Before It's Too Late (25 page)

Jackman couldn’t believe the cruel twist of fate that befell him when Reilly landed the position as his boss. Yes, he might be adept at managing the press, convincing the politicians, his superiors even, but he had no interest in, and certainly no flair for, investigation. In the short time they’d worked together, he’d made it quite clear he was there to serve his time and move upwards.

A tense anger hardened inside Jackman. He sat up. Erik raised a sleepy head as he rose and headed out to the kitchen. There was only one kind of solace that he sought this evening, only one antidote to the leaky tap that dripped icy drops of loneliness into his chest. Whisky.

He rummaged through the cupboard under the stairs, his hands moving urgently, pushing aside a mop bucket, shopping bags, a sack of dog food. Finally he found it, sitting proudly against the wall at the back. Half a bottle of Glenfiddich. A crusted line of dust had gathered around its rim. He pulled it forward, gave a short blow, which did nothing to remove the sticky dust, reached for a glass and poured.

The first gulp made him cough, the rich liquor caught in his throat, searing his chest as it rippled down into his gut. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and took another. It was stronger than he remembered and it burnt like a ball of fire. Good. That was just what he needed right now.

He lifted the bottle and glass, moved back into the lounge and sunk into the sofa. Erik climbed up and thumped his body down beside him. The cushions juddered causing the drink to slosh out of the side of the glass onto his trousers. In normal circumstances he’d jump up, curse the dog and reach for a cloth. But frankly these weren’t normal circumstances and right now he really didn’t give a damn.

He looked down at the dog who’d nestled his head into Jackman’s lap. He was oblivious to the glass, the bottle now resting on the coffee table beside him, the strong aroma of Scotch filling the air. Jackman filled the glass again and drank. Then another. They were starting to slip down easier now. Heat rose through his stomach into his chest, up his neck and into his face. Slowly the thoughts in his mind blurred along with the room around him.

A spasm in his calf wrenched Jackman from his deep sleep. He jerked forward and clutched the cramped muscle, then jumped up sharply, hopping around the room on his good leg. Short spikes of pain set off an array of fireworks in his head, forcing him to ease up. The cramp started to melt away, but simultaneously the pain in his head reached new heights. He sat on the edge of the sofa in the darkness and tried to focus. Suddenly the room began to move like a paddle boat riding a wave. The sweats followed, then the nausea, and finally the rush of bile to his throat. He raced up the stairs, his head pounding, and only just reached the bathroom in time.

The stench of vomit filled the air as he hung his head and retched. Sweat coursed down his back. Finally, when he was well and truly spent, he laid back on the cold tiles. His stamina ate away at him. What a lightweight. He’d only polished off half a bottle of whisky and he couldn’t even do that right.

His mouth felt dry. The aroma of sick caught his nostrils. He should have jumped up, taken a shower, drunk a pint of water, but his body was laden with self-loathing. If Alice could see me now.

A wave of fatigue washed over him and he invited it until it swaddled him like a baby and gave him a brief respite from his thoughts.

His eyes pierced the darkness that flooded the room. The wind had dropped to a whisper, as if the trees outside were sharing a million secrets just out of earshot.

He sat up. The air inside smelt thick and pungent now that the heat of the day had passed. Stage two of his plan had proved more difficult to execute than he could possibly have imagined. His back was sore and his shoulders ached. And very soon it would be time to change things again. But there was a part of him that was enjoying the raw thrill of the chase. A wry smile curled the corner of his mouth as he pictured the detective and his team scrabbling through bins in Birmingham, searching for clues. Now it was only a matter of time.

Chapter
Forty-Four

The sound of crows cawing in the distance pulled me out of a deep sleep. My eyelids were stuck together, my body glued to the bed. I hadn’t slept so well in ages and I wanted more. Tom’s body was curled around mine, his paunch pressing into my back. It felt warm, comforting. His arms encased me, swaddling my body like a blanket. I tried to return to my slumber, but the crows were insistent this morning – their calls echoing around the walls. I slowly opened my eyes. And started
.

I was still in the pit. The damp smell of the puddle, which sat barely inches from my feet, filled my nose. I’d done it again, in spite of all my efforts – I’d slept. And it wasn’t Tom’s arms wrapped around me. It was Lonny’s
.

Instinct screamed at me to jump forward, release myself from his grip. But that was instinct in the real world. And nothing felt the same down here. This wasn’t a romantic gesture. It was purely for the warmth. The rationale made me feel better. I tried to wriggle forward, but his embrace was vice-like, holding me rigid
.

A wave of compassion hit me. He’d been so kind to me over the past couple of days. Listened to my stories, shared food with real generosity, covered his eyes and ears when I’d had to use the makeshift toilet in the corner. I didn’t want to wake him. But I needed to find a way out. Suddenly, I felt a deep inhalation, and the exhalation of a sigh trickle down my neckline. He nuzzled into my hair. Then a hard lump pressed into the back of my thigh
.

I froze, frantically working through my options, listening to the regularity of his breaths, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. The lump expanded
.

Summoning every ounce of might, I pushed forward, instantly releasing myself from his grip. His breaths halted. I watched him smack his lips together a couple of times, turn and rest once more
.

Relief sunk into me as I sidled out from beneath the blanket, sat forward and scratched the back of my neck. Day five in this hellhole
.

