More racing thoughts. The whole investigation in a mad jumble, a shifting collage of facts, images, feelings.

‘Nnnnnnnnnngh,’ he says. ‘Nu … nu … nnnnnnnngh.’

The urge to laugh has gone.

Because Jansen hadn’t been kidding, whoever beat him did a thorough job of rearranging his features. He’s practically cubist now. I don’t recognize him at all. My hands are drenched. Trembling. The room’s breathing. I’m not. I can’t.

He leans forward, as if he’s trying to whisper something to me.

I instinctively lean closer to the Perspex dividing us. His tongue’s pushing out his bottom lip.

‘Nnnnnnnnnnnnngh.’

He pulls his head back like a horse rearing up in slo-mo, the whites of his eyes weirdly visible. Then things switch to double time as he slams his face right into the Perspex. Again and again and again.

Fuck. I … Am I responsible for this? Is this my fault?

There’s blood spouting from his forehead, splattering everywhere.

I should call out for the guard, but I’m paralysed.

He rests his palm against the Perspex, then slowly slides it down, leaving a bloody smear.

‘Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh.’

He’s drooling now. Eyes focused on me like a rattlesnake about to strike.

No. God no. No, no.

I can see he’s accusing me, just like he did in court that day when he’d been sentenced and he glared over at me and I felt the hatred being transmitted through the air like electricity.

I can’t breathe. I get up and stumble out. Corridors, security gates, startled receptionist, car park. The Mustang’s a million miles away, tarmac stretching out with every step I take. I’m walk-running, then I’m just running. (Nnnnnnnnngh.) Keys. Fumble. Scratch the door. Shit. Slot. Open door. Fingers scrabbling at the glovebox. Bag. Rip open. Fingers trembling. Crumbling the bud. Dropping half of it. Stuff a little in the vape. Wait for the light. Taking forever, forever. Vape dies before it reaches temperature. Roll a joint instead, fingers enduring their own personal earthquake. That’s not good. Fuck it. Have to resort to my glass pipe. Fill the bowl, lighter, touch with flame.

Inhale.

Inhale.

Innnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnhale.

It’s been back-to-back meetings so far today and there’s a little pulse at his temple which he knows can get worse quickly. He reaches his office, his PA on the phone but waving to him in an I-need-to-talk-to-you way which he ignores, and goes inside, closing the door behind him. At the back of the drawer he finds a packet of painkillers, only to discover it’s empty. Damn. There’s a faint buzzing from the drawer two down, a drawer that remains locked, the key kept taped to the back of the drawer above. He unlocks it and pulls out the phone.