find something moving. A car. A person. I mustn’t run into anywhere deserted. People. Get to people. But I couldn’t run and concentrate. Mustn’t stop. Mustn’t. And then there it was, a light in a window. I was in a street of houses. Some were boarded up. More than boarded up. They had heavy metal grilles across the doors and windows. But there was a light. I had a moment of great lucidity. I wanted to run to the door and scream and shout and bang on it but I had this fear—among all the other fears—that if I did that, the person inside would turn the television up higher, and he would come and find me and take me back.
So in a mad way I just pressed the doorbell and heard a chime somewhere far inside. Answer answer answer answer. I heard footsteps. Slow, quiet shuffling. Finally, after a million years, the door opened and I fell on it and through and on to the floor.
‘Police. Please. Police. Please.’
And even as I was lying there clawing at someone’s lino, I knew it just sounded like ‘please please please please please’.
PART TWO
‘Do you want me to make a proper statement?’
‘Later,’ he said. ‘For the moment I’d just like us to talk.’
I couldn’t see him properly at first. He was a silhouette against the window of my hospital room. My eyes were sensitive to the glare and I had to look away. When he came closer to the bed I was able to make out his features, his short brown hair, dark eyes. He was Detective Inspector Jack Cross. He was the person I could now leave everything to. But first I had to explain it all to him. There was so much.
‘I’ve already talked to somebody. A woman in a uniform. Jackson.’
‘Jackman. I know. I wanted to hear it for myself. What do you remember first?’
That was how I told the story. He asked questions and I tried to answer them and after more than an hour I answered one of his questions and he was silent and I felt I had said everything I could possibly say. He was silent for several minutes. He didn’t smile at me or even look at me. I saw different expressions move across his face. Confusion, frustration, deep thought. He rubbed his eyes.
‘Two more things,’ he said finally. ‘Your memory. The last thing you remember is what? Being at work? At home?’
‘I’m sorry. That’s all blurry. I’ve spent days thinking and thinking. I remember being at work. Bits of my flat. I don’t have a definite last moment.’
‘So you have no memory of encountering this man.’
‘No.’
He took a small notebook out of a side pocket, and a pen.
‘And those other names.’
‘Kelly. Kath. Fran. Gail. Lauren.’
He wrote them down as I spoke them.
‘Do you remember anything about them? A second name? Any suggestion of where he found them, what he did to them?’
‘I told you everything.’
He shut the notebook with a sigh and stood up. ‘Wait,’ he said, and walked away.
I’d already become used to the pace of hospital life, the slow motion with long pauses in between, so I was surprised when barely five minutes later the detective returned with an older man, dressed in an immaculate pinstriped suit. A white handkerchief protruded from his breast pocket. He picked up the clipboard on the end of my bed as if it was all a bit boring. He didn’t ask me how I felt. But he looked at me as if I were something he had stumbled over.
‘This is Dr Richard Burns,’ said DI Cross. ‘He’s in charge of your case. We’re going to move you. You’re going to have a room of your own. With a TV.’
Dr Burns replaced the clipboard. He took off his spectacles.
‘Miss Devereaux,’ he said. ‘We’re all going to be rather busy with you.’
The cold air hit me in the face, as if someone had slapped me. I gasped and my breath plumed up in the air. My eyes stung with the cold glare of light.
‘It’s all right,’ said Jack Cross. ‘You can get back into the car if you want.’
‘I like it.’ I tipped my head back and breathed in deeply.
So in a mad way I just pressed the doorbell and heard a chime somewhere far inside. Answer answer answer answer. I heard footsteps. Slow, quiet shuffling. Finally, after a million years, the door opened and I fell on it and through and on to the floor.
‘Police. Please. Police. Please.’
And even as I was lying there clawing at someone’s lino, I knew it just sounded like ‘please please please please please’.
PART TWO
‘Do you want me to make a proper statement?’
‘Later,’ he said. ‘For the moment I’d just like us to talk.’
I couldn’t see him properly at first. He was a silhouette against the window of my hospital room. My eyes were sensitive to the glare and I had to look away. When he came closer to the bed I was able to make out his features, his short brown hair, dark eyes. He was Detective Inspector Jack Cross. He was the person I could now leave everything to. But first I had to explain it all to him. There was so much.
‘I’ve already talked to somebody. A woman in a uniform. Jackson.’
‘Jackman. I know. I wanted to hear it for myself. What do you remember first?’
That was how I told the story. He asked questions and I tried to answer them and after more than an hour I answered one of his questions and he was silent and I felt I had said everything I could possibly say. He was silent for several minutes. He didn’t smile at me or even look at me. I saw different expressions move across his face. Confusion, frustration, deep thought. He rubbed his eyes.
‘Two more things,’ he said finally. ‘Your memory. The last thing you remember is what? Being at work? At home?’
‘I’m sorry. That’s all blurry. I’ve spent days thinking and thinking. I remember being at work. Bits of my flat. I don’t have a definite last moment.’
‘So you have no memory of encountering this man.’
‘No.’
He took a small notebook out of a side pocket, and a pen.
‘And those other names.’
‘Kelly. Kath. Fran. Gail. Lauren.’
He wrote them down as I spoke them.
‘Do you remember anything about them? A second name? Any suggestion of where he found them, what he did to them?’
‘I told you everything.’
He shut the notebook with a sigh and stood up. ‘Wait,’ he said, and walked away.
I’d already become used to the pace of hospital life, the slow motion with long pauses in between, so I was surprised when barely five minutes later the detective returned with an older man, dressed in an immaculate pinstriped suit. A white handkerchief protruded from his breast pocket. He picked up the clipboard on the end of my bed as if it was all a bit boring. He didn’t ask me how I felt. But he looked at me as if I were something he had stumbled over.
‘This is Dr Richard Burns,’ said DI Cross. ‘He’s in charge of your case. We’re going to move you. You’re going to have a room of your own. With a TV.’
Dr Burns replaced the clipboard. He took off his spectacles.
‘Miss Devereaux,’ he said. ‘We’re all going to be rather busy with you.’
The cold air hit me in the face, as if someone had slapped me. I gasped and my breath plumed up in the air. My eyes stung with the cold glare of light.
‘It’s all right,’ said Jack Cross. ‘You can get back into the car if you want.’
‘I like it.’ I tipped my head back and breathed in deeply.
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