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  Apart from a cut above Ward's eyebrow, he was unhurt. Shaken and stunned, yes, but unhurt.

  On the truck’s floor, he flattened himself out, stretching as far as his shackles would allow, reaching for the croppers. But it was no good; his fingertips hovered frustratingly close, millimetres from one of the handles. Jerry was next to him, on his side, eyes open. Vacant. Ward wanted to push his eyelids down, stop his beseeching gaze. There was no time, though. Soon the police would arrive. His chance would be gone. The sound of sirens filled the air.

  He watched as the ambulance pulled away, flashing its blue light.

  With an almighty effort, Ward lunged for the croppers and caught the handle with his fingertips. Just enough to pull them an inch closer. Stretching himself flat again, he seized a handle. Pulled the croppers towards him. He cut his leg shackles off. Considered trying to cut through the handcuffs too, but thought better of it. Too awkward to do. No time. Best run for it.

  ####

  18:45pm: Boxford City Centre

  Lavadres clothing store: a middle of the road establishment that catered for every budget. Most of the people milling around were just browsing. Some were casing the joint to see what they could steal. A few well-to-do ladies were making purchases at the tills, careful not to flash their cash. Security guards patrolled the aisles. Always alert. Ready. On the look out for anything suspicious. But none of them noticed as a man in a baseball cap left a green rucksack beneath a display stand. The man walked away, counting in his head: 1 … 2 … 3 …

  He smiled.

  Kept walking.

  He exited the store, then quickened his pace.

  Kept counting: … 9 … 10 … 11 …

  ####

  Jack was bored. Sick of looking at Michael’s chest hair and his constant talking. Jack hated the food: the TV type dinners. The nurses kept asking him if he was okay, if he needed anything, which was annoying the shit out of him. He was tired of the smell of antiseptic. Tired of a host of things: the old biddy across from him and his incessant coughing; the guy in the next bed who had a flatulence problem; the busyness of the ward …

  Throwing the covers back, Jack swung himself around so he was sitting on the edge of the bed. At his request, his parents had brought him some clothes in a Duffle Bag. (That was another thing that was doing his head in: the two or three visits a day from them and his mother’s constant fussing.) Jack reached down, grabbed the bag. Picked it up. He went into bathroom, trying his hardest not to look at himself in the mirror. When he emerged he was wearing stonewashed jeans, a white t-shirt and black trainers.

  The guy with the flatulence problem was now trimming his long, yellow toenails. One struck Jack on the arm as he walked back to his bed.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Jack said.

  The guy gave him an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said in a gruff voice, ‘but it’s like cuttin’ Formica.’

  Jack was dismayed at how people sometimes gave him tidbits of information he could have done without.

  Sprawled out on his bed, Michael was reading a skin mag.

  ‘Going somewhere, buddy?’ he said. ‘You checking out?’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ Jack said, gathering his stuff together, putting it in the bag. ‘Another night in here and I’ll go insane.’

  Michael sat up. ‘Ah, do you have to go? Just as we were really getting to know each other, as well. Don’t think the Old Dragon’ll be too pleased if she knows you’re leaving early.’

  Old Dragon was his nickname for nurse Rose.

  ‘Hopefully I can get away before she notices,’ Jack said.

  A loud cough from behind told him this wasn’t to be.

  ‘What are you doing, Mr. Williams?’ Rose asked, her voice an octave lower than usual. ‘Going somewhere, are we?’

  Jack turned to face her.

  Rose’s arms were folded across her huge breasts. Her glasses were perched on the end of her nose, her chin tucked low so she could look over the rim. She fixed Jack with a no-nonsense stare.

  ‘I’m going home,’ he said. ‘I can’t stay here any longer.’

  ‘But we need to keep you in for observation,’ Rose said. ‘A few more days, at least. You received some very heavy blows to the head and it’s important we monitor you.’

  ‘Nurse Rose talks sense,’ Michael chirped in.

  ‘I’ll observe myself while I’m at home,’ Jack said, throwing his bag over his shoulder. ‘If I don’t feel right, I’ll soon let you know. I’m nearly one-hundred percent now. Just my ribs that still hurt a bit.’

