Revenge

Miss Adams had a relationship. Realising laughing wasn’t really an appropriate response to the questions, he gathered his composure and with a straight face simply stated he knew her as well as anyone else who had seen her films but no more than that.
When the officers were finally satisfied and brought the interview to an end, the senior one shook his hand and praised his actions. They’d done the official bit. That wouldn’t be on the record but it meant a lot to Tom. Then he was brought more tea while his words were transcribed into a statement for his signature. When it came time to leave he was surprised and pleased when his mobile phone was returned. While sat in the police car, he had remembered that he had left it on the ground and asked the officer to find it but wasn’t sure he would do so. As he tucked it in his jacket pocket, he reminded himself not for the first time, he needed to keep a copy somewhere of the two hundred numbers in his phone.
On the journey home he realised just how much his knee hurt and was thankful he drove an automatic. The thought occurred to him that it was fortunate for Melanie Adams that he had decided to meet his accountant and drive to London. On balance he decided he also was pleased he’d driven. Okay, so he’d been in the wars and scared to death but the outcome had been positive enough to leave him with quite a feeling of pride.
There was also the thought he may have used up all his luck for the foreseeable future and perhaps poker should be avoided for a time. The wind buffeted against the car and he focused on driving extra carefully. He had no intention after what he’d survived of finishing the night as a traffic casualty.
The house was freezing cold as he never wasted money on heating the place when he wasn’t actually there. Despite the late hour, on the way to the kitchen he turned the central heating up to maximum. Resting on top of the fridge he found the bottle of Metaxa, the neighbours had brought him back the previous summer, from their Greek holiday. It wasn’t his favourite drink by a long way, which explained why it was still half full after so many months but the large measure he poured was downed in one and sent a fiery warmth flooding through his body. He poured a second drink and headed straight for his bed with the remainder of the bottle.
It wasn’t surprising he slept like a baby and didn’t wake until ten. He’d taken three paracetamol before falling into bed but as he awoke their effect had worn off and his head was thumping. The Metaxa probably also contributed to the sore head. At least the house was warm. He found his knee had stiffened as he climbed out of bed and was generally feeling decidedly ropey. But despite the combination of pain he was feeling good about himself. It was a bit similar to staying up all night winning a particularly important poker tournament. He was completely knackered next day but there was a euphoria that came from the achievement.
He showered and looking at himself in the bathroom mirror wasn’t overly impressed with what he saw. Certainly not film star looks, he smiled to himself. He regularly looked rather tired and all of his forty-two years of age. Patches of grey were starting to emerge from his normally chestnut brown hair, especially around the ears. The bags under his eyes were testament to too many late nights and too much stress. Today though there was the unwelcome presence of a large swelling above the bridge of his nose, which was turning blue where he’d been head butted. He was not a pretty sight. As he surveyed longer, his only comfort was that being exactly six feet in height he was at least able to carry some excess weight without looking obese. The only slight damper on his spirits was when he opened the medicine cabinet and remembered he’d finished the paracetamol before going to bed.
Weekend mornings were nearly always spent at the same small coffee shop in Patcham, on the outskirts of Brighton, as you approach from the North. The expected snow had not yet arrived but it took Tom several minutes to remove the heavy frost from the windows of his old BMW. He had a small garage but could never be bothered to use it and thus paid the price on frosty mornings.
The neighbour across the road waved a greeting and seemed about to cross the road to engage in conversation, until Tom shouted out he must rush and quickly jumped in behind the wheel. Tom wasn’t feeling like polite conversation or explaining the bruising on his face. He suspected he was going to have to explain to a great many people, over the next few days, how he came about his injuries but right now he needed some coffee and hot food. He gave a small thanks to the car’s designers for its reliability, when it spluttered into life at the second turn of the key. In years gone by, he had had more than one car that didn’t like the cold and it was a lottery whether they would start on such a morning.
He was pleased to find the road had been gritted and the journey was only a minute or two over the normal ten. His knee was feeling much better and he could drive without hindrance. It wasn’t the décor of the cafe that prompted him to pass several others on route to reach his destination. The walls were painted a gaudy gold colour and covered with prints of famous French Impressionists. No one would ever be able to say it was tastefully decorated. In fact, Tom imagined the style would not look out of place in a Paris brothel, though his