He wrongly diagnoses himself as needing lunch. A professional, he is certain he has ring-fenced his investigation into Simon Merriweather’s private vendetta into his personal hours and that his lack of focus is symptomatic only of the fact that he has consumed nothing but coffee since he woke. But as he surveys the flattened shoe-print of his panini, a shiver breaks out at the top of his cervical spine and sets off a chain of neural explosions all the way to his sacrum. The gnawing grub is suddenly launched into air; the thought is set loose, word by word.
Did…
No, no, no, no, no.
Did the cunt…
No!
Did the cunt…
He is pushing the words away but they are coming, they are coming, and now something is happening to the panini. It is crawling with insects. No, not insects, for as he peers at the platter he realizes what is crawling is the surface itself. The molecules that rendered the panini solid to his eyes are separating and moving across and around each other like disorganized conga chains or cross-purposed ant colonies. And for a moment he is almost saved by his brain’s brilliant tactic, the old-TV-show get-out-clause, create a diversion. But then the words muscle in.
kill…
No! His fist slams down on the ant panini. But it’s coming anyway. Like the TV-show criminal pressed to a confession, no longer able to outwit the relentless detective or contain for another second the brain-bursting pressure of the murderously unsaid, he roars out loud, Did the cunt kill Flora?
Air savaged into a ringing silence. The café and its lunchtime occupants inked back into Logan’s momentarily erased surroundings in open-mouthed detail. Only the youngster who knows no better is staring at him, her pupils like goldfish frozen in their globular bowls. Everyone else is studying the menu, their shoes, their fingernails, though he can feel their souls staring at him as intently as the ululating pod-people of Invasion of the Body Snatchers stare at the living.
Oh, Christ.
He has to get out of there. Leaves on the table the panini, a broken plate, enough money to replace it.
There are cameras, of course. Even the corner café has CCTV. Back at his desk, his fingers are scurrying through papers. Telling himself the café is busy, the staff turnover rapid, and even though he eats there once or twice a week, they don’t know his name. What did he do, anyway? Nothing illegal. Broke a plate. Scared people. Caused a woman to choke on her rocket. And nobody followed him. He checks at the window. But just in case someone knows who he is, God forbid, better dig out—