Contents (84)
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- Acknowledgements
Dempsey forced himself to stop. He had to get control over himself. He couldn’t face his past right now.
‘Look, I . . . I don’t want to talk about this any more. I need to stop.’
Grace nodded.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ask so many questions. It’s your personal business.’
‘I did the same to you earlier,’ Dempsey replied. He noticed that Grace had finished with the antibacterial gel and so he handed her the clean bandages. ‘Maybe that makes us even.’
‘I guess it does,’ Grace said, unrolling the material and preparing to dress the clean wounds. ‘But for what it’s worth, Dempsey, what you did – whatever it was, however bad it was – that’s not the man you are now. You don’t have to spend your whole life making amends.’
‘I wish that were true,’ Dempsey replied, ‘but sometimes you get so far down one path, every other one closes behind you. She’s married now. Two kids and happy. And I’m happy for her.’
‘But maybe . . .’
‘There’s no maybe. The past is the past.’ Dempsey could feel his head clearing. A loosening of the Vicodin’s grip. ‘Let’s leave it where it is. We’ve got enough to deal with in the present.’
‘Focus on tomorrow?’
‘Focus on tomorrow.’
SIXTY
The room drifted in and out of focus as Michael opened his eyes. The sensation combined with a dull pain pressing against the inside of his skull. All in all, it was not a happy introduction to the morning.
He turned to his right, towards his bedside table. The jet-black cylinder that sat upon it was blasting the sound of early morning radio into the room.
‘Alexa. Off.’
Michael’s voice was croaky, his throat dry. But still, the words did as intended. The music and the chat stopped instantly.
He turned to his left. Towards Sarah. Or at least where he expected Sarah to be. Her side of the bed had been slept in, he could see that. But it was now empty. Michael reached out an arm and touched the sheets.
Still warm.
He turned back to the bedside table and reached for his mobile phone. It was not there. Confused, he sat up. He always brought his handset to bed, to plug into its charger. He looked for the white cable and found it in seconds. Plugged into the wall but unconnected to a phone.
Michael allowed his body to fall back onto the bed sheets as images from the previous evening forced their way into his mind. He scanned through the memories. Broken and incomplete though they were, they still painted a picture.
A picture that Michael could taste, and which he could feel in his head and in his stomach as he became increasingly awake.
Whisky, he thought to himself. Lots of whisky.
The thought – the memory – made him want to vomit. Not that he would allow himself that respite. A day that started that low was no day at all, Michael believed. And so he forced himself out of bed and towards the en suite bathroom.