his cell. He’d cut his wrists and his throat. How many’s that now?”
Julian counted them in his mind. Tom Benson had been the first. When it came out that he had a taste for cocaine, prostitutes and sadomasochistic sex, in rapid succession he lost his job, his wife and finally, after jumping off The High Bridge, his life. Some sleazeball, closet homosexual politician with a penchant for underage boys was next. He gassed himself in his car. After him came a businessman who enjoyed playing the role of an entrepreneurial philanthropist in public and murdering young girls in private. He gave himself both barrels of a shotgun, after his name was connected to the deaths of two girls previously attributed to Michael Ridgway. Then there was a solicitor who after having sex with Joanne Butcher had watched while she lay dying from a heroin overdose. And then a teacher, a judge, two priests. All so-called decent, honest people. They OD’d, jumped off buildings, and hung themselves, and nobody went to their funerals. “Eight.”
“There’ll be more before this is over. They still haven’t found half the fuckers on those videos. Imagine what it must be like to be one of them, sat at home with your wife and kids, or whoever, just waiting for the coppers to come knocking.”
Julian didn’t need to imagine. He knew what it was like to live with that. He knew how the sick feeling welled into your throat every time there was a knock at the door, every time the phone rang, every time the post arrived, every time you opened your eyes.
“Man, if I was one of them fuckers, I’d do myself in,” continued Jake. “Wouldn’t you?”
Julian made no reply. He pretended to check something on a machine so that he didn’t have to look at Jake. Recently, he’d thought a lot about suicide. He’d even driven to the bridge and leaned far out over its railings — like Mia had done — wondering how it would feel. The rush of air, the stinging cold slap of water against his body, his lungs filling with water, burning. Then blackness. Merciful, dreamless blackness. He knew he couldn’t do it, though. Not while his mum was alive, not while Jake needed him, and not while there was a chance, however seemingly slender, that Mia was alive.
Jake sighed. “You know, whenever something like this happens…” His voice faded into sadness.
Julian nodded, managing a sympathetic half-smile. “I know.” Whenever something like this happened, it brought thoughts of Mia to the fore and made Jake wonder where she was. Was she dead? If so, where was her body? If not, where was she? Was she safe? Or was she somewhere where she might soon be dead? So many questions and no answers. Only fear, frustration and sadness.
When they arrived home, Henry came bounding to greet them. Jake laughed, rolling him onto his back, scratching his belly. After Jake moved in, he and Henry had quickly formed a deep bond. Now they were practically inseparable. Every day, Jake took Henry for long walks in the forest. Every night, Henry slept at the end of Jake’s bed. The relationship was mutually beneficial — Henry helped Jake not to think about Mia as much, and Jake eased Henry’s grief over the loss of his master. Julian went through to the kitchen where his mum and Wanda were busy preparing a meal. He bent to kiss his mum, noting the puffiness under her eyes that suggested she’d been crying. “How was your day?” she asked.
“Good.” Julian told her about the company returning to profit.
Christine smiled, but the sadness in her eyes remained. “I always knew you’d turn things around. You’ve got your father’s head for business.”
As always, Julian winced inwardly at the mention of his father. “It’s got little or nothing to do with any business acumen I may have. All the publicity and goodwill generated by the newspapers has brought more orders our way than we can deal with.”
“You must learn to give yourself credit, Julian. I’ve seen how hard you work. Your father would be proud.” Christine’s gaze was drawn to the living-room by the sound of Jake’s laughter. “He’d be proud of what you’ve done for that boy too. You’ve really helped him turn his life around.”
“It’s ready,” said Wanda. She called Jake through, and the four of them sat down at the table. Julian ate mechanically, not really tasting his food, swilling it down with wine. His parents had always drunk wine with their evening meal, but Julian had never had a taste for it, until recent months. At first it was only one glass, but one glass had quickly turned into two or three — a fact that hadn’t escaped his mum’s notice.
“You shouldn’t drink so fast, darling,” she said, as Julian reached for the bottle. “It’s not good for you.”