Chapter
Forty-Five

A sharp glint of light warmed Jackman’s forehead. His cheek was pressed into the groove between the cold tiles, arms and legs splayed across the hard floor. A million clocks chimed in unison inside his head as he raised it.

He recognised the toilet in the background, the sink, the bath. The smell of vomit filled the air, although he no longer felt sick. Right now he was thirsty. Desperately thirsty. He hauled himself up, blinked one eye to shut out some of the pain, then turned on the tap and wedged his head underneath, glugging down the water as if he’d just discovered an oasis in the midst of a desert.

He stood, wiped his mouth down his sleeve and glanced towards the window. Luminous strips of sunlight pushed through the gaps down either side of the blind. What time was it?

Just at that moment he heard the sound of hefty paws moving around on the laminate flooring below. He ran the tap again, splashed the cold water over his face and made for the stairs.

Erik greeted him in the hallway like a long-lost relative.

“Hey, boy.” Jackman caressed his ears affectionately, entered the lounge and glanced at the clock. Almost seven. He’d slept right through.

Jackman crossed to the French doors, flung them open and took a moment to inhale the air while Erik plodded around the garden. It had rained overnight and tiny drops of water glistened across the lawn in the morning sunlight. The freshness cleared the smog in his mind. And sharpened the pain. He moved into the kitchen, switched on the kettle. What he needed now was strong coffee and strong medicine.

By the time Erik wandered in Jackman had popped two paracetamol and was seated at the breakfast bar sipping black coffee. Erik nudged the side of his thigh and looked up expectantly.

Jackman stared into his eyes. “Want to go out?”

The tone of his words whipped the dog up and he wagged his tail enthusiastically.

Jackman placed his mug back down on the bar and raised a wry smile. “Come on then, mate,” he said. “Let’s go for a run while this cools down.”

The park opposite Jackman’s home was quiet that Saturday morning. In a couple of hours it would be filled with local lads, fashioning their jumpers into makeshift goalposts as they played football, and young children crawling over the climbing frame in the play area, swirling on the roundabout. Yet, right now, the only other person in the park was a man pushing a toddler in a pushchair. It felt peaceful and inviting.

Jackman let Erik off the lead and stretched his calf muscles. His head was thick, a burgeoning ache filled his skull. His right leg was stiff and sore from sleeping at a strange angle the night before and he gave it a quick massage. But nothing was going to stop him running.

It wasn’t that he enjoyed it. Not like he used to. The competition of it, the sense of achievement, those wonderful endorphins that sizzled through his veins afterwards and the satisfying fatigue of worked muscles. He felt none of that anymore. It was more of a routine, the last bastion of his previous life that he couldn’t bear to leave behind.

The first lap of the park was more laboured than usual. He had to stop a few times to rehydrate, the after-effects of the alcohol from the night before still draining the juices from his body. Erik raced around happily, stopping momentarily to sniff and cock his leg, before returning to his owner’s side.

The second lap felt slightly easier as his body loosened, but the third was tortuous as every tendon cried out. Weakness was to be expected today, especially after half a bottle of whisky. By the time he’d completed the fourth he was almost spent. His hair was wet and his t-shirt clung to him. But instead of stopping, he stepped it up a gear, sprinting between two of the aged willows beside the canal, almost fifteen metres apart. Back and forth he went, time and time again. Erik, quite accustomed to the habit, laid down just out of the way and watched as Jackman continued to run at full pelt until sweat coursed down his back and his lungs were raw.

Finally he halted, rested his back on a tree trunk and slid down, paying no heed to the abrasive bark as it scraped at his skin through the thin t-shirt. For some time he sat there, glugging from his water bottle, staring into space. As his breaths started to even the words from the counsellor the night before crept into his mind: ‘We need to find a strategy to deal with that guilt’.

He looked across the park. The man had let the toddler out of the pushchair and was chasing her across the park. She turned her head and squealed with delight as he scooped her up in his arms. The simple gesture triggered a moment of sadness. A year ago, he was happily married. He lived for his girls, his sport and the job. Right now he’d all but lost his wife and best friend, his job was hanging like a loose thread and his daughter was away at university. Sport was the only thing he had left and even that wasn’t much fun anymore.

He thought about Janus’ comment the day before, the suggestion that he’d made the wrong judgement call in Min’s case. He recalled his meeting with Richard, when it was suggested that he was consumed in guilt. Was it true? Had he plunged himself into a life of guilt, a mood that coloured his decisions at work and tainted his judgement? He couldn’t deny that he felt guilty over Alice’s condition. But no, he wasn’t wrong about the press coverage with Min. In the event that she was still alive, he’d made that decision to protect her safety. There was no way that decision caused a second kidnapping.

As Jackman gathered his stuff and started moving back towards home, Richard’s words continued to grate away at the back of his mind. His life may have been turned upside down this past year, but he was a good detective.

Problem was he’d only ever be able to sidestep the Reillys of this world if he ran his own investigation. He needed this job, not just in a financial capacity to supplement his wife’s care, his daughter’s studies; but also for himself. It was all he’d ever known since leaving the forces and it fitted like a second skin. Perhaps it was time to transfer, move to another station, another area, where his background and memories didn’t follow him around and haunt his every move. Somewhere he’d be judged on his merit, gain promotion and lead his own cases. Maybe now it was finally time to make that move.