Survival of Thomas Ford, The by John A. A. Logan

Robert’s neck and armpits, Thomas Ford’s face is the long, hairy snout of a wolf, teeth gleaming and jaws slavering. Thomas Ford’s eyes are enormous yellow orbs and Robert cries out in his sleep twice, waking his mother with the second cry.

    At her flat, Lorna is on the verge of sleep when she hears Jimmy’s ratatat knock on the door. She swears, then throws off her duvet. She opens the door to a sober-faced Jimmy. His only expression is a raised eyebrow. Then he smiles.
    In the bed, afterwards, they lie again in that familiar zone of total blackness, which Lorna thinks now is something that she never experiences when alone in the bedroom. The nebulous vacuum only seems to come with Jimmy’s presence, as though some density within him has absorbed the light. She finds herself wishing he was not there, that she had not let him in.
    “There’s something I want to tell you about,” he says, and Lorna wishes he would stop talking. “It’s about that man at the hospital, Thomas Ford.”
    Lorna starts to feel sleepy again.
    “He’s not at the hospital any more,” she says. “He went home.”
    “Aye. I know. Me and Robert were round at his house just now. We were in his garden eh?”
    Lorna frowned.
    “How do you mean?”
    “Just what I said. We were in his garden.”
    “What were you doing in his garden? How would you know where his garden is anyway? You’re talking shite Jimmy. Let me sleep.”
    “His garden’s at 16 Cromwell Drive,” said Jimmy. “That’s his house. Nice area. Me and Robert just came from it.”
    Lorna’s eyes were open in the black room.
    “It was me and Robert, in my car, that caused the crash two months ago, that Ford’s wife died in eh?”
    “Don’t talk shite Jimmy.”
    Jimmy sniffed. Then he laughed in the darkness.
    “Aye well,” he said, “if you really don’t want to know.”
    “You’re saying you caused the crash?”
    “Aye.”
    “How?”
    “We were coming round a blind corner, nose to nose with a lorry.”
    “A lorry driver died there too,” said Lorna.
    “Aye. But that was a heart attack,” said Jimmy. “Can’t blame me for that.”
    Lorna felt like something had twisted in her chest. There was an excitement too though, like being privy to the solution of a great mystery.
    “You killed that man’s wife then,” she said.
    “No. It was an accident.”
    “But you caused it.”
    “The trouble is,” said Jimmy, “this man, Ford, he saw our heads like, for a second. I could pass him on the street one day. I think he’d remember me.”
    “Why were you in his garden?”
    She felt Jimmy’s shoulders shrug against the mattress. He didn’t answer.
    “You’re just winding me up, Jimmy. You weren’t in anybody’s fucking garden. Except maybe your mum’s, or Robert’s mum’s.”
    “I know he remembers me,” said Jimmy, “because if I was him I’d remember me. No way am I spending years in a cell, living around a bunch of mangey cunts, no way. No for an accident on a road.”
    “Just shut up Jimmy. I’m no listening. I’ve had enough of you doing this, stuffing my head full of shite when I’m trying to get to sleep. You wouldn’t think it was funny if you had to work the next day.”
    Lorna turned over onto her stomach, raised the pillow, laid her cheek on it.
    “Just shut up and go to sleep,” she said.
    Jimmy frowned in the darkness. He felt very alone. Where was the relief in confession when one was not believed? It was supposed to be good for the soul, but then people didn’t believe you. What good was that? Still, it was interesting that it went that way. Perhaps it showed the flimsy nature of the evidence against Robert and himself. That was Jimmy’s last thought. One moment he was staring into the darkness, the next he was asleep.

Chapter Fifteen
     
    Detective Sergeant McPherson was sitting at his narrow corner desk, looking out a dirty window. He smelt Liz’s perfume before he heard her shoes on the carpet. She placed a