and asked which prison Marcus Brooks had been released from.
Got the answer he didn't want to hear.
And then, Thorne knew .
Baby,
I'll probably keep this one short, because I'm so wiped out, and even though I know I won't sleep for very long, I'll have to get up and out. I need to walk when I wake up, to keep moving. If I just lie there, things that I don't want to think about for too long get in my head, and I'm afraid they might stick, and I can't stand it.
Actually, the walking has been brilliant. You probably think that sounds stupid, or like I'm taking the piss, because of how much I used to hate it. You couldn't even get me to walk to the bus stop, remember? It's weird, but it makes me less tired, not more. I can't explain it. It sharpens me up, you know? Like the exercise did when I was inside. I just go for miles every night, don't matter where, and when I get back here, things are a bit clearer. It isn't like I might forget what I'm going to do or anything, but it helps me focus.
It reminds me why I'm doing this. Why I don't really care about anything except doing it.
Last night, after I sorted Hodson out, I walked towards these lights I could see out of the window. Across fields and a motorway. I know they were just houses and cars and whatever, so don't think I'm going totally mental, but while I was walking in the dark, up to my knees in mud and shit and Christ knows what, it felt like I was getting closer to you and Robbie. Like you were both waiting in the lights somewhere.
I had to stop myself running in the end.
Like I said, mental. I'm even grinning about it a bit myself now, because I could hear you pissing yourself while I was writing it!!
Kiss him for me, will you ?
I'm sending kisses and all sorts of other stuff to you as well, COURSE I AM. I'll write again soon, tomorrow maybe, but now I've got to at least try and get my head down. I'm so fucking tired.
Sleep well, angel.
X
EIGHT
The last time Thorne had seen Stuart Nicklin had been across a crowded courtroom at the Old Bailey, when he had spoken from the witness box at his trial. But the last time he had been this close to him, Thorne had been screaming and spattered in blood. A school playground in Harrow. A man dead at Thorne's feet and a woman, a police officer, dying a few yards away while he could do nothing. 'Congratulations on being alive,' Nicklin had said to him, smiling. 'Being alive's the easy bit though, isn't it? It's feeling alive that's the hard part.'
Thorne had reacted then, lashed out, and watched Stuart Nicklin spitting out the wreckage of teeth and long strings of blood as he was finally seized and led away.
The smile growing broader as he went.
That winter had been mild, and terrible. Nicklin had killed at least four people himself - three young women and an old man - and been directly responsible for as many deaths again. One of them, a man named Martin Palmer, had murdered two women at his behest; killings he had carried out simply because he had been easy to manipulate, and too terrified of his tormentor not to.
Nicklin had learned early that fear was the most powerful weapon of all. He wielded it as skilfully as any butcher used a blade and with as much deadly force as the police marksman who had finally gunned down Palmer in that school playground, five years before.
It had been a little under two hours on the train to Evesham, then a fifteen-minute cab ride from the station to the prison. Thorne hadn't eaten anything the whole way, and now, staring at Nicklin's wide, rejuvenated smile, he was happy to put the feeling in his stomach down to hunger.
'I feel like I should be sitting in a swivel chair,' Nicklin said. 'Stroking a white cat or something.'
'This'll have to do.'
'I was expecting you sooner, if I'm honest.'
'I only got the first picture four days ago.'
'Oh, I take that back then. Sorry.'
'I should think so.'
Nicklin nodded, pleased with himself. 'I told Marcus you were the right man for the
Got the answer he didn't want to hear.
And then, Thorne knew .
Baby,
I'll probably keep this one short, because I'm so wiped out, and even though I know I won't sleep for very long, I'll have to get up and out. I need to walk when I wake up, to keep moving. If I just lie there, things that I don't want to think about for too long get in my head, and I'm afraid they might stick, and I can't stand it.
Actually, the walking has been brilliant. You probably think that sounds stupid, or like I'm taking the piss, because of how much I used to hate it. You couldn't even get me to walk to the bus stop, remember? It's weird, but it makes me less tired, not more. I can't explain it. It sharpens me up, you know? Like the exercise did when I was inside. I just go for miles every night, don't matter where, and when I get back here, things are a bit clearer. It isn't like I might forget what I'm going to do or anything, but it helps me focus.
It reminds me why I'm doing this. Why I don't really care about anything except doing it.
Last night, after I sorted Hodson out, I walked towards these lights I could see out of the window. Across fields and a motorway. I know they were just houses and cars and whatever, so don't think I'm going totally mental, but while I was walking in the dark, up to my knees in mud and shit and Christ knows what, it felt like I was getting closer to you and Robbie. Like you were both waiting in the lights somewhere.
I had to stop myself running in the end.
Like I said, mental. I'm even grinning about it a bit myself now, because I could hear you pissing yourself while I was writing it!!
Kiss him for me, will you ?
I'm sending kisses and all sorts of other stuff to you as well, COURSE I AM. I'll write again soon, tomorrow maybe, but now I've got to at least try and get my head down. I'm so fucking tired.
Sleep well, angel.
X
EIGHT
The last time Thorne had seen Stuart Nicklin had been across a crowded courtroom at the Old Bailey, when he had spoken from the witness box at his trial. But the last time he had been this close to him, Thorne had been screaming and spattered in blood. A school playground in Harrow. A man dead at Thorne's feet and a woman, a police officer, dying a few yards away while he could do nothing. 'Congratulations on being alive,' Nicklin had said to him, smiling. 'Being alive's the easy bit though, isn't it? It's feeling alive that's the hard part.'
Thorne had reacted then, lashed out, and watched Stuart Nicklin spitting out the wreckage of teeth and long strings of blood as he was finally seized and led away.
The smile growing broader as he went.
That winter had been mild, and terrible. Nicklin had killed at least four people himself - three young women and an old man - and been directly responsible for as many deaths again. One of them, a man named Martin Palmer, had murdered two women at his behest; killings he had carried out simply because he had been easy to manipulate, and too terrified of his tormentor not to.
Nicklin had learned early that fear was the most powerful weapon of all. He wielded it as skilfully as any butcher used a blade and with as much deadly force as the police marksman who had finally gunned down Palmer in that school playground, five years before.
It had been a little under two hours on the train to Evesham, then a fifteen-minute cab ride from the station to the prison. Thorne hadn't eaten anything the whole way, and now, staring at Nicklin's wide, rejuvenated smile, he was happy to put the feeling in his stomach down to hunger.
'I feel like I should be sitting in a swivel chair,' Nicklin said. 'Stroking a white cat or something.'
'This'll have to do.'
'I was expecting you sooner, if I'm honest.'
'I only got the first picture four days ago.'
'Oh, I take that back then. Sorry.'
'I should think so.'
Nicklin nodded, pleased with himself. 'I told Marcus you were the right man for the
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