Die Twice

fleece coat standing outside the Traveller’s Rest. There was still police tape everywhere and the Cherokee remained where it had stopped beside me, but activity had dwindled. A uniformed officer stood in the background guarding the scene, but he was the only person I could see. The reporter said that there’d been more than sixty detectives assigned to this case and that the police were confident of finding the killer. There were apparently a number of ongoing lines of inquiry but the reporter quoted a senior police source as saying that a quick result was unlikely.
I wondered if Raymond had been telling the truth when he’d said they’d been corrupt. Would it make what I’d done any better? Probably not. Once again I found myself wishing I hadn’t got involved. Corrupt or not, there was going to be a huge amount of pressure on the investigating officers. Unlike us, they’d get all the resources they needed as well, always the way in high-profile cases where the public are clamouring for arrests. Again, very little mention was made of the third victim of the shooting, and they still weren’t naming him, which surprised me. I was going to have to press Raymond to find out who he was. By now I was fairly certain he was more than just another piece of pondscum.
The murder of Miriam Fox didn’t get a look-in, not even on Ceefax. I suppose a dead prostitute just doesn’t carry the same kind of glamour, although that would certainly change if another Tom went the same way. There’s nothing the public likes more than a serial killer, especially when he’s not targeting them.
I ate my food while watching Family Fortunes. As always, Les Dennis did his best with only limited resources, kind of like the Metropolitan Police. Neither family was over-bright and the Dobbles from Glasgow had accents so thick that you had to wonder how they’d made it through the auditions. Les made a few jokes about needing a translator and laughed heartily as he tried to keep things going, but you could tell he was getting a bit tired of it. In the end they lost to the English family whose name I forget, and who went on to win the car.
After that I watched a film. It was a romantic comedy and it would have been quite entertaining but I had difficulty concentrating. I kept imagining the family of Paul Furlong huddled together in their living room, their faces red and tearstained. In my mind, the kids were a boy and a girl and they had blond hair. The boy was the older, maybe five, and the girl was a pretty little thing, about three. The boy kept turning to his mother who had her arms round both of them and asking why their dad was gone and where he had gone to. The mother, her voice breaking with emotion, said that he’d gone to heaven because sometimes that’s where you have to go if God wants you for a particular reason. I thought of myself as a young kid and wondered how I would have felt if someone had snatched away my dad. My dad was dead now. He’d died five years ago, and it had been a blow even then, because I’d always held him in high esteem. When I was five, he’d been king of the world because he’d known everything there was to know about anything. It would have torn me apart if someone had taken him away then.
In the end, I could torture myself no more. Sitting alone in a poky flat, wallowing in the guilt of depriving kids of their father, was always going to be a recipe for disaster. So when the film finished, and the couple who hadn’t been able to stand the sight of each other at first predictably got together and disappeared off into the sunset, I went to bed.
It was a measure of my exhaustion that I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

7
Most nights my sleep is a blank space where nothing happens but that night was different. I dreamed of many vague things and woke up time and time again. Everything was a jumble, a messy kaleidoscope of images and thoughts and memories that for split seconds were ice cold in their clarity, but just as quickly faded like dying film heroes as I moved on to the next one.
Only one dream stayed in the mind. It came in the grey time just before dawn. In this dream, I was in a television studio watching an edition of Family Fortunes. I was up in the audience, but the audience was just a blur. The studio was very dark but there was a light that shone on Les Dennis, so you could see him well enough, and I remember that he was wearing a pink suit with a lime green shirt. Les was introducing one of the families but I couldn’t make out their name because everything was too dark. He spoke to each of them in turn, and as he stopped in front of an individual player a light shone down on that person so you could see who was who.
First there was the driver of the Cherokee, Paul Furlong. He only had one eye, the other was just a bloody mess where I’d shot him, but he looked happy enough, and he laughed when Les told a joke. Then there was the front-seat passenger, Bayden-Smith. He still looked morose and most of the top of his head was missing. When he spoke, his voice sounded slow and drawling like a record on the wrong speed, and it took me a couple of seconds to work out that this was because his jaw was hanging off his face at an odd angle. I remember thinking that I was glad he didn’t have kids. Then there was the back-seat passenger, but I couldn’t really see his face very well and