DCI Reeves takes his time before answering. He proudly pumps out his (substantial) chest. I half expect a button to pop off. "As a detective, you get a hunch for these things. Call it intuition. Rest assured, Marcus, I'm quite certain we will never see the likes of him again..."
DAY FIVE 5TH JUNE 2018
Normally I take in the world around me as I go out and about on my travels to destinations unknown. Follow my nose. Deliberately slow things down, you know. Make a conscious effort, just as I'm told to by Richard. I spent so many years in the fast lane, imperiously busy and yet utterly oblivious to everything that was going on outside my tiny bubble that I sometimes felt the outside world just passed me by. Now, though, I'm living in my mind, which is completely against doctor's orders. I took a stroll, just to get away from the boat, but as I head back, I'm aware that I've taken nothing in.
I know that what DCI Reeves said makes sense. Of course, he wouldn't want to get his hands dirty unless he absolutely had to. The police force has been cut to shreds: they don't have enough numbers to deal with real crimes, let alone imaginary ones. I had the same thoughts before I even set foot in the interview room; I just tried to ignore them. It could have been absolutely anyone in that lift. In this technological age it is possible to be a ghost. Maybe it was one of the delegates from the workshop? Perhaps the person has been following my every move and footstep for years? I should be counting my blessings that a serial killer might not be hunting me down after all - but really - what sort of consolation is that?
Reeves was in a hurry to make it clear that he, and the rest of the force, had nothing to do with the way I was treated thirty years ago. I had to smirk at that. Talk about not wanting to be tarnished by association.
I can still smell the hospital, like the scent has never fully washed away, like it will always be part of me. They placed me in a single room, away from the media attention and the prying eyes. I drifted in and out of consciousness for days. My dreams were bleak, and they were torrid, and I'm certain my desperation to escape them helped me to wake up. I first realised I was awake - and alive - by the foul, acidic taste in my mouth, like I'd been sucking on a battery. The sensation was so vivid that I knew it just had to be reality.
People were around me, moving quickly, acting with purpose. My hands tugged at the bed sheets, then gripped the metal bars that surrounded the bed. A refreshing breeze flowed through the open window. Traffic passed on the streets below, somewhere in the distance; occasionally a horn beeped. I spotted a fruit bowl and a plastic jug of water on a square table at the foot of the bed. Somebody tenderly brushed their hand through my hair. Was it her? I pushed the thought out of my mind: it couldn't be her. My neck creaked as I looked up. No, it wasn't her. It was the one person I wanted to be sat at my bedside more than any other.
"You've had a bit of a bad time, my dear," Mum said, squeezing my limp hand. "You're going to be just fine, though, there is no doubt about that. No doubt whatsoever."
"I'm sorry, Mum," I said, aware my cheeks were puffy, my face was wet.
"What on earth have you to be sorry about?"
I looked away, didn't answer.
Mum was by my side when I fell asleep, and she was still there when I woke up. Mainly our conversations comprised of checking I was comfortable, that I wasn't hungry or thirsty. I was comforted by the repetition, by the predictability. She never, ever asked what happened, why she was visiting her only remaining son in hospital.
Most of my stay was a blur. The blue, green and white of the uniforms merged into one. Voices began to sound the same. I clearly remember seeing him through the square window of the door, though. His body was not visible, but I could tell just by his immediate presence that he was a large portly man, shaped like a barrel. His black hair was plastered down to his scalp, and his bloated lips could barely conceal his wet tongue. His movements were sharp and erratic. I knew who he was from the newspaper articles I'd devoured, from his occasional, awkward television interview. I knew why he was here: he wanted to get to me, and he would push down the door if he needed to.
Three things cannot be hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth.
He entered the hospital room holding his badge by his chest. His crumpled, outsized grey suit belonged in the attic. As he moved closer I noticed that his nose was heavily pockmarked and red, like somebody had repeatedly stabbed it with a dart; his eyes were outlined with laughter lines that had long lost their sense of humour. The officer he was with bowed his head. I clenched the crisp, white bed sheets, felt an imaginary fist pummelling down against my chest.
"Good afternoon, Jeffrey. My name is DCI Baldwin," he said. He turned to my mother and smiled. "I'm sorry to learn of your injuries, but I'm pleased to hear you've been making a fantastic recovery. I don't plan to take up much of your time today, because I appreciate you are still recuperating. We're as keen to catch this animal as you are, though, and as you can imagine, the first couple of