“I know, but it’s the only thing that helps me relax.”
Christine smiled that sad smile again, the one that told Julian she was thinking about his dad. “You know, your father would say the same thing whenever I nagged him about his drinking. And I’m going to tell you what I used to tell him, you need to find an alternative way to relax, one that helps you enjoy life, rather than deadening it.”
“You mean like a hobby.”
“Maybe.” Christine gave Julian a meaningful look. “Or maybe something else.”
He frowned. “If you’re talking about Eleanor-”
“What if I am?” interrupted Christine. “If you ask me, it’s about time we talked about her.”
“Well I’m not asking you.” Julian stood. “I’m going to finish my meal in my room.”
“Don’t be like that, Julian, I just want to understand what happened between you two.”
“All you need to know is it didn’t work out. The rest is none of your business.”
Julian didn’t finish his meal. The prickly exchange with his mum had killed what little appetite he had. He sat at his PC, trying to work, but his head was too full of thoughts of Eleanor and the most recent suicide — two things that were separate, yet connected in his mind by a terrible sadness — to concentrate. He lay on his bed, staring at the TV, a heaviness in his chest like a concrete block. Gradually, the sensation faded off and his eyelids slid closed. As usual in recent months, the dream started with him pacing back and forth on the wine-red carpet beside the bed. The door opened, and the chauffeur guided Mia into the room. At the sight of her, rage bubbled up in him like a white-hot poison. He fought desperately to suppress it, but it burst forth, spewing all over Mia in a flurry of violence. And when all the poison was out, he straightened to stare at himself in the mirror, and Michael Ridgway’s deadly calm, shark-black eyes stared back.
Julian awoke in darkness, burning with thirst. But not for water. He rose and peered into the hallway. All the lights were off and the house was silent. Assuming everyone was in bed, he padded to the lounge. He stopped when he saw his mum sat by the moonlit windows, staring at a photo of his dad. He was about to creep back to his room, when she said in a low, tear-filled voice, “Today’s the first anniversary of his death.”
“I know.” Julian approached her and laid his hand on her shoulder. “I haven’t mentioned it because I didn’t want to upset you.”
Letting the photo rest in her lap, Christine lifted her good hand to Julian’s. It troubled him to feel how cold her touch was. “Knowing he died trying to save Jake’s sister, that’s the only thing that keeps me going, apart from you.”
Julian removed his hand from hers, thankful she wasn’t looking at him. There was nothing inward about the grimace passing over his face. “You should get to bed. It’s cold in here, and you need your rest.”
Sighing, Christine returned the photo to the mantelpiece. “Goodnight, my love.”
Julian couldn’t tell whether she was talking to him or the photo. “I’ll help you into bed.”
“That’s okay, I can manage.”
As Christine turned her wheelchair to head for her bedroom, Julian said, “I’m sorry about earlier, Mum.”
“I’m sorry too. Sorry you feel the way you feel. Sorry you won’t talk to me about it. You seem so alone. And believe me, Julian, life’s too short to be alone.”
Julian waited until his mum was gone, then reached for the whisky. After a couple of glasses, he took out his mobile-phone, and scrolled through the list of contacts to Eleanor’s name. He stared at it for a long while, before flinging the phone aside. It was pointless, crazy. Torturing himself with thoughts of what he might have. Now, more than ever, he needed to isolate himself from her. There were already too many lives that’d be devastated if Mr X’s threat came to pass. He swallowed more whisky, closing his eyes.
Julian almost vomited up his drink when the intercom buzzer sounded. His eyes darted to the clock. It was well after midnight. He could only think of one reason anyone would come to the house at that time of night. The buzzer sounded again, the noise cinching like a barbed wire noose around his nerves. He approached the intercom and spoke into it, his voice husky, strangulated. “Who is it?”
“It’s Eleanor.”
Relief swept over Julian, swiftly followed by a surge of elation that threatened to overwhelm his self-control. He checked his emotions, and his voice was carefully modulated, containing neither pleasure nor pain as he asked,
