Slammer (38 page)

Glass shook his head. He didn't know he didn't want to believe. 'I'm just saying.'

'We're telling you what happened, Nick.'

'I've had all the time in the world to go through every conceivable possibility of what might have happened,' Glass said. 'Not a lot to do here but think.'

'Yeah,' Mafia said. 'I know what it's like.'

'I've thought of everything. But never Mad Will. Never Lorna opening the door to him.'

'Use your imagination,' Watt said. 'We know you have one. Maybe she was expecting a parcel or something. Thought he was the postman.'

'He was wearing a uniform?'

'No, but he could've pretended he was delivering something. Or maybe he was asking for directions. Or said his car had broken down.'

'Well, we don't know how he got in,' Mafia said. 'Other than that he didn't break in. And he's not around to ask.'

'I don't believe you,' Glass said. 'But carry on.'

Watt looked at him. 'What do you remember about getting home from the Hilton that morning?'

'It's a blank. I think I remember pulling up outside the house. But I might have imagined even that.'

'Mad Will told me he was … tidying up when he heard your car. He grabbed his bag. Went downstairs. Waited for you to open the front door.'

'His doctor's bag,' Mafia said. 'With all his drugs and shit in it.'

'Then once you stepped into the hallway, he grabbed you from behind and injected you with a massive dose of some kind of sedative.'

'Tidying up what?' Glass asked.

'What?'

'You said he was "tidying up".'

'Right. Well, he was packing a suitcase. Trying to make it look as though Lorna was going to leave you.'

'Why would he want to do that?'

'Motivation. Things took a bad, bad turn. You interrupted him. You had patsy written on your forehead. He was thinking on his feet. So, like I was saying, he grabs you, injects you …'

Glass feels the needle pop out of his neck. He takes a few steps but the drug acts quickly and he stumbles. Mad Will slips an arm around him and helps him into the kitchen. Sits him down in a chair, lets him slump over the table. Glass's tongue feels as numb as his brain. He tries to sit up, but gravity drags him back down. Resting his head in the crook of his arm, his breath sticky on the table, he watches Mad Will as he turns on a ring on the cooker, grabs the meat cleaver, heats the blade.

Mad Will steps over to the table, lifts Glass to his feet, hauls him across the room, bends him over the work surface. Straightens Glass's arm, index finger flat on the chopping board next to the sink, his other fingers curled out of the way.

'What're you doing?' Glass says. He knows.

Mad Will slams the cleaver down. Before the agony hits, Mad Will grabs Glass's wrist, presses the flat of the blade against the bleeding wound.

Glass hears a sizzle and passes out.

When he wakes up, he's on the landing, passing the bathroom, pain pulsing down from his finger into the rest of his hand. The bathroom door's open, blood streaked along the bath.

Where did the blood come from? Is he bleeding? He was in the kitchen with Mad Will. What's Mad Will doing here? 'Lorna?' he cries.

'Don't worry,' Mad Will tells him. 'It's not real. You're in shock. I'll give you something to help you forget.'

In the bedroom, Glass sees the suitcase.

'Going,' Glass says, 'to her mother's. Lorna and Caitlin. To her mother's.'

'If you like,' Mad Will says. 'That's right.'

'My finger,' Glass says.

'You cut it off,' Mad Will tells him. 'Flushed it down the toilet.'

The carpet's red underfoot.

'Mess,' Glass says.

'I'll give this a bit of a clean after we get you into bed.'

Glass's foot hits a tumbler that's fallen there. It's green and it rolls and spins and the spinning won't stop.

In the visiting room, Glass looked up from the floor where Watt and Mafia were crouched over him.

'You fainted,' Mafia said.

'I remember,' Glass told him. 'I remember.'

And now, in his room, he waited for the door to open.

He'd never be released. He'd murdered three people and they still thought he was crazy. But today he was going to visit the graves of his wife and daughter. Finally, he could say goodbye.

The door opened at nine thirty. The nurse balanced the breakfast tray in one hand, jiggled his keys with the other. 'Morning, Nick. Hope you're hungry.'

Glass clasped his hands together. 'When do we leave?'

'Leave where?'

'Leave here. For the cemetery.'

'Ah.' The nurse placed the tray on the desk. 'You been talking to your friends again?'

