Chapters (73)
- Rabbit Hole
- Also by Mark Billingham
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Preface
- PART ONE
- 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
- PART TWO
- 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
- PART THREE
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- Back Cover
‘I know that’s how it must feel,’ she says. ‘But most people just don’t know how to react to that kind of thing, do they? I’m not sure I do, tell you the truth. You tell someone you’re . . . I don’t know, getting messages from God through the patterns on your wallpaper . . . I don’t mean you’re saying anything like that, love . . . but what are people supposed to make of it? It’s hard to go, “Oh, all right then”, because that’s only . . . reinforcing it, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, but it’s also like me telling someone my name’s Alice and them telling me that it’s not.’
She nods slowly. ‘Oh, righto . . . I’m with you.’
‘That’s how sure you are. You don’t just think these things, you know them.’
She nods again. ‘Got it, love.’
‘So it’s like everyone’s basically saying you’re stupid or calling you a liar.’
‘Or telling you you’re mad.’
I laugh, and it’s nice. ‘Right, but even if you are being a bit mad you don’t think you are.’ Now I nod towards the street. ‘Nobody over there thinks they’re mad. Not properly. Yeah, they might have gone off the rails for whatever reason, but—’
‘Everyone goes off the rails now and again,’ Sylvia says.
‘I know.’
‘What use is bleedin’ rails, anyway? Just keep you going in the same direction and that’s no fun, is it?’
‘No . . .’ She’s trying to make me feel better, so I don’t tell her that I’d give anything to be back on those boring rails again. Facing the direction of travel. Moving forward . . .
‘So, what about you?’ she asks.
‘What about me?’
‘Never mind that lot over the road. How are you feeling? Now, this minute.’
I look at her and it makes me think about my mum, so I start to cry a bit.
‘Come on, now.’ She pulls one serviette after another from a metal dispenser and hands them over. I snivel and splutter into them.
‘I’m in so much trouble,’ I say.
She tells me everything’s going to be OK and puts one of her hands on mine. It’s warmer and softer than I expect. I don’t know if she’s forgotten about the old bloke and his ‘usual’, but after that we just sit there for a while saying nothing, while she glugs her Coke and makes shushing noises.
And for a few minutes, it is OK. I forget about Kevin and Debbie and whoever’s after me. I forget about Johnno and all the blood that came out of him, because the woman I’m sitting here with is quiet and kind. Because she doesn’t make any assumptions. Because she doesn’t want anything, or think anything bad, and best of all, I know she isn’t judging me.