I get him.

‘And for Christ’s sake, Tate, go home and take a shower. You

smell like a brewery.’

chapter twenty-six

I sit back down and wait for a few minutes, thinking about what he’s said, trying to decide whether the police could help me if I told them the truth, or whether they would crucify me. When

I get up, I have to hold onto the desk again while I get my balance.

In that time I come to the conclusion that Landry doesn’t have any idea what he’s talking about — none of these people do — and that they should just leave me the hell alone.

From every cubicle and every corner of the fourth floor

somebody is staring at me. I make my way to the elevator. Two

years ago I was part of this atmosphere. I was one of the team, doing what I could to try to repair the broken bits of this city, to fight back the tides of surging violence in what was, and still is, a losing battle. Then things changed. The world changed. I handed in my resignation because I knew the department was

going to ask for it. I didn’t want to stay and didn’t know what I was going to do once I left. The day I walked out of here, I had people coming up to me and patting me on the shoulder or shaking my hand and telling me that whatever happened to the missing Quentin James was something he deserved. Nobody came right out and said they knew I had killed him, because nobody

knew and, more importantly, they didn’t want to know. They all had suspicions, and they were all on my side, but if any proof had come along they’d have locked me up without remorse.

Now these same people stare at me. Nobody approaches. They

look me up and down; they study my wrinkled clothes and my

unshaven face, and they wonder what shitty thing could happen

in their lives to turn them into me. They’re wondering just how far away I am from drinking myself to death; whether the booze will get me or whether I’ll end up sucking back the barrel of a shotgun. Hell, we’re all wondering the same damn thing. I feel like shouting out to them that I don’t fucking care any more, and that I don’t want their pity.

I reach the elevator and before the doors can close Landry slips through. He has a packet of cigarettes in his hand.

The elevator starts its descent. I can feel it in my stomach, as if we’re falling at a hundred kilometres an hour. I hold onto the wall. Whatever conversation Landry is planning has to be short.

‘I know you killed them,’ he says. ‘Alderman and James.’

He turns towards me and lightly pushes me against the back

of the elevator. He holds his palm on my chest and keeps his arm straight, as if holding back a bad smell.

‘This Quentin James arsehole, I don’t give a fuck that you

killed him. Hell, it’s one thing we have in common, because

sometimes, sometimes, I think I’m capable of doing the same

thing. But that’s the difference, right? I haven’t had to cross the line because I haven’t lost what you’ve lost. And who knows?

Maybe any one of us here would’ve done the same thing. This

job, Tate, it’s a fucking mission — but now you’re on the wrong side of it. See, we could forgive you with Quentin James. But not any more. Whatever you’re doing now, it’s my job to find out.

It’s not because I hate you, you know that. It’s because it’s part of the mission. You would have understood that once. You might be willing to let your world fall apart, but think of your wife. Are you really that prepared to let her waste away …’

I push him away and take a swing at him. He ducks, pushes my

arm in the direction it’s going, and slams me into the adjoining mirrored wall. My face presses up against it and the view isn’t good. There are red cotton-thin lines running through my eyes, tying my pain to the surface for all to see. My breath forms a misty patch on the mirror.

‘You done?’ he asks.

‘I’m done.’

The doors open and he lets me go. I walk out and he follows.

He taps his cigarettes in his hands and walks off in a different direction. I do my best to hold a straight line, but it’s impossible.

I use the ground-floor toilet before heading outside.

The cold air makes me feel sick, just as almost everything

seems to now. The chill stirs up fragments of the conversations with Landry. The bourbon floating in my system doesn’t keep any of them at bay. I hail a taxi, and when I’m home I hover in the hallway in case I have to dash into the toilet to throw up. Then I stagger down to my bed. I crash on top of it and fall asleep for the rest of the morning and into the middle of the afternoon.

chapter twenty-seven

There’s nothing like waking late in the day with a hangover. It’s something every cop goes through at some point. Perhaps the difference between a good cop and a bad cop is the frequency.

Though even that may not be true. Good cops often drink lots

just to help them get through it. And I’m not a cop any more

anyway.

My bedroom is a tip. I can’t remember the last time I made the bed, and I’m not even sure what the point of it would be. Socks, underwear, shirts, and more socks and underwear cover the floor.

In the kitchen there’s a month’s worth of bourbon bottles and

pizza boxes all over the bench. There are glasses everywhere

and smells coming from cupboards I haven’t opened in a long

time. It’s just like the Alderman house. I pour a glass of water and gulp down a pair of painkillers. I should probably eat but never seem to have any appetite — though the number of pizza boxes

suggests differently. I open the fridge on the off-chance that might change, but when I see what’s in there I reckon I’ll probably never eat again. I make some coffee, then take a shower. It’s been

month since I used a washing machine or an iron, and I don’t see any point in breaking a tradition that seems to be working. I grab some clothes from the top of one of the hampers, figuring they’ll smell less than the ones at the bottom, and definitely less than the ones I just slept half the day in. I dig my hands into the hamper and pull up the clothes from the bottom, recycling them to the top where they’ll air out more.

The dining table has a stack of unopened bills. Bills for power, for the phone, for the mortgage and for my wife. Most of Bridget’s bills are covered by insurance, but not everything. There’s even an outstanding bill from the florist. The rent on my office has expired — or, more accurately, I stopped paying it, and a message left on my machine says the lease is being terminated. I think after what happened the last night I was there, they were quick to kick me out. The industrial cleaners came out to give me a quote but I wasn’t there to see it. They tried contacting me for a bit, but then gave up. I don’t even know what in the hell happened. There’s

probably a bill in here to tell me.

I don’t have the money to pay for another taxi — I’m not even sure how I paid to get home from the station. The small amount of cash left in my wallet already has a designated purpose. I don’t have a lot of options.

It takes me over an hour to walk to the cemetery, by which

time the day is fading and my hands and feet are almost numb.

The church looks dark and gloomy. Mine is the only car parked

out front. I’m violating the boundaries of the protection order even approaching it, but that’s just one more thing I couldn’t really give a damn about.

Just as I get the car started, a van pulls up behind me, blocking me in so that I can’t go anywhere. It’s a similar view to the one I had this morning, except it isn’t two policemen who wander

over but a reporter and a cameraman. I recognise Casey Horwell imediately. She pulls down on the front of her suit jacket to try to get her breasts looking a little better than they are, and it occurs to me that if she can’t get a miracle like that in a church car Park she’s never going to get it.