne hadn't made him think about what he was missing. On the contrary, he realised finally that he hadn't been missing it. Missing Jan. And it might be the beginning of the end of the sweat stained nightmare that was this case. He thought about Holland and Hendricks out on a limb for him and hoped that what might happen the next day would save them the trouble. It could all be that easy, He wouldn't march back into Keable's office like Charlie Big Potatoes, full of himself, but it would be close.
Thorne got out of the bath, toweled himself off and threw on his dressing-gown. Ignoring the plastic Thresher's bag in the kitchen, he walked across to the stereo and stuck on Grievous Angel by Gram Parsons. Now, there was a man who couldn't say no to a drink.
'You can, though, Tommy.'
'Best not tonight, eh?'
'Please, not tonight…'
He lay down on the sofa, thoughts buzzing around in his head like a swarm of fat black flies.
He wanted to ring Anne but thought she'd be in bed by now. His dad would still be up. Or was Anne working late?
He couldn't remember. Had James run home and told Daddy all about their little chat? Probably. Had Alison overheard the phone call in her room? Holland's girlfriend didn't like him, that was obvious. How the luck was he going to organise a box at White Hart Lane?
What would the eldest Calvert girl have been now?
Twenty-four? Twenty-five?
The wine would fuzzy up his thinking a little for sure, but it might at least slow things down. He stayed on the sofa and the wine stayed in the bottle. Tomorrow, who could say? There might be cause to celebrate. Tonight Jeremy Bishop was on call.
There was no way he was going to sleep without calling, so he did. Bishop picked up almost immediately. As the smooth tones gave way quickly to impatience then anger, Thorne flicked the switch that terminated the call, and lay there, relieved, holding the phone. The tension eased in an instant and an overwhelming tide of fatigue began to creep over him. He crossed his arms over the phone on his chest and closed his eyes.
He got into the car and sat for a moment, steadying himself. He'd had a tough day. Things had come up that needed dealing with and had almost upset his plans for the evening. It was going to be OK, though.
The courtesy light faded away and he began to relax, satisfied that he'd left everything ready at home, should he be lucky enough to bring a guest back. He placed the things he would need on the passenger seat. All could be easily hidden in his pocket when the time came. He was sad that he'd had to dispense with the champagne, but she might have seen that stupid reconstruction. There was no need for it now anyway, but there had been something stylish about it. He'd never skimped: it had always been Taittinger. He'd believed in making their last taste a good one – their last taste in any conventional sense. The conversations while he'd been waiting for the drug to kick in, though tedious in the main, had at least given him a sense of who he was treating. That was important. The thirty minutes with Alison had made him feel even better about the new life he'd given her. In that half an hour or so of drunken drivel, he'd come to understand the old life he'd be saving her from. From now on it was something of a lottery in that respect.
He smiled. It could be you!
He hoped that the police would be able to see past what were purely practical reasons for this change in his working methods. He didn't want time wasted on irrelevancies. Champagne last time, needle this time, it didn't really matter. Thorne would understand. He might not be involved officially any longer, but that was neither here nor there.
He turned the ignition and switched on his headlights. He felt confident and capable. Once he was back at home and performing the procedure he would not consider the possibility of failure. With the others, it had only been when the light had finally died in their eyes that the word had even entered his head.
He took out his glasses and began to clean the lenses, setting his mind to the immediate task of preparing a new patient. There would need to be some force, unfortunately, as there had been with Thorne, but once he'd found the vein it would be over quickly. Then he just had to keep her quiet for a few minutes and there were ways of doing that. Something sharp would do it nicely. Once the drug began its work she would not be able to cry out anyway, so he shouldn't have too many problems.
The car pulled away and he thought for a while about what he might do when it was all over. There were so many ways that it might end but he wondered how he might look back on what he was doing now. What he'd been forced to do. It would be strange, beginning again, but he would be able to remember certain things with fondness. There would always be Alison and however many other successes time allowed him. He could revel in that. And he would certainly remember and enjoy the symmetry of a punishment justly meted out. Such a fitting punishment. He grinned and began to hum the tune. Someone would certainly wish they'd never dragged him along to Gilbert and Sullivan…
He pointed the Volvo towards the West End and leaned back in his seat, feeling as good as he had in a long time.
He'd accomplished so much with skill and rage. Like I said, some days are a lot better than others… This is the first joke I'm going to tell, 4nne. There's this really tasty and sexy young potato and she's walking home from the disco one night, after a top night out with her best friends the parsnip and the runner bean, when she's attacked by this mad carrot. The carrot does all sorts of horrible stuff to her and she winds up in hospital. All her skin's been peeled off and she's been all mashed up and she's just lying there and the only thing that's undamaged are her eyes. The eyes of this potato. So the next day this potato's boyfriend, who's a tall, good-looking Swede, comes to the hospital and talks to the doctor and, with tears in his eye, he says, "What are her chances, Doc?" The doctor looks down at the poor, sad potato lying in the bed and says to him, 'I'm sorry.., but she's going to be a vegetable for the rest of her life: