Cages by David Mark (acx book reading TXT) 📕

herself past the silent bulk of Dr Lechmere and makes a show of filling up Cox’s plastic beaker and placing it near the bed. ‘If you decide to take this further, we will be on hand to make sure you are treated equitably …’

‘You pronounce it in the French style,’ says Cox, doxy and sore. ‘There aren’t many here who even understand what it means—’

‘Miss Harris,’ says Mr Hussain, cutting him off. ‘Of course, Griffin – I shall arrange for her to come and visit you as soon as her next shift begins.’ He turns to Simone. ‘One of our brightest and best,’ he confides, all smiles. ‘Lucky to get her. Bringing lots of new ideas to Holderness. Rising star. A very understanding, fair officer. I have no doubt that had she been in this morning this whole unpleasantness could have been avoided …’

Simone Greaves gives a ‘hurrumph’ at that. Pulls a notebook from the pocket of her anorak. Makes a note, and jots down the time. Gives her attention back to Cox. ‘We will be monitoring this situation. Anything you need, you have every right to contact my organization. Do not believe yourself to be anything other than a victim.’

‘Thank you,’ he growls, meekly. Starts to cough, and holds it back, out of politeness.

‘Get your rest,’ says Mr Hussain, and hustles the unwelcome visitors out of the small, cool room.

Alone again, Cox grins. Everything hinges on getting some alone time with Miss Harris. He had not known that Suggs would go for him, or that the writer would come to his aid. But he’s known for weeks that he would have to endure an injury – a bad one – if he were to move his plan to the next significant step. He wonders how she reacted when she saw the snow globe. Wonders what she is feeling, here and now. Whether the bosses are pampering her, protecting her, hitching their wagon to a rising star. Or will they scapegoat her? Will they weave a mandala of interlinking lies and find a way to paint her as the rookie who vacated her post and allowed an infamous, suspected serial killer, suffer a near-fatal stab wound to the heart? He presumes the latter. He has been in prison long enough to have identified how things work.

He lays back on the cool pillow, ignoring the trifling throb in his chest. For the first time in forever, he can feel the cool, salt-flecked air of the Adriatic upon his face. Can summon up the taste of full-bodied wine and fillet steak: seared lightly on both sides and bloodily pink within. Can allow himself to imagine the sensation of warm, taut flesh against his own. He has fought the impulse to daydream; to fantasize, for fear of causing himself unnecessary agony should any of his steps towards freedom trip at an unforeseen hurdle. Now, he indulges. Permits himself a brief erotic projection. He has many miles to go before he rests, but he knows himself to possess the stamina for the journey.

Griffin Cox slips one hand behind his head. Slips the other down his pyjama trousers.

Pictures the deeds in which he will revel once the indignity of prison is behind him.

Closes his eyes, and thinks upon Miss Harris.

Thinks upon her son. Ethan.

Bites down so hard on his tongue that his mouth fills with blood.

God how he hopes it is a taste of things to come.

TWENTY-FOUR

‘Keeping busy,’ grunts Annabeth, lifting a vase from the mantelpiece and rubbing the varnished wood beneath with a yellow cloth. ‘Getting stuff done …’ she mutters, banging the thick crystal back down again like a gavel. ‘Not thinking, that’s the thing of it …’

On the arm of the sofa, Rufus Orton: a nobleman on a wooden horse, sitting for a portrait. Still as a statue, immortalized with a silly sad smile on his face. He looks as though he is waiting permission to leave.

‘I mean, what does it look like … not going in … Ethan’s home late, just getting on with the chores … daft bloody question for a man of letters …’

‘But, is that what you need to be doing right at this moment?’ he asks, tentatively, his words a pair of metal pincers tracing the line of a live wire.

‘I don’t know, Rufus,’ says Annabeth, picking up a pile of magazines from beside the chair and shuffling them. True Crime; Real Crime; Crime Monthly: a blur of lurid colours. ‘I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know what to tell you. And you’re not taking any notice of what I say. So, I’m getting on with stuff. I’ve the car insurance to renew. I need to get the deposit together for Ethan’s France trip. I’ve got to do a mixed wash. You’re welcome to sit there and watch me do all these things, but I can’t imagine it’s much of a show …’

She’s manic in her actions. There’s sweat dripping off her forehead. Heat comes off her in waves, despite the chill in the room. She turns to Rufus as she talks and notices the hazy yellow light from the window illuminating the dust motes that hang in the air. She flares her nostrils, angry with the whole damn room. Starts swatting at the air, hands turned in: trying to scoop handfuls of dirt from the air.

‘Are you practising swimming?’ asks Rufus, cautiously. ‘Seriously, can I get you some water? Do you need a sit down? A hug?’

She spins on her heel, eyes hard, teeth bared. ‘Are you this hopeless at home? Christ, get me a drink if you want! Hug me if you want to take the risk. You weren’t this bloody shy and retiring when you were raiding my cupboards for breakfast!’

Rufus opens his mouth to reply, then stops himself. Lowers his head. Picks something off the front of his cords. Nods, as if making a decision. Stands up and approaches her, arms outstretched, making his features soft. He looks vaguely imbecilic,