  ‘I insist you wait for me to get the doctor,’ Rose said. ‘I’m sure he can talk you out of this silliness. Stay here for a minute while I fetch him, please.’ Muttering under her breath, she blustered away down the corridor.

  ‘I’m going before she gets reinforcements,’ Jack said to Michael. ‘Good luck with your recovery.’

  He went to leave, but Michael called after him. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘we should go out for a drink sometime. Whaddaya say, buddy?’

  Jack was tempted to keep walking, pretend he hadn’t heard. After all, Michael had driven him mad with his constant chatter and creepy chest hair. But as annoying as he was, Jack thought that he was a good man, a genuine fellow. And Jack hadn’t met many of those.

  So he went back to him and they exchanged mobile numbers.

  ‘When I get a chance,’ Jack said, ‘when I’m feeling better and I’m right again, I’ll call you.’ Although he didn’t think he would ever be “right” again.

  ‘We could sink some beers,’ Michael said, excited. ‘Shoot pool and play darts, if you like?’

  ‘That’d be great,’ Jack said, trying to sound enthusiastic. He heard Rose’s voice down the corridor, getting louder. Closer. ‘Gotta go.’

  Nobody was stopping him leaving. No matter how persistent. Rose could bring all the doctors she liked and it would make no difference. Jack wanted out and that was where he was heading when Rose shouted after him, ‘Mr. Williams, please wait! Mr. Williams, hold on a second!’ She was accompanied by the doctor who had examined Jack when he’d first been admitted.

  Wasting not a moment, Jack shoved his way through the exit door. Scarpered down the stairs, taking them three at a time. He made it to ground level in seconds. Just as he was entering reception, Rose’s voice echoed down to him, ‘Mr. Williams, puleeeeze!’

  There was a taxi rank outside. Jack’s parents had given him fifteen pounds to buy food and drinks from the vending machine; he used the money to pay for his fare home. During the ten minute journey to Maltshire Road, which was on the city’s outskirts, he thought of nothing but Eleanor. What would she say when she saw him? Indeed, what would he say to her? Apart from: why did you only visit me once, when I was first admitted? Now that was a fair question. Why haven’t you answered my phone calls? That was another. But he didn’t want to adopt a heavy-handed approach. He figured there might be a reasonable explanation for her abandoning him.

  Yeah, a voice in his head spoke up, it’s ‘cause she doesn’t love you anymore.

  ‘Shut up!’ Jack said.

  ‘S’up, mate?’ the driver said, eyeing him in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Nothing. I was just thinking out loud.’

  The driver stared at Jack, so he glared back. Jack wondered how long it would be before he punched someone for gawping at him. When they arrived, Jack didn’t give a tip. Mainly because he was pissed off, but also because he couldn’t afford to. He needed every penny he could lay his hands on.

  The first thing he noticed was the empty driveway. No car meant one thing: Eleanor wasn’t home. He hadn’t expected the VW Beetle to be there, of course; he knew she was at her mum and dad's. But, still, a part of him hoped he was wrong. Jack’s parents had told him that Eleanor had picked the Beetle up from the Fox and Faucet a few nights after the attack. When Jack had enquired if she’d asked after him, his parents had said no, which had caused an uncomfortable silence as nobody had known what to say.
/>   In the fading daylight, the Victorian semi looked cold and unwelcoming. Some of the moss-covered roof tiles were loose, some cracked. The chimney was canting ominously to one side, like a drunkard. A few of the windows were rotten, white paint peeling away. The lawn was overgrown.

  ‘How did we ever think we could do this shithole up?’ Jack said.

  He took his keys out of his bag. Unlocked the front door. Opened it. In the hallway, he bent down and picked up the mail off the WELCOME mat. Most of the pile looked like bills, so he took them into the kitchen. Threw them on the sideboard. He already felt depressed; didn’t want to make things worse by sifting through a bunch of final demands and threatening letters.

