The destination was appearing to be Beverly Hills. Ever was not carrying his gun, the Glock 17, the end to the anguish of his father’s life that lived in Ever even after his father’s death. It all seemed so easy in these moments when his soul had left him.

Kill the cunt.

That was all his mind could construct. And what was wrong with that? Nothing, Ever, he told himself. Nothing. The smell of sick sank into the back of his nose and seemed appropriate.

La Cienega took him left on Burton Way and onto Little Santa Monica, a right up Crescent, two four-way stops, one at Carmelita, the other on Elevado: was he nearly a neighbour of Lomita’s?

He then crossed Sunset to the north and headed for North Crescent Drive.

Gates opened as Ever stayed way back, concerned at the possible awareness and paranoia that a man of such wealth might have of being followed, although he had never been directly behind, always keeping cars between them and moving lanes on the freeway. But now he stopped. Pulled up, engine off, just able on the curve of the road, to see the massive gates open, as the electric blue car Rollered its way inside to the cool, Ever imagined, of a large probably temperature controlled garage, and a rest.

Ever did not feel good.

He must have sat in his car for what seemed an hour. Oblivious to the street cleaners and the passing cars.

He’d grown accustomed to the smell.

It had started, he was going.

And it was not in a good direction.

*

Ever returned to Havenhurst.