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Chapters (46)
  1. Cover
  2. CONTACTS
  3. Dedication
  4. PART ONE
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. PART TWO
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. PART THREE
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. EPILOGUE
  42. AUTHOR NOTE
  43. Keep Reading …
  44. About the Author
  45. Also by Mark Watson
  46. About the Publisher

He could only pick up fragments, something about being out of options, being ‘backed into a corner’. I mean, it doesn’t really matter, thought James, raiding his plastic bag again for the first of two Melton Mowbray pies. He bit into the claggy pastry. It doesn’t matter at all. The whole point was that the time of things mattering was over. The misery of it, the physical ache in his muscles that had come from failing, over and over again – those were a few hours away from being over, for good. There had been a version of himself that tried to solve people’s problems, that drove people where they needed to go, knocked on doors to ask if everything was all right. But that person had turned out not to be good enough – and had been spat out.

It doesn’t matter any more, he told himself again, brushing pie crumbs into his cupped hand and depositing them in the tiny bin under the ledge. That much, he could do. Someone else would have to tidy this up, after all. It was still common courtesy not to make a stranger’s life more difficult than it had to be. Beyond that small principle, though, James no longer had to care about other people. All that mattered was his own welfare. And with every clatter and lurch of the train, he was getting closer to the point where that welfare would be permanently taken care of.

12

MELBOURNE, 13:05

The first thing Sal had had to do after calling Mum was get rid of the interviewer, pretend that both she and he were not being shat on by the elephant that Meghan had introduced into the room. She’d seen the glimmer in his eyes; she knew he’d got ten times what he could have imagined from this appointment. ‘While we’re talking, Chiltern’s assistant suddenly changes the game big-time …’ He had at least had the grace to say that he wouldn’t mention any of this, and maybe it was true. But that wasn’t even the point. It was the fact that he’d laid hands on this personal information at the same time Sal had. It felt like someone going through her knicker drawer. And not even by snooping, but by Meghan flinging open the bedroom door and saying, over there, bottom left – or the dirty ones are in the wicker basket if you prefer.