  The house’s interior was as dowdy as the exterior. Carpets were worn and moth-eaten, a sickly green that ran through the place. Woodchip lined the walls in a lot of rooms. Bits of it were peeled away in one of the bedrooms where Jack had made a token effort to remove some. Eleanor had joked that the light fittings wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Amityville House of Horrors, because they were so old. The oak effect kitchen was very 1980’s. Needed ripping out, a new one fitting. Ditto the pink bathroom suite. No wonder she couldn’t stand to be here on her own, Jack thought.

  He fancied a cuppa. After weeks in hospital, supping the piss-weak shyte the staff called tea, he needed a decent brew. The milk in the fridge had gone off, however, so he made a coffee using whitener instead. The cupboards were bare, but he managed to find some chocolate digestives to dunk (Eleanor’s favourite) that hadn’t gone mouldy.

  In the living room, he turned the television on. Dine in my House was just starting. The show where contestants took turns cooking in their homes to win a cash prize. It had always been Eleanor’s dream to appear on the show. Jack had encouraged her to apply. She’d never bothered, though. Always saying how embarrassed she would be at strangers seeing the state of their house. Not to mention the TV crew and millions of viewers.

  There was a silver-framed photo of Eleanor and Jack on the mantel piece. It showed them standing outside the house when they’d first moved in. Jack’s arm was around Eleanor and she was cuddling him, a huge grin on her face. It made his heart ache to look at the photo.

  Before he visited her, he wanted to think about what he was going to say. Her old bag of a mother, Camilla, would try and fend him off at the door, but he would push past her if necessary. Slouching onto the faded red settee, Jack dunked his biscuits. Scoffed them.

  Eventually, Dine in my House gave way to the news. Jack sat up when he saw what had happened. Grabbing the remote control, he turned the volume up. A police convoy that’d been transporting two prisoners had been attacked. Eleven officers were dead. One was injured. The prisoners had escaped. The newsreader was using words like carnage, slaughter and blood bath. Talking so fast he could barely get his words out.

  A photo of one of the escapees was showing. The guy had a long, pockmarked face and cold, blue eyes that were too close together. The newsreader identified him as Luke Armstrong, a gangster from Winsford who had been serving a ten year sentence for rape.

  Jack recognised the second escapee straight away. The droopy eyes and pathetic comb-over: James Ward. Or the Face Book Killer, as he had been dubbed. Now here was a man Jack wouldn’t have wanted to meet in a dark space (or anywhere else, as a matter of fact). Just looking at him sent a chill through Jack’s body.

  There was an inevitable warning for the public to be vigilant and exercise caution until both prisoners had been caught. People were advised not to approach either of them and call the police if they saw anything suspicious.

  The picture of Ward was still on the TV. Before Jack had been attacked he couldn’t have envisaged hating someone enough to cut their face off and stitch it into a book. He wouldn’t have believed a person could have so much rage inside them. Now he was beginning to wonder …

  He got up. Put his biscuits and tea aside.

  NEWS FLASH! appeared at the bottom of the screen. The newsreader said that there had been an explosion at Lavadres, probably from a bomb. No details on casualties or injuries yet, but onlookers feared the worst. The screen halved so a reporter could give commentary near the store. The scene behind her was chaos. Flashing lights from emergency services. People milling around, looking confused. Covered in blood. Pavements strewn with glass. The store’s front was ablaze.

  Shaking his head, Jack turned away. He had seen enough. In the bathroom, he flicked the light switch. Standing in front of the mirror above the sink, he stared at himself. Under the harsh glow from the ceramic ceiling globe, his complexion looked even more hideous than before, despite the healing. He traced the raised contours of the scars on his face with his fingertips and let out a low moan. Some were bigger than others. A long one ran the length of his cheek, from eye to jaw.

  His heart quickened, blood throbbing in his temples.

  He clawed at his face. Slowly, at first. Then faster and faster, until he drew blood.

  Now he really was beginning to wonder …

  3

  It was a rare night out for Dawn and Philip. Neither of them could remember the last time they had been to a restaurant together, so they wanted to make the most of it. Dawn had a soft spot for Indian food. Tikka Masala was her favourite. Not too spicy, but with enough oomph to singe her mouth, clean her sinuses. Philip had opted for Vindaloo and was regretting it. His nose was running. Eyes watering.

