If Anderson had moved fast, then Bolton was a blur. He was around the desk and in Anderson’s face, the detective still distracted by Stenner’s yell. Anderson felt, rather than saw, a hand that might as well have been a brick slam up underneath his jaw. It felt like the back of his head would touch his spine as it whipped back between his shoulder blades. He staggered back, bumping against the door frame. The hand came under the jaw again, this time pushing upwards and staying there, stretching his chin skywards. Anderson slapped ineffectively at the arm, but it was like trying to fell a tree with a flyswatter.

He couldn’t see Bolton’s free hand, but screwed his eyes closed, waiting for the punch that never came. Instead, he felt the briefest sting, followed by a tugging sensation just above his belt. It came again, and a third time before the palm withdrew, pressure released, and Anderson’s head dropped forward, eyes opening. Bolton was gone. So was Locke. He heard footsteps, loud but growing fainter. A fog hung at the edge of his vision, eyes watering from the strike to his chin. Movement, a shape crossing from left to right. Patchett veered into sight, ruined nose poking through gaps in his fingers, wiping away blood as he ran.

Anderson shot out a hand to stop him, at least he swore he had, but Patchett ran on past unimpeded, disappearing around the corner, footsteps mingling with the echoes of Bolton’s. The sound of raindrops, fat and heavy. His wheezing cough was the only noise in the empty room, empty save for him. The others would be inside any minute. He shouted to draw their attention, bring them to him, welcome him into their pursuit, but no words came out. He looked down, eyes widening with surprise, understanding, and finally acceptance. His hand reached down, pressed against his shirt, came away stained red.

Shouting from outside, a door banging, enough footsteps to pass for a centipede in Doc Martens, but Anderson could only slide downwards, his back against the doorjamb. His hands scrabbled at his shirt, pulling it up and out of his trousers, watching his life pulse away in steady beats of crimson. The fog rolled gently across his vision now, squeezing it into smaller and smaller tunnels, until they too winked out into nothing.

GEORGE – APRIL 1983