Echoes of Lies by Jo Bannister

just about handle the concept of pain for its own sake, deliberate and unrelenting.
    â€œBut it wasn’t just the pain. It was how they made me feel. Like nothing. Like I was so worthless they had a right to treat me like that.” A tear trembled on the lip of his eye. “But they hadn’t. They were wrong: I’m worth more than that. I might have to keep reminding myself, but I know it’s true.”
    Deacon still didn’t understand. “You’re going to risk your life to prove it?”
    â€œNo. I’m going to live my life to prove it. I’m going home, I’m going to get well, I’m going back to work and I’m going to achieve something. This is not going to shackle me for the rest of my life. I’m not going to be their victim forever. For two days they used me like they owned me, but they’re not going to rule my existence for the next ten, twenty, fifty years.”
    â€œHow about the next fortnight?”
    Daniel gave a wry grin. “I could almost go for that. But if I did, and at the end of a fortnight you still hadn’t got them, I’m not sure I’d ever get past that door.”
    Jack Deacon was like any other police officer: for every collar he felt he lost two. It was a reality of the job he’d long come to terms with, though he still found it offensive to watch a criminal head down the police station steps. He told himself that he’d catch up with them some day, and very often he did. If it wasn’t exactly philosophical it was pragmatic.
    But he also knew when he was fighting a battle he wasn’t going to win. He couldn’t hold Daniel Hood against his will any more than his doctor could. He nodded. “My car’s outside.”
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    If he’d thought Daniel could match the deeds to the words he might have been slower to take him home. He thought they’d get to the flat over the drying sheds - to the place where it had begun, to the door which he’d last opened onto mayhem - and he’d turn away, grey and shaking, and Deacon could take him back to the hospital.
    The flat was once a loft where fishermen knotted their nets. It was approached by an iron staircase up the outside - in pre-Building Regulations days it had been wood - and you had to look twice to know someone lived there. The door was tarred and weathered like the rest of the shed, but there were curtains at the windows and two milk bottles at the foot of the steps.
    For a moment Deacon thought they weren’t going any further. With his hand on the rail Daniel slowed to a halt and swayed. Deacon stood ready to catch him if he fell. But then sheer willpower stiffened his back and his hand knotted white-knuckled on the rail, and he went up.
    His keys had been lost. Deacon had some made to facilitate the investigation. He used one now, pushed the door open, and waited.
    Daniel barely paused on the threshold. Deacon followed him inside, shut the door behind him, looked round for somewhere to put the bag. He found a bedroom, dropped it behind the door.
    He turned in time to see Daniel’s cheeks blench paper-white, the pale grey eyes roll behind the thick lenses and his knees go to string; he folded with a sigh, and it was all Deacon could do to reach him before he hit his head on the hearth.
    â€œEasy, Danny,” whistled Deacon, sinking to his knees and pulling the young man safely into the compass of his arms. “It’s all right, I’ve got you. Sit still a minute and get your breath back.”
    The grey fog cocooning him left Daniel no choice. He lay passive against the older man’s chest and felt a little of his strength percolate into him. His lips twitched. “Sorry.”
    â€œWill that do?” asked Deacon quietly. “Have you had enough now? Can we go back?”
    But Daniel was shaking his head. “I’m staying.”
    â€œYou can’t. Damn it, just walking through the door was enough to