Never again will he be told there’s someone out there for him. That one day, he’ll get what he wants, what he deserves. The only woman who ever saw any value in him is gone. The only one who could persuade him to control his rage. He has done what he can. He has meted out punishment for the worst offences. Stood up for himself, like his mother said he should. Just in a different way.

He knows they’ll be coming for him soon.

The police have been parked outside the building since the day before last. Civvies, so he won’t notice.

Idiots.

He knows the dreary view from his flat like the back of his hand. Recognises every neighbour, every drug dealer. Knows who goes where. Knows every car.

Maybe they’re worried about him doing it again. Maybe they’re hoping he will. Hoping to catch him in the act. That won’t be necessary; that fucking swab will give them everything they need. He had realised as much the second the bottle sliced through his latex glove.

Had felt the peculiar relief of knowing it would be over soon.

He had always known it would end eventually, that he would make a mistake, that the police would catch him. He’d almost looked forward to it. Some grave-looking detective would read him his rights with a look on his face that lets him know that somewhere deep down, he understood.

He would be questioned, have a chance to make his voice heard. Tell them everything. An unspoken, shared understanding of the way the world works. Between men.

Maybe even respect.

Then incarceration, of course. Maybe an institution, maybe prison. It doesn’t matter.

His life has always been a prison.

*

And now she’s back again. Forcing her way into his home through the TV.

The first segment had been short, just enough to send fury surging through him, to make him hurl the remote at the wall in powerless rage. Now that he has watched the whole interview four times, has had that arrogant voice eat into him, now that he has paused the playback and stared at that evil bitch’s face for almost twenty minutes straight, he knows what he has to do.

Not so powerless now.

Powerful.

One last time, he pushes the curtain aside and looks down at the car on the other side of the park. Can just about make out the contours of the driver, slumped in his seat, chewing gum, bored and tired.

There might be another car out back.

He’ll have to go through the basement.

Chapter 67

67

‘What do you mean, gone? What the fuck are you talking about?’