As though it was her home as well now. As though she’d just imposed herself on it without consulting him or asking how he felt about it. He didn’t like that at all.
‘I didn’t realise this was your home,’ he said, cold.
‘Okay… I’m sensing there’s something a little more behind that comment than the obvious. I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry if I—’
Tomek turned his back on her and moved towards the kitchen. There, he started preparing dinner. Spaghetti Bolognese. Simple, staple. And one of his favourites to cook. He spent the next twenty minutes chopping the onion, stirring the meat, cooking the pasta as Abigail told him about her day. About how there was nothing going on. How there had been nothing to report for days. And with each comment, she had made a jab at him, poking at him, questioning him on why he and the team hadn’t given them any information about the body that had been found at the church.
‘I mean, throw me a bone here, Tomek,’ she said. ‘We’ve been feeding off scraps and we’re starting to run out.’
‘I know.’
He wasn’t in the mood to deal with her right now. In fact, he wasn’t in the mood to deal with anyone or anything. Not after the afternoon he’d had. Not after the letter, which had completely fucked with his circuitry.
‘Did you hear what I just said?’
Tomek continued to stir the meat, staring into the sauce.
‘Tomek!’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re not listening to me.’
‘I am.’
‘What did I just say?’
‘About being hungry.’
‘For a fucking story, yes. But that’s not what I meant. I really need your team to give me something here. We’ve sent over so many fucking emails and questions about the girl inside the church, but nobody’s replying.’
‘Could you just stop?’
Tomek took the wooden spoon out of the pot and slapped it onto the counter. Sauce splattered onto the tiled wall and nearby toaster and kettle.
‘Could you just stop for one fucking second?’
The outburst was sudden and startled even himself. It was the first time he’d ever reacted or behaved that way, and he didn’t like the man he’d just become.
‘Where… where did that come from?’ Abigail’s voice was a combination of pissed off and hurt. Though he sensed he was about to receive as good as he’d given. ‘Don’t talk to me like that. All I asked was a fucking question. You’re the one not listening to me, so don’t get on your fucking high horse and give me all that, okay? You’re supposed to be an adult, and you’re supposed to be the SIO of a murder investigation. How fucking hard—’
‘Supposed to be the SIO?’ he retorted. ‘Supposed to be? What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’re the one in charge of this investigation. You get to decide what happens and what doesn’t. Why is it taking you guys so long to give us the information?’ Abigail’s eyes widened and her lips parted as realisation dawned on her. ‘Have you told them not to, is that what it is? Have you been withholding information from us? Why would you do that? You know how much this means to me. I can’t believe you’d do something like that. We’re supposed to be a partnership, a team. This is my dream and you’re fucking ruining it. I’ve been waiting for this moment for ages, and you’ve fucked it all up for me. Today we reported on a massive hole in the beach at Southend seafront, which a local space photographer and enthusiast thought was a meteorite that had landed from space. Turns out it was just some fucking guys with a massive shovel and a lot of time on their hands. You see! I can’t be going back to that shit all day. I’m better than that. I’ve got aspirations.’
She raised her hand in the air, then climbed an imaginary ladder. But Tomek wasn’t paying attention to that. All he could think about was that hole.
‘How…’ he started, slowly turning towards her. ‘How… how big was it?’
Abigail’s cheeks turned red. The lines on her forehead multiplied and her crow’s feet deepened. Her pupils narrowed and her nostrils flared. All that was left was the vehemence that came out of her mouth.
‘Fuck you,’ she spat. ‘Fuck you, and fuck this place. I’m out of here. Goodbye!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The world’s turned a shade of red. A deep, dark red that makes it feel like there’s blood all over my eyes. My blood. Michał’s blood. Angelica’s blood.
As I run, I see the kids hanging around outside the off-licence. One of them’s leaning on the handlebars while one of them’s holding something in the air. I think it’s a fucking spade, but I can’t be sure. It’s got a handle and everything, and it’s fucking shining under the shop lights, so it almost certainly looks like a spade. But before I can give it any more thought, I come across the Magnet kitchen shop. And this time I see Abigail in the car park, standing next to the man I’ve seen so many times before, so many times, but never fully paid attention to. Except it’s not Abigail. At least I don’t think it is.
She’s wearing Abigail’s clothes, yes, but her face is blurred, and it’s white, the colour of a bedsheet. And behind her is a red car. But when I look again, I realise it’s not a red car. It’s a pair of wings. Angel wings. Bloody angel wings.
And then it cuts.
I’m in the field. The wind’s picked up, and it’s starting to spit a little, gently raining blood. Even the darkness of the park has turned red, tinged with death.
I duck beneath the railing and sprint through the mud. There, standing over Michał is Nathan Burrows. He’s wearing a pair of grey jogging bottoms and a stained grey sweatshirt. He’s unshaven, and his hair is long and slightly ragged. His teeth are sloped to one side and his eyebrows have met in the middle. I see a monster in front of me, standing alone, shoulders rolled forward, legs shoulder-width apart, arms down by his sides, staring at me, almost taunting, waiting for me to make the first move.
And I do. I’m the first one to blink. Literally.
But when I open my eyes again, Nathan’s turned into a fifteen-year-old boy. Wearing the same blue Lonsdale tracksuit and black trainers he’d worn when he’d killed Michał. Except now there are two people standing behind him. A man and a woman, on either side. His mum and dad. They’re dressed in casual clothes. His mum’s hair is tied in a ponytail that seems to list to one side, as if it’s been pulled by someone else in an argument. On the other side, Nathan’s dad stands the same as him, with the shoulders, with the arms. The only difference between them is the receding hairline and the chubbier stomach. Aside from that, they’re almost spitting images.
The three of them, staring at me.
And then Nathan waves his hand at me, almost as though he’s calling me over, beckoning me.
And then it cuts.
I’m driving in the car, the police car, with Dad by my side. The sound of the windscreen wipers thrashing from side to side is the only noise in the car. That and the sound of the rain. We’re driving, driving, driving. I have no idea where we are; I just know we’re going to the station. When we get there, the police officer opens the door for me and leads me into the building. The lights are so bright I can’t see anything. All I know is that the man is guiding me, that I need to follow him. Eventually, after a few minutes of speaking to people, hearing voices and names I don’t recognise, I’m ushered into a small room. It’s well lit, there’s a nice sofa, and a television playing some mundane programme that I’m not paying attention to. It’s designed to calm me down, but I can’t focus on it. All I can see is Michał’s blood on my hands, mixed with the dirt beneath my fingernails. It’s on the walls. It’s in the fabric of the furniture. It’s everywhere. I ask to go to the toilet, to clean my hands, but nothing happens, nobody answers. I begin to panic, my chest rising, falling, rising, falling, until my head is light and dizzy. I move back towards the sofa to sit, reach for the bottle of water on there, and just as I unscrew the lid, the door opens. Standing there, dressed in police uniform, is my mum. Her sparkling pink nails cling to the door handle.
