Throwing the pillow through the air, I thrust open my eyes. It feels like I'm being sucked through a vacuum, as the realisation hits me.
My old life does matter. He has got to somebody from my old life, hasn't he?
My feet stomp down on the floorboard so heavily that I nearly sink into the murky depths of the canal water that lie underneath. I press the redial button. Close my eyes. Hope for the best.
There is a knock on the door. The knock is heavy, and it is urgent. They want to be let in, no questions asked.
He has come for me. He has finally come to finish the job once and for all.
You need to stand up to him. In essence, you need to fight him.
I untangle my jeans and pull them up over my legs, pushing my arms inside my grubby, dishevelled tee-shirt. I tiptoe over to the door, hoping not to make any noise, perhaps to take him unaware. Who knows? I forget the phone that is ringing in my hand. I think about picking up a weapon from the cutlery drawer but I decide against it. My fate is inevitable. Prolonging it will just add to the pain. If I am to fight then I am to fight like a man, with my bare hands. Not like the first time. The only time. I push out my chest, pull open the door.
DCI Reeves stands on my doorstep, his hands nestled inside his navy suit trousers, feet slanted in different directions like a penguin. Gum rotates around his mouth. I am aware he isn't alone. He has brought backup: faceless suits with plenty of attitude. Pulling up the cuff on his shirt, DCI Reeves glances at his watch. The movement is so quick, so urgent, there is no way in this world he actually checked the time. The blazing sun reflects against the silver strap, forces me to shield my bleary eyes with my hand.
"Not waking you up are we, Marcus?" he asks, looking up and down at my dishevelled attire and then sniffing. "Late night, was it?"
"I couldn't sleep," I reply. I had no idea my throat was so dry until I tried to speak; had I been using my tongue as sandpaper? Suddenly, I'm Vito Corleone. I struggle to stop my eyelids from drooping. Just how long have I been sleeping? It feels like I've been living in a cave for the last ten years. What day is it?
"Something playing on your mind, is it?"
"Nothing major. You know I've been worried recently. I came to see you, remember?"
DCI Reeves removes the gum from his mouth with his two middle fingers. He eyes it suspiciously like something he's just dislodged from his nose. This seems like an odd act for somebody who, outwardly, appears so pristine, so clean, so sterile. Reeves flicks the gum onto the floor. I thought you could get fined for littering? Where is a policeman when you need one? Clearly, he has more pressing things on his mind.
"I remember. That's what I'm here about, Marcus. There have been some developments on that score. Myself and my fellow officers would like you to come down to the station for a little informal chat, if that is okay with you...?"
*****
The room is shaped like a shoebox and is just as bland as cardboard. The lack of windows leaves the air stale like a teenager's bedroom. I switch from buttock to buttock on the hard chair. Just a table between us, just as there was the last time we met. Was that really just a few weeks ago? He is not alone this time. Next to him is a stiff in a suit, so mechanical I wonder whether batteries are included. The stiff has laid a pad on the table and he is armed with a pen, ready to get going. Reeves stretches out his arms and rolls up his sleeves, warming up. Even his committed moisturising routine can't hide the astonishing panda eyes. Looks like he had a tough night, too. He is a little jittery. It can't be the coffee. I'm still convinced he is more of a green tea kind of guy.
"This is just a little informal chat," he says, grinning wolfishly."And so, we're not recording the conversation. My colleague here will take some notes if he thinks you provide any information that may be of use to us."
"So I'm free to leave at any time?"
"Yes," he says. "This interview is completely voluntary."
"So it is an interview now? I thought it was a chat? So on what basis am I here? Am I a suspect?"
Reeves glances at his colleague. It is evident they'd discussed beforehand that I'd be an awkward bastard. Probably told him about the crossing of the legs incident. I recall Jenny assuring me how difficult I can be when we were at the bowling complex. Richard's words keep replaying in my mind: I need to fight.
"No, Marcus. I assure you that you're not a suspect. We're investigating a serious crime. You're here as a secondary witness. We've identified you as somebody who might potentially possess information relating to the crime."
I could be in serious shit here. I just need to make sure Reeves doesn't pick up that I'm aware of this. I need to utilise all the know-how from my workshops, finally put it to good use.
"So," I say, leaning back in my chair, "you've finally decided to take me seriously, then?"
Reeves gives me the briefest smile. Perfect dimples form on both cheeks. He'd make January on any calendar. He really is a handsome bastard. I despise him.
"Oh, we're taking you very seriously now, Marcus," he says. The whites of
