There was a high-pitched scream and the man toppled forward, dropping the torch as he pitched head-first into the tank. Arms flailing—

Standing down the docks, selling himself for the price of a hamburger. Enough to pay for a single wrapper. Feeling disgusted as he goes down on a man old enough to be his dead dad—

Milne curled a bony hand into a fist and slammed it into the screaming man. Over and over again, splashing and hitting and punching and biting in the dark. And all the time Josie’s body bumps against them. Like she’s trying to intervene. Trying to break it up. Make them—

Breaking into an old lady’s house in the dead of night. Rifling through her things as she sleeps in the next room. Stealing anything he can sell down the pub for a couple of quid. Passing them out through the window to Josie, who’s standing watch. Punching the old lady in the face when she wakes up to see what all the noise is about. Watching as she lies there on the floor, not moving, too scared to check if she’s still alive—

The man gurgled, struggling as Milne grabbed him by the lapels and forced his battered head beneath the surface. Holding him there. Watching the bubbles pop and froth from under the sewage. An arm swept up from the stinking water, catching Milne on the side of the head, but he didn’t let go. Grunting, teeth gritted, feeling the man start to go limp. Keeping him submerged. Drowning him in piss and shite—

There’s no one in the cemetery at this time of night. No one to watch him drop his trousers and squat over his father’s grave—

The struggling stopped after a couple of minutes, but Milne didn’t let go. Just in case. A long, slow count to five hundred: that should be enough. The bastard deserved what he got. Milne released his grip and the body bobbed to the surface.

He rummaged through the guy’s pockets, taking everything he could find – keys, wallet, spare change, handkerchief – before releasing the body to sink into the sludge. And then he reached up and clambered out of the tank, back into the real world.

He lay on his back, staring up at the night sky. Shivering. Steaming gently. According to Josie’s glow-in-the-dark watch it was half past eleven. Wednesday. Two days without food or water. He was lucky to be alive at all. And that thought set off a fit of the giggles. And then some coughing. And finally some sort of seizure. He was pouring with sweat, juddering away, teeth clamped shut so he wouldn’t bite his tongue in half. Not healthy. Not healthy at all.