Newport looked at him like he'd gone mad.
'I know what it sounds like,' he said. ‘And believe me, it's not a fairytale.’
Newport waited a beat. Seconds ticked by. ‘Is this about Leanne and Frasier?’
‘You speak their names, Holly, you’d better know what you’re talking about.’
‘Is it, Nick? Are we talking about what happened to your family?’
He tore himself away from the streaked window. ‘Holly, for fuck's sake!’
‘No, we’re going to talk this out, Nick! I don’t care if you never talk with anyone about this again, you’re going to talk to me about it.’
‘And why am I going to do that?’
‘Because I want to hear it. But mostly because you want to tell me.’
His heart began thumping in his chest. ‘Pull over,’ he said clearly.
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
They weren’t far from the station. Newport guided the car to the curb and switched off the engine. Slipping from the car, York pulled up his collar against the rain. He walked to the nearest streetlight and paused beneath it.
Newport perused him into the tumbling sheets. ‘What are you doing? You’re getting soaked.’
The slosh of running water stole the night's other sounds.
‘Nick?’
‘Do you remember them, Holly?’
Her face said she did.
‘Do you know I haven’t looked at a photograph of them since they disappeared? I have boxes full of stuff, all of it locked away. I don’t even remember what they look like. My wife was the woman who changed my life, and I can’t even remember her face.’
Newport pulled her jacket tighter around her.
Under the unrelenting downpour, he fell to a crouch and buried his face in his hands. His partner made no move to comfort him. There was nothing she could do. The barrier was broken, and only he could pull himself back.
*
By the time they arrived at the station the rain had slowed and the smell of night had settled like a film of dust. York hadn’t asked his partner not to speak of his malfunction, she just wouldn’t. Not with him, or anybody else.
The pair of them was the focus of attention as they made their way into the foyer. They probably looked juiced, sodden, and white from shock.
At the desk a couple of uniforms waited to sign what looked like a junkie into the register. In front of them was a lone woman who looked like she was straight off the corner of one street or another. She was ranting something about squatters; fairly standard desk behaviour for this time of night.
‘What you thinking?’ Newport asked.
York almost didn’t answer. ‘I’m worried. We’re not just one step behind anymore, we’re in trouble. I get the feeling whoever this guy is, he’s going to be angry that we followed his messenger.’
They reached the door to the Pit as the desk phone rang out through the foyer.
Newport shrugged. 'There was nothing in the recording to say that we couldn’t.’
‘There was nothing in the recording to say that we could, either. And it doesn’t mean our guy has to like it.’
She pushed open the office door. ‘So what do you think he’s going to do?’
‘I think he’s going to do exactly as he says. He’s going to kill somebody.’
Across the foyer, a voice rang out above the din. ‘DCI Nicolas York? Is there a DCI York here?’
‘I’m York,’ he called to the desk clerk.
‘Call for you, Detective. You want to take it here?’
The potential prostitute complaining about squatters was giving it some now, adamant she wasn’t being taken seriously. She probably wasn’t.
He sent Newport on ahead and took the receiver from the desk clerk. ‘This is York.’
There was a muffled sound from the other end. A woman, maybe? He didn’t know the voice.
‘You’ll have to speak up,’ he urged. ‘There’s quite a bit of background noise here.’ He looked over to the squatter woman. ‘Hey, shut up for a minute, will you!’
The complainer looked like she’d been slapped. She gave him the finger.
When the phone voice amplified and repeated the message, his knees jellied. ‘Who is this? How did you get my name?’
The voice became clearer with each syllable. ‘I know a lot about you, Nick, more than you think.’
His heart began thumping against his chest again. ‘What you said before?’
There was a moment of static. Eventually the voice spoke again. ‘I meant it. Your son is in London. He’s alive.’
*
I am not alone.
Enveloped by perfect blackness I tighten the fusty blanket around my shoulders, the insufferable cold creeping in through broken seams and ragged tears.
Stacks of nondescript cardboard boxes surround me. I cannot see them, but I know they’re there.
From the darkness come peculiar sounds. I am the only person in the house, yet I'm certain something watches me from another part of the basement.
I am not permitted to be frightened.
It is against the rules.
Outside, snow is on the ground, the fields and woods layered with a thick white bedspread. I saw it earlier, the trees’ frozen limbs sparkling like silver and diamonds in the winter sun.
Now, the sun has gone, both from the day and from my mind. Despite the rules I struggle to control my breathing, plumes of my icy breath clouding before me.
I am shivering, but I am not permitted to be cold.
It is against the rules.
Moments ago, there was a cough. But there was no way to be certain I hadn’t imagined it. I thought it came from my right, but I couldn't tell. I matched the cough with one of my own. Perhaps
