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
And then it’s over, because I see George jog past the window with a policeman in tow. George glances in and a few seconds later they’re both coming through the door.
‘Oh,’ Sylvia says.
For a moment or two, while everyone in here is turning to see what’s happening, I wonder if she’s called them. Could she have done it when I wasn’t paying attention or when she went to fetch her drink? Maybe she signalled to whoever’s in the kitchen.
George walks over to the table, and even though he doesn’t look angry, I’m sure he is.
He says, ‘Come on, Alice.’
Sylvia stands up, so I do the same.
Then I decide that Sylvia probably didn’t call anyone, because when the policeman – who looks about sixteen – puts a hand on my arm, she shakes her head and says, ‘There’s no need for that, son.’
I promise her that I’ll come back to pay for the toast and she shouts after me as they’re leading me towards the door. ‘You can have a proper fry-up next time. You take care . . . OK, love . . . ?’
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-TWO
‘I’m really sorry you had to come in on a Saturday.’
‘I didn’t come in just because of you,’ Marcus says.
‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘Malaika . . .’
‘Good job I did, though.’
We’re sitting close together in one of the exam rooms. It’s warm in here and it stinks of bleach and puke and I remember the two of us sitting in exactly the same place almost a week before. Then, Marcus was the one who needed comforting; stammering out his shock and disbelief at what had happened just across the corridor to a woman whose body was still warm.
Both of us with blood on our hands.
I say comforting, but at a guess – bearing in mind the whole absconding and being brought back by the police thing – that’s probably not Marcus’s primary concern at this particular moment. Aside from a physical assault, legging it is about as serious as it gets in terms of patient behaviour. I know there’s going to be consequences, but I don’t have a problem with that and I’m not expecting to get anything you’d describe as a proper bollocking. It’s not like I took anyone hostage or went over the wall at Belmarsh or anything.
To be fair to Marcus and the rest of them, even when they’re reading you the Riot Act in here, they tend to do it very gently.
‘So, why did you run away, Alice?’
‘You know why.’ He says nothing, like he’s forgotten or maybe he doesn’t think it’s much of an excuse. Either way, it’s annoying. ‘What I told you yesterday.’
He nods. ‘You not feeling safe, you mean?’
‘Me not being safe,’ I say.