The Nightmare Place by Steve Mosby

colour, and there weren’t any clouds. And it was empty: no figures of any kind standing there. Don’t, I thought suddenly. It was irrational, and I didn’t know why, but the thought came anyway
    Don’t.
    I stood there for a few moments longer, willing a memory to come. Just some indication of what had happened here that I couldn’t remember, and that only ever came out in my sleep. But it wouldn’t.
    Quarter past eight now.
    Just do what you came here to do.
    I turned and headed back into the body of the estate. It only took another minute to locate Pearson’s house, and as I approached it, I could hear the sound of the television from the open window out front. Someone was home, then.
    I took out my phone and dialled Chris’s number. He answered immediately, and sounded annoyed with me. Understandably, I supposed.
    ‘You’ve got to do everything yourself, haven’t you?’
    ‘No,’ I said, although of course he was right. ‘You weren’t in, and I decided it was too important to wait.’
    ‘Bullshit. Zoe—’
    ‘Give it a rest, Chris. It might not even be anything.’
    ‘Then why was it too important to wait?’
    ‘Because it was. And I don’t need a chaperone. Anyway, look: I’ve called you now that I’m here. So you can escort me by telephone, can’t you?’
    ‘Zoe—’
    I moved the phone away from my ear and knocked on Pearson’s door. My intention was to play it as a follow-up from the nursery incident at first: nothing serious that might alarm him. But in truth, I was glad to have Chris on the line. Just in case.
    I heard bolts being withdrawn, and then a moment later the front door opened. I recognised the man immediately from the photograph online. The beard was gone now, but the wild hair remained. Of course, the picture had only shown his face.
    ‘Jonathan Pearson?’ I said.
    He nodded, and my heart sank a little. At about five foot six, Pearson was shorter than me, and he was dressed in pyjama bottoms and a white T-shirt that revealed how skinny he was. Not only would I have been able to overpower him with one hand, there was no way on earth he could be the guy the nursery workers had seen, and that the officer had stopped and interviewed. You would have had to be blind to describe this guy as physically large.
    I lifted the phone to my ear again.
    ‘Stand down, soldier.’
    ‘Why? What’s going on?’
    ‘It’s not our guy. I’ll be back in soon.’
    I ended the call, realising that what I’d said wasn’t quite right. Pearson might not be our guy, but I was certain that the man who had been spotted in Sally’s street was. The question was, how had the bastard got hold of Pearson’s driving licence?
    ‘What’s this about?’ asked Pearson.
    ‘Detective Inspector Zoe Dolan.’ I did my best to smile at him, although the sinking feeling had started to be replaced by frustration and anger. ‘I think we need to have a little chat, Jonathan.’

Eleven

    It always happens like this, after the monster has come. He tries to forget, but after a while, it simply gets too much.
    Because he is a man who loves very deeply indeed, and he never truly leaves anyone behind. In this way, he is not so unlike other people: normal people. Doesn’t everybody mourn lost relationships to some extent? Whether it’s with hatred, fondness, confusion, guilt or forgiveness, surely everyone looks back. However hard we try, it’s impossible to unremember for ever.
    In other ways, of course, he is very different indeed.
    During the time he spends with someone, he is often happy. He thinks of them in the morning when he wakes up, and smiles to himself, content with the knowledge that he has them in his life, however obliquely. He anticipates the first sight of them that day, and makes plans for what they might do: dancing together at a distance. For a certain amount of time, he is able to pretend. When reality does intrude, it does so completely and utterly. The realisation of who and what he is can