  ‘My belly feels like it’s on fire,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I did warn you,’ Dawn said, making no effort to suppress a grin. ‘But you wouldn’t listen. Typical macho man. Had to go for the hottest thing on the menu, didn’t you?’

  Philip guzzled his beer. ‘You could strip varnish with this,’ he said, gesturing towards the food on his plate. ‘Don’t think I’ll have any stomach lining left if I finish it.’

  He made a trumpeting noise as he blew his nose on a handkerchief. Sticking his tongue out, he panted like a dog. Dawn noticed a waiter looking on with concern.

  ‘Put your tongue away,’ she said, ‘and just eat your food.’

  Finishing his beer, Philip signalled the waiter to get him another.

  ‘If we had a dog,’ he said, ‘I’d take it home and give it to him.’

  ‘Just get it down your throat. You’re ruining the romantic atmosphere.’

  The restaurant was low-lit, mostly empty. Apart from two couples and a man dining by himself, Dawn and Philip had the place to themselves. Jingle-jangle music was playing in the background. A huge mirror on the wall gave the impression the place was larger, when in reality it was small and cosy. Just the way Dawn liked it.

  Leaning forwards, Philip took her by the hand, running his fingers over hers.

  With a glint in his eyes, he said, ‘You look stunning in that red dress, you know. I love it when you wear your hair down. The word vivacious comes to mind. Heads turn when you walk into a room, Dawn.’

  She felt herself blushing. ‘Can we … erm, save this for later; it’s just that you’re embarrassing me.’

  The waiter arrived with Philip’s beer. He took it and said, ‘Ta.’

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’ the waiter asked, eyeing Philip’s barely-touched meal.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Dawn said. ‘Thank you.’

  The waiter nodded, smiling a toothy white smile. ‘Anything else I can get you? Some more poppadoms, perhaps?’

  ‘No, we’re fine,’ Philip said.

  The man dining by himself raised his hand to get the waiter’s attention, so the waiter nodded to Dawn and Philip, then resumed his duties.

  ‘It’s so nice to have quality time together,’ Philip said, moving his food around on his plate with his fork. ‘I love Abbie to bits. She’s the apple of my eye, as the saying goes. But sometimes it’s good to have a break. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.’

  ‘We’ve only been out the house for thirty minutes and I’m already missing her,’ Dawn said, sporting a forc
ed smile. ‘I love her so much.’

  ‘I do, too. Don’t know how I ever got by without her.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  Philip reached over. Took Dawn’s hand again. He looked longingly into her eyes. And that’s when her mobile phone tinkled. Withdrawing his hand, Philip sighed. Rolled his eyes.

  ‘A few hours on our own,’ he moaned. ‘That’s all I wanted. Just a few hours. I thought you’d switched that thing off. You told me you were going to turn it off.’

  ‘I thought I had.’

  Her handbag was by her seat. She reached down. Pulled her mobile out. Noted the name on the screen. ‘It’s work,’ she said.

  ‘Great! That’s absolutely fantastic!’

  Dawn went to get out of her seat.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Philip asked.

  ‘Outside. And keep your voice down, people are staring.’

  ‘Why don’t you put your phone back in your handbag and silence it. It’s your night off, Dawn. They’ll understand. They shouldn’t be able to pester you like this on your night off.’

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Philip waved a hand at her: go then, if you must.

  Cupping the phone to her ear, Dawn spoke as she made her way through the restaurant.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Jenkins said. ‘Under normal circumstances I’d deal with stuff myself when you’re not here, but …’

  ‘Just spit it out. What’s happened?’

  ‘The convoy escorting Armstrong has been attacked, ma’am. They’ve sprung him. Looks like you were right. Looks like they should’ve had a lot more officers on that one.’

  Through the phone, Dawn heard sirens wailing and raised voices.

  She had advised Chief Reinbeck to double the guard. Her recommendation had been ignored. We haven’t got the men, he’d said. We're stretched all over the place as it is. No amount of protesting had done any good. Fine, had been Dawn’s reply. On your head be it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.