the Strand, she curled up into a foetal position, hugging her knees, eyes tightly closed.
Perhaps if she stood up …
She struggled slowly to her feet, the pain intensifying and, for a moment, she thought she was going to faint.
A car passed by, the driver glancing at her as the vehicle was forced to stop at a set of traffic lights.
It was just after two in the morning; there were few vehicles on the road now.
The continual stream of traffic had slowed just after one and now was virtually a trickle. Late-night revellers and tourists were probably safely tucked up in bed by now.
Jesus, what she wouldn’t give for a bed. For a proper night’s rest.
Shanine walked a couple of yards, one hand pressed to her belly, still watched by the lone driver waiting at the lights. She was a convenient diversion for him while he waited for the green light to come, which it finally did. He drove off without a second glance, leaving her to her pain.
She walked another few steps, passing a huddled shape in another doorway, unable to see if it was human or not. It looked as if someone had hurled a pile of dirty clothes into one corner of the shop doorway.
It moved slightly as she passed, and Shanine heard what sounded like low, guttural snoring.
She paused before the shape.
Should she ask for help? Should she shake this untidy bundle and see what lay beneath?
She decided against it, taking another few paces instead, the pain still intense.
Shanine was trying to control her breathing, panic beginning to set in as the spasms showed no signs of abating. She kept her hands clapped firmly to her belly then turned and walked back down the street towards her own sheltering doorway.
Again she swayed uncertainly, fearing she would faint, but she kept a grip on consciousness and shot out a hand to support herself, mouthing words silently to herself as she stood there.
The pain receded slightly and Shanine swallowed, hardly daring to believe that it might leave her, but as she walked tentatively back and forth in front of the shop doorway she realised that the spasms were indeed lessening in ferocity.
She sucked in a deep breath, taking the stale, grimy air deep into her lungs.
She rubbed her stomach and sat down again, pulling the holdall nearer to her, as if it were a long-lost friend. The only friend she had.
The pain had all but gone now and she lay back, eyes closed.
Shanine slid a hand down the front of her leggings, inside her knickers, withdrawing it hastily, her heart pounding faster again when she felt moisture there. She lifted her palm, terrified of seeing a dark stain but she saw only glistening perspiration.
No blood.
The pain hadn’t been what she had feared.
She massaged her belly gently.
No blood.
She smiled.
As far as she knew, the baby she carried was still safe.
Forty-two
He didn’t sleep because with sleep came dreams.
Those dreams.
Talbot stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, coffee already spooned into his mug.
He stood silently, watching as the gas flame flickered beneath the kettle, blue tongues lapping at the metal above.
So, what are you going to do? Stay awake all night?
Every night?
He knew he couldn’t run.
How can you run from something inside your own head?
Talbot knew he couldn’t run, but he could at least hide occasionally. By drinking. By stopping the intrusion of dreams.
The DI turned and walked into the sitting room, glancing down at the files that were scattered haphazardly over his sofa and coffee table.
There were photos on the front covers of each.
Peter Hyde.
Neil Parriam.
Craig Jeffrey.
All dead.
Lucky bastards.
And yet, what had they had to run from? Talbot mused. Why had they found it so easy to take their own lives, when he continued to survive, continued to live with the pain.
They were braver than you.
He wandered back into the kitchen, saw that the kettle was boiling. Talbot lifted it clear of the gas flame, but didn’t turn off the burner, his gaze drawn to it like a moth to bright light.
They escaped. Why can’t you ?
He stared at the gas flame until it hurt his eyes. Then, slowly, he passed his hand through it.
The hairs on the back of his hand shrivelled immediately and he felt a stab of pain but Talbot kept his hand there a moment longer, teeth gritted.
Have you got the guts ?
He could smell the flesh on the palm of his hand beginning to burn, the skin seared by the flame.
He pulled his hand away, his breath coming in gasps.
Talbot held the reddened palm before him, inspecting the damage, seeing the blisters which were already beginning to form.
For interminable seconds he gazed at the hand then, with a shout, he slammed it down on the worktop. ‘Fuck!’ he roared at the top of his voice.
He sagged against the sink.
‘Fuck it’ he whispered. ‘Fuck it.’
The gas flame still flickered.
‘I would never ordinarily have dreamed of calling you at this time in the morning,’ said the Reverend Colin Patterson. ‘But I thought you had to see this.’
Cath Reed pulled her jacket more tightly around her and walked alongside the clergyman, her trainers crunching on the gravel of the pathway which led to the church.
‘You didn’t disturb me, I was working,’ she told him, but the clergyman seemed not to hear her.
The church loomed above them, large and imposing, the night closed around it like a black glove.
Glancing around, Cath could see the odd light in houses near the cemetery but, apart from the torch Patterson carried, they were immersed in blackness.
‘I don’t know what woke me,’ Patterson told her as they drew nearer to the church. ‘Some kind of noise perhaps. I looked out and saw that the chains on the cemetery gates had been pulled off. I ran straight across here.’
‘Where from?’
‘I have a small house across the road,’ he explained. ‘It goes with the job.’
‘Did you call the police?’
‘No, I called you first.’
Patterson stopped in his tracks and shone the torch at the main doors of the church.
‘Oh God’ Cath murmured, her stomach contracting.
The cat had been decapitated, the head lay close to the door in a spreading pool of blood.
