BooksBarbecue
Back Rabbit Hole
Chapters (73)
  1. Rabbit Hole
  2. Also by Mark Billingham
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. Preface
  8. PART ONE
  9. ONE
  10. TWO
  11. THREE
  12. FOUR
  13. FIVE
  14. SIX
  15. SEVEN
  16. EIGHT
  17. NINE
  18. TEN
  19. ELEVEN
  20. TWELVE
  21. THIRTEEN
  22. FOURTEEN
  23. FIFTEEN
  24. SIXTEEN
  25. SEVENTEEN
  26. EIGHTEEN
  27. NINETEEN
  28. TWENTY
  29. TWENTY-ONE
  30. TWENTY-TWO
  31. TWENTY-THREE
  32. TWENTY-FOUR
  33. TWENTY-FIVE
  34. TWENTY-SIX
  35. TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. TWENTY-NINE
  38. THIRTY
  39. THIRTY-ONE
  40. THIRTY-TWO
  41. THIRTY-THREE
  42. PART TWO
  43. THIRTY-FOUR
  44. THIRTY-FIVE
  45. THIRTY-SIX
  46. THIRTY-SEVEN
  47. THIRTY-EIGHT
  48. THIRTY-NINE
  49. FORTY
  50. FORTY-ONE
  51. FORTY-TWO
  52. FORTY-THREE
  53. FORTY-FOUR
  54. FORTY-FIVE
  55. FORTY-SIX
  56. FORTY-SEVEN
  57. FORTY-EIGHT
  58. FORTY-NINE
  59. FIFTY
  60. FIFTY-ONE
  61. FIFTY-TWO
  62. FIFTY-THREE
  63. FIFTY-FOUR
  64. FIFTY-FIVE
  65. FIFTY-SIX
  66. FIFTY-SEVEN
  67. FIFTY-EIGHT
  68. PART THREE
  69. FIFTY-NINE
  70. SIXTY
  71. EPILOGUE
  72. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  73. Back Cover

There was blood, like I said. There’s always plenty of blood. Thinking about it rationally – just for a minute – it’s all hugely predictable. Wherever I am – and that part’s always a bit fuzzy and vague – I can’t stop crying and thrashing around in a massive panic, and there’s no way I can get the blood off because there’s so much of it and when I do manage to wipe just enough of it away to remind myself what my skin actually looks like more comes bubbling up through my pores. Blood that isn’t mine, I mean. Like I’m living and breathing and . . . being the stuff.

It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault . . .

It’s Johnno’s blood, obviously . . . a fountain of it gushing from the wound in his neck. I don’t need Bakshi or anyone else to work that much out.

Or at least, it used to be.

Now, there’s even more to wade through, to wash off, to drown in, because Debbie’s blood is sloshing about in the mix as well; drenching everything in the dream or the hallucination or whatever the hell it is.

There’s a difference, though.

Before, it was all about guilt, of course. When it was over, I would lie awake, breathing like I’m doing now and feel it eating me alive, no matter how many times I told myself that I hadn’t been to blame for what happened to Johnno.

I’m not guilty, I’m not guilty.

Not. Guilty.

Now though, I’m feeling something else and it paralyses me far more than guilt has ever done. It’s knocking on for half-past three and, if I’ve had any sleep at all, I know there’s no chance of me getting any more.

I stare at the door. I look for a shadow moving beneath it. I listen for the noise of someone outside.

I’m absolutely fucking terrified.

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-SEVEN

I told you how rubbish I am with names – back when I was on the Job, I had to write them down in my notebook – and, sitting there in the MDR, I forget what the two coppers are called almost as soon as they’ve introduced themselves. In my head and gone again. So, rather than sit there squinting at their IDs, I decide to go down my normal route and make something up.

It . . . lightens things, which is good. For me at least.

One of the women is shorter than the other and a bit on the dumpy side, while her mate strikes me as slightly posher, so it doesn’t take long to give them celebrity alter-egos. A different kind of double act. I just need to get that theme tune out of my head and stop imagining them both with fags on and enormous latex bellies, pretending to be blokes and trying to shag inanimate objects.