along. I shook my head: Follow that bus . He was out of sight by the time it arrived, so I got off at the next stop, walked behind a wall and waited for his bus to drive by. He was standing by the driver, peering out into the distance.
I caught another bus and followed his bus into the terminus at Euston. He was nowhere to be seen as I hopped off. I sent Mawker a text message: th@ ws an inslt, knbhd , and then I went into the train station and booked a ticket to my past.
8
I didn’t want to travel up north for any number of reasons. Mawker had warned me not to leave London, so I didn’t want to incur his wrath… nah, only kidding. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone for and it would mean that Melanie might go off the simmer for me. Also, I needed to get to Kara Geenan and her so-called brother – Phythian – before anybody else ended up like an entry at a blind butchers’ carving competition. I was pinning my hopes on this Phythian fucker, even though I had yet to be convinced that he actually existed.
Cullen didn’t sit right with what had happened so far. Mawker had said he’d done a runner from Summerhead, a relatively low-security mental hospital that was based, coincidentally (I hoped), in the north-west of England, which was another reason to head up that way. But what did that mean? How many nutcases slipped their handcuffs and wandered off in search of a bit of fun? If it could happen in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest , it could happen in Summerhead. So I didn’t want to go, but there seemed to be more reasons for me to go than there were keeping me here in the Smoke.
Kara and her brother would be down here while I was up there, however, and although visiting Liverpool might give me some idea as to why they were in London, it wouldn’t provide me with a map to their front door. But, mainly, going up to Liverpool was also going home, and that was the grit in my Vaseline. It was like continually ripping a plaster from a cut only to find that it just isn’t healing.
I hadn’t been back to the north-west since coming down to London in 2001. I realised, after buying the ticket, that more than anything else it was because getting out of the big city would be tantamount to marooning Sarah here, although there was no logic to suggest that this was where she actually was. Just because she went missing here didn’t mean she was still missing here. I forced myself to accept that this journey was something I was going to have to do. I thought it was marginally crucial in order to try to save my own life, though many might have disagreed. Listen , I instructed myself, it isn’t London where Sarah’s missing from; it’s somewhere inside you . And that place was always going to be with me, no matter where I went.
It was getting on for late afternoon, but I didn’t want to go back to Maida Vale yet. I walked down Tottenham Court Road, past all the electrical goods shops with their displays of gadgets that were getting so small you were given a complimentary magnifying glass with every purchase. I had a half of lager at the French House on Dean Street, standing outside because the place was stuffed full of people with portfolios and surfer beards and mobile phones that played the theme tune from Coronation Street in an ironic way.
Liptrott had been slaughtered , yet there were no signs of a struggle. I think I myself might have put up a bit of a fight rather than just stretch out on the bed and let it happen. That meant he must have known his murderer. Either that or Cullen, or whoever, was in the flat before Liptrott got home. I explored that avenue a little further and – as insane as it sounded because presumably the killer wouldn’t have known how long he would have to wait there, maybe hours – it tugged on my handle more than anything else. He possessed Grasshopper’s stealth; could walk on rice-paper without tearing it, but that didn’t tally with the clumsy approach of my guy in St John’s
I caught another bus and followed his bus into the terminus at Euston. He was nowhere to be seen as I hopped off. I sent Mawker a text message: th@ ws an inslt, knbhd , and then I went into the train station and booked a ticket to my past.
8
I didn’t want to travel up north for any number of reasons. Mawker had warned me not to leave London, so I didn’t want to incur his wrath… nah, only kidding. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone for and it would mean that Melanie might go off the simmer for me. Also, I needed to get to Kara Geenan and her so-called brother – Phythian – before anybody else ended up like an entry at a blind butchers’ carving competition. I was pinning my hopes on this Phythian fucker, even though I had yet to be convinced that he actually existed.
Cullen didn’t sit right with what had happened so far. Mawker had said he’d done a runner from Summerhead, a relatively low-security mental hospital that was based, coincidentally (I hoped), in the north-west of England, which was another reason to head up that way. But what did that mean? How many nutcases slipped their handcuffs and wandered off in search of a bit of fun? If it could happen in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest , it could happen in Summerhead. So I didn’t want to go, but there seemed to be more reasons for me to go than there were keeping me here in the Smoke.
Kara and her brother would be down here while I was up there, however, and although visiting Liverpool might give me some idea as to why they were in London, it wouldn’t provide me with a map to their front door. But, mainly, going up to Liverpool was also going home, and that was the grit in my Vaseline. It was like continually ripping a plaster from a cut only to find that it just isn’t healing.
I hadn’t been back to the north-west since coming down to London in 2001. I realised, after buying the ticket, that more than anything else it was because getting out of the big city would be tantamount to marooning Sarah here, although there was no logic to suggest that this was where she actually was. Just because she went missing here didn’t mean she was still missing here. I forced myself to accept that this journey was something I was going to have to do. I thought it was marginally crucial in order to try to save my own life, though many might have disagreed. Listen , I instructed myself, it isn’t London where Sarah’s missing from; it’s somewhere inside you . And that place was always going to be with me, no matter where I went.
It was getting on for late afternoon, but I didn’t want to go back to Maida Vale yet. I walked down Tottenham Court Road, past all the electrical goods shops with their displays of gadgets that were getting so small you were given a complimentary magnifying glass with every purchase. I had a half of lager at the French House on Dean Street, standing outside because the place was stuffed full of people with portfolios and surfer beards and mobile phones that played the theme tune from Coronation Street in an ironic way.
Liptrott had been slaughtered , yet there were no signs of a struggle. I think I myself might have put up a bit of a fight rather than just stretch out on the bed and let it happen. That meant he must have known his murderer. Either that or Cullen, or whoever, was in the flat before Liptrott got home. I explored that avenue a little further and – as insane as it sounded because presumably the killer wouldn’t have known how long he would have to wait there, maybe hours – it tugged on my handle more than anything else. He possessed Grasshopper’s stealth; could walk on rice-paper without tearing it, but that didn’t tally with the clumsy approach of my guy in St John’s
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