look me up and down; they study my wrinkled clothes and my
unshaven face, and they wonder what shitty thing could happen in their lives to turn them into me. They’re wondering just how far away I am from drinking myself to death; whether the booze will get me or whether I’ll end up sucking back the barrel of a shotgun. Hell, we’re all wondering the same damn thing. I feel like shouting out to them that I don’t fucking care any more, and that I don’t want their pity.
I reach the elevator and before the doors can close Landry slips through. He has a packet of cigarettes in his hand.
The elevator starts its descent. I can feel it in my stomach, as if we’re falling at a hundred kilometres an hour. I hold onto the wall. Whatever conversation Landry is planning has to be short.
‘I know you killed them,’ he says. ‘Alderman and James.’
He turns towards me and lightly pushes me against the back
of the elevator. He holds his palm on my chest and keeps his arm straight, as if holding back a bad smell.
‘This Quentin James arsehole, I don’t give a fuck that you
killed him. Hell, it’s one thing we have in common, because sometimes, sometimes, I think I’m capable of doing the same thing. But that’s the difference, right? I haven’t had to cross the line because I haven’t lost what you’ve lost. And who knows?
Maybe any one of us here would’ve done the same thing. This job, Tate, it’s a fucking mission — but now you’re on the wrong side of it. See, we could forgive you with Quentin James. But not any more. Whatever you’re doing now, it’s my job to find out.
It’s not because I hate you, you know that. It’s because it’s part of the mission. You would have understood that once. You might be willing to let your world fall apart, but think of your wife. Are you really that prepared to let her waste away …’
I push him away and take a swing at him. He ducks, pushes my arm in the direction it’s going, and slams me into the adjoining mirrored wall. My face presses up against it and the view isn’t good. There are red cotton-thin lines running through my eyes, tying my pain to the surface for all to see. My breath forms a misty patch on the mirror.
‘You done?’ he asks.
‘I’m done.’
The doors open and he lets me go. I walk out and he follows.
He taps his cigarettes in his hands and walks off in a different direction. I do my best to hold a straight line, but it’s impossible.
I use the ground-floor toilet before heading outside.
The cold air makes me feel sick, just as almost everything
seems to now. The chill stirs up fragments of the conversations with Landry. The bourbon floating in my system doesn’t keep any of them at bay. I hail a taxi, and when I’m home I hover in the hallway in case I have to dash into the toilet to throw up. Then I stagger down to my bed. I crash on top of it and fall asleep for the rest of the morning and into the middle of the afternoon.
chapter twenty-seven
There’s nothing like waking late in the day with a hangover. It’s something every cop goes through at some point. Perhaps the difference between a good cop and a bad cop is the frequency.
Though even that may not be true. Good cops often drink lots just to help them get through it. And I’m not a cop any more anyway.
My bedroom is a tip. I can’t remember the last time I made the bed, and I’m not even sure what the point of it would be. Socks, underwear, shirts, and more socks and underwear cover the floor.