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August 1976,” said Brown.
    “All you have to do is tell us the truth and you’ll be gone,” said Pollock, and for a moment his smile slipped and I saw his teeth. They were small and polished-white, like mints.
    “I have,” I said.
    “But you maybe saw the victim in the pub. Which pub?”
    “The Globe. The Globe in Appley.”
    “And was he with anyone?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “Try to.”
    “I can’t.”
    “Try!” The smile was gone now. He leant forwards and Brown leant forwards and I didn’t feel like drinking my coffee.
    “I think he was with a man in a suit.”
    “A man in a suit? Anything else?”
    “He was bald.”
    “A bald man in a suit…”
    “Yes. He was small…”
    “A small bald man in a suit.”
    “Yes.”
    “Well that narrows it down. What were they talking about?”
    “I don’t know. I couldn’t hear.”
    “Anyone else with them?”
    “No,” I said, and I slumped forwards until my head was touching the table.
    “OK. OK.”
    “I’m tired.”
    “Of course you are. Maybe we’ll let you go home and get some sleep, Elliot, but we’ll need to speak to you again,” and now they stood up, and Pollock went to the door while Brown said something into the tape recorder and I stood up and felt my legs wobble like fuck in a breeze. “Thanks,” I said.
    “No, thank you,” said Pollock, and now the smile was back and he reached out and touched me on the shoulder. “Next time we see you, try and remember everything. OK?”
    “OK,” I said, and Brown opened the door and they showed me to the front desk. “We’ll get someone to drive you home,” said Pollock. “Wait over there,” and he pointed to a chair. I sat down. I did as I was told. I waited. And as I waited, I dozed. Five minutes? Ten minutes? Who knows how many minutes? Then I felt someone shaking my shoulder.
    “Mr Jackson?”
    I sat up. A policewoman was looking down at me.
    “Yes.”
    “I’m your lift.”
    “Oh. Thanks,” I said, and I followed her out of the station.
    “Over here,” she said, and as we crossed the car park, I stopped as a white car passed in front of us. It slowed, parked in a corner, and a moment later two men got out. The driver was in uniform, the passenger was not. The driver took his hat off. The passenger wasn’t wearing a hat. The driver had brown hair. The passenger was bald, completely bald, and had blue eyes and thin lips. He looked comfortable in the car park, but he wasn’t smiling. If he could have smoked from the top of his head he would have. His face was a picture of fury, as if a storm was raging beneath his skin and in his mouth and behind his eyes and ringing in his ears. He had a policeman’s badge clipped to the top pocket of his suit jacket, and as he walked to the station someone in a uniform said, “Morning, sir,” to him. He growled something, shook his head and looked at me. We snagged for a moment. His pale eyes narrowed, and I saw demons in them, real demons with their own red eyes and twitching tails and snorting nostrils, and I heard them flail and yell. The mad twitch flicked the corner of his mouth, another twitch caught his arms, and then the brown-haired man opened the door for him, and he was gone.

‌ 9
    On the way back to the farm, I felt the first twang of panic, like I had strings in my stomach and something was playing a bad tune on them – a tune that made no sense or music, a frightening tune that would have dogs running for cover. For a second I thought about telling the driver to turn around and take me back to the station, but I stopped myself. She was a happy woman, proud of her uniform and her car and her work, and all she wanted to do was talk about the weather. All I wanted to do was sit in silence and think about what I could do. The bald man’s face, the way his lips twitched and his fingers fidgeted, and the threat in his eyes. I didn’t know if he knew who I was or why I was there or what I knew, but I thought his demons would