'Watt's not my friend.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Mafia is, though. They both said Mad Will did it.'

'Is that right?'

'It wasn't me.' He was crying again. 'They told me. In the visiting room.'

'That's good. Don't know how you can eat cornflakes dry like that.'

'Milk makes me sick.'

'Well, eat up. You'll feel better.'

'I'll feel better after I see Lorna and Caitlin's graves.'

'Nick … I don't think so.'

'It's not today?' Glass asked. 'Mafia said it was today.'

'No,' the nurse said, 'he's mistaken.'

'Then tomorrow? I think I'll see them tomorrow. Yes, it must be tomorrow.' He shoved a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. Crunched it. Tomorrow. He'd waited this long. He could wait another day.

TUESDAY, 19 MAY 2009

When the new patient arrived, Glass thought she looked familiar. But it wasn't till she was left alone in a chair that he managed to make eye contact. He felt light, as if a balloon had squeezed out of his stomach and into his chest and expanded into his shoulders. Could it really be her? Glass looked again at the woman in the chair, doubting himself all over again. After all he'd been through, he had to be careful.

He shuffled over to the seated figure. 'That really you?' he whispered.

'Nick?'

Glass reached around Hazel and hugged her.

'Careful,' she said. 'They might be watching.'

'Bet on it.' Glass stepped back. 'Fooling the fuckers is a full-time job.' He whispered, 'I thought you were dead.'

'I had to go away.' She squeezed his hand and he noticed she was wearing black gloves. 'It's not that I wanted to make you seem crazy.'

'What about Mum's funeral?' Hard to keep the anger out of his voice.

'Last person you needed there was me.'

'But Mum needed you.'

'She was dead, Nick. She needed nobody. I never thought you'd really go crazy, though.'

'Did I?'

'That's how it looks.'

'I don't know any more. Sometimes I think I am. Sometimes I think it's everybody else.'

'Maybe it's a bit of both.' She held his hand. Studied the stump of his missing finger. 'What happened to Lorna and Caitlin, that's enough to drive anybody over the edge.'

Glass pulled his hand away. 'Mad Will killed them.'

'I know,' she said, nodding.

'You didn't think it was me?'

'Never.'

Glass placed his hand on her shoulder.

'I have something for you.' She reached into her pocket, removed a coffin-shaped jewellery box about five inches long.

Glass took it. Opened it. Registered no surprise at what was inside. 'Yours?'

'Yeah.' She held her right hand out, showed him the dangling index finger of the glove. 'Figured I owed you. For not being there.'

'Thanks.' Glass slipped the box into his pocket. He bent over and kissed her head. Then he walked over to one of the nurses. 'Can I have some sellotape?'

'Why do you want sellotape?'

'Got a couple of things I need to piece together.'

'I'll bring some to your room later,' the nurse said.

'Appreciate it.' Glass turned, stopped, stared at the empty seat where Hazel had been sitting. He put his hand in his pocket, rubbed his thumb over the jewellery box.

*

Glass was about to get into bed when there was a knock at the door and the nurse walked in. 'You still want that sellotape?' she said.

Ah, yes. He'd forgotten. It seemed a long time ago. Years ago. At first he couldn't remember why he'd wanted it, but then it came back to him. He wasn't so sure he wanted Hazel's finger, though. Maybe it was better to have no finger at all. Wasn't such a hardship functioning without a part of yourself. Not when you got used to it. He'd give Hazel's finger back to her the next time he saw her.

'No,' he said to the nurse. 'I'm fine just as I am.'

***

Acknowledgements

For their contribution and support during the writing this book, a huge thanks goes to the following: Tom Laird, whose anecdotes of life as a prison officer have been used and mercilessly abused; Ray Banks, my invaluable first (and second and third) reader; Stacia Decker, my ridiculously talented and industrious editor; Stan, my agent, for his unwavering faith and marvellous strategising pants; Alison Rae, for that all-important final spit and polish; Kate Horsley, Daniel Kern, Simon Hynd, Donna Moore and Stuart MacBride for those early reads;
 
all the good folks at Polygon for having the confidence to allow me to publish this sub-licensed edition; and, of course, my wife and my best friend, Donna, whose selflessness knows no bounds.

Also available on Kindle by Allan Guthrie

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Winner of the Theakston's Crime Novel of the Year

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