money, no job, no prospects. Rick’s family might take a couple of weeks to wrap up his affairs, put the flat on the market. They might let Glenn stay during that time. But what then? Either go back to his parents, or sleep rough, maybe find a squat. Jesus, he was slipping through society like the bedraggled people he saw begging at the Tube.
The first flare of orange sun caught him with his face pressed against the glass overlooking the balcony.
“Fuck it,” he muttered to the sunrise.
The following minutes passed like a dream, partly from lack of sleep, but mainly from the knowledge that Glenn had irrevocably crossed some boundary when he failed to call an ambulance. He was busy, and that helped: he only stopped once, briefly, to stare at his palm, searching for the destiny line that Cathy Dunswick had divined so long ago.
He tossed the contents of the fridge into black refuse sacks. Taking a steadying shot of 25-year-old Bowmore’s, he returned to Rick's room and hefted the body by the armpits. The first steps Glenn took towards his new destiny were shuffling backwards through the spotless kitchen, dragging his old school pal to the empty refrigerator.
Once he had the corpse settled inside, he paused. There was still some single malt in the glass. He lifted it to his lips. A voice inside his head repeated the same refrain, over and over again. The artist becomes Hitler . A muscle beneath his right eye went into a sudden, violent spasm and he raised a hand to calm it. The tic kept twitching under his fingers, unstoppable. Then he knew it was his own voice he was hearing.
The artist becomes Hitler.
He raised the glass and drank it dry.
***
It was dark already when Professor Poincaffrey suggested they wrap it up for the day. Lost in his story, Oriente realized he had been talking for hours. He felt as if he had been watching the tale unfold before him, memories untouched for years suddenly blossoming into life. He could briefly smell the odor of Rick’s flat, a long-ago tincture of lemon-zest floor cleaner, cigarette smoke and leather upholstery. The olfactory memory vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
The academics shook his hand, promising the session would resume in the morning. In the hubbub, like the end of the lecture, Oriente heard one of the professors exclaiming, “Extraordinary, just extraordinary.”
Hencock seemed less impressed. As he passed him at the door, Oriente heard the inspector asking Poincaffrey how he could know all of this. “After all, he wasn’t there, was he? He wasn’t there with this man…Glenn, was he?”
“I don’t know, commissioner,” replied Poincaffrey, getting his rank wrong in his rush to escape the dull bureaucrat. “I’m sure all will be revealed in due course.”
Snubbed, Hencock stepped up to Oriente and took him lightly by the elbow. “This way, Mr Oriente. There’s a vehicle waiting.”
Agent Demarra escorted Oriente back to the hospital. In the overgrown, barely lit streets, Oriente could make out virtually nothing of the city. Most buildings were long gone – the conservationists concentrated only on those of designated historical value, though some carried out side-projects in their spare time, maintaining a house or pub they might once have loved, before the Exodus. Occasionally, the DPP car would emerge from the darkness and trees into a half-lit square of stone terraces, ivy grasping at the facades.
Demarra bade him goodnight at the hospital. There was a guard at the door, Oriente noticed. Passing the nurses’ station, he peeked in to see if Lola was on duty, but there were two nurses he did not know. He went to his room, undressed and lay in the dark.
The next morning was foggy, the mist tangled in the trees that stood thick around the hospital grounds. Lola burst in at seven, face bright and showing no trace of the early hour.
“Morning sweetie,” she said, setting down a steaming breakfast tray. Bacon, fried eggs, grilled
The first flare of orange sun caught him with his face pressed against the glass overlooking the balcony.
“Fuck it,” he muttered to the sunrise.
The following minutes passed like a dream, partly from lack of sleep, but mainly from the knowledge that Glenn had irrevocably crossed some boundary when he failed to call an ambulance. He was busy, and that helped: he only stopped once, briefly, to stare at his palm, searching for the destiny line that Cathy Dunswick had divined so long ago.
He tossed the contents of the fridge into black refuse sacks. Taking a steadying shot of 25-year-old Bowmore’s, he returned to Rick's room and hefted the body by the armpits. The first steps Glenn took towards his new destiny were shuffling backwards through the spotless kitchen, dragging his old school pal to the empty refrigerator.
Once he had the corpse settled inside, he paused. There was still some single malt in the glass. He lifted it to his lips. A voice inside his head repeated the same refrain, over and over again. The artist becomes Hitler . A muscle beneath his right eye went into a sudden, violent spasm and he raised a hand to calm it. The tic kept twitching under his fingers, unstoppable. Then he knew it was his own voice he was hearing.
The artist becomes Hitler.
He raised the glass and drank it dry.
***
It was dark already when Professor Poincaffrey suggested they wrap it up for the day. Lost in his story, Oriente realized he had been talking for hours. He felt as if he had been watching the tale unfold before him, memories untouched for years suddenly blossoming into life. He could briefly smell the odor of Rick’s flat, a long-ago tincture of lemon-zest floor cleaner, cigarette smoke and leather upholstery. The olfactory memory vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
The academics shook his hand, promising the session would resume in the morning. In the hubbub, like the end of the lecture, Oriente heard one of the professors exclaiming, “Extraordinary, just extraordinary.”
Hencock seemed less impressed. As he passed him at the door, Oriente heard the inspector asking Poincaffrey how he could know all of this. “After all, he wasn’t there, was he? He wasn’t there with this man…Glenn, was he?”
“I don’t know, commissioner,” replied Poincaffrey, getting his rank wrong in his rush to escape the dull bureaucrat. “I’m sure all will be revealed in due course.”
Snubbed, Hencock stepped up to Oriente and took him lightly by the elbow. “This way, Mr Oriente. There’s a vehicle waiting.”
Agent Demarra escorted Oriente back to the hospital. In the overgrown, barely lit streets, Oriente could make out virtually nothing of the city. Most buildings were long gone – the conservationists concentrated only on those of designated historical value, though some carried out side-projects in their spare time, maintaining a house or pub they might once have loved, before the Exodus. Occasionally, the DPP car would emerge from the darkness and trees into a half-lit square of stone terraces, ivy grasping at the facades.
Demarra bade him goodnight at the hospital. There was a guard at the door, Oriente noticed. Passing the nurses’ station, he peeked in to see if Lola was on duty, but there were two nurses he did not know. He went to his room, undressed and lay in the dark.
The next morning was foggy, the mist tangled in the trees that stood thick around the hospital grounds. Lola burst in at seven, face bright and showing no trace of the early hour.
“Morning sweetie,” she said, setting down a steaming breakfast tray. Bacon, fried eggs, grilled
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