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Griffin takes the piece of paper and looks at it.
“This is a prescription for co-codamol.”
“It’s the best I can do.”
“I’m on oxy, Nav. This will barely touch the sides.”
“So go to your own doctor, Griffin.” Nav puts his hands back in his pockets and goes to walk away. Griffin reaches out and grabs his arm; Nav pulls away from him angrily.
“Listen,” Nav growls. “I’m only here for Jess. I don’t know you.”
Griffin catches the look on Nav’s face.
“So that’s it,” he says slowly. “It’s not that you don’t like me; it’s that you’re jealous.” Nav glares at him. “You waited years, and now the husband’s finally out of the way, you’re pissed you missed your chance.”
Nav takes a step forward toward him. “I was Patrick’s friend too,” he hisses.
“Were you though?” Griffin mocks. “Really? Or were you just biding your time until Jess saw the error of her ways?”
Nav glares at him. “You’re not good enough for her. She knows that.”
“Maybe that’s true, doctor boy. But I’m the one she’s fucking.”
Griffin puts the last crass word in deliberately. He’s desperate for a fight. He wants Nav to punch him, to inflict a bit of deserved pain. He sees the anger cross Nav’s face. He knows he’s got to him, and Griffin tenses, but Nav turns on his heel and strides away without comment.
“Who was that?”
Cara’s standing next to him.
“Don’t worry, he’s not important,” Griffin mutters. “You were good today,” he says, forcing his voice to sound positive.
“Yes, well, we’ll see. Let’s hope our man showed.”
She turns and starts to walk back to the car. He follows her. As he walks, he looks at the prescription in his hand, then crumples it into a ball. He can feel his hands start to shake, the agitation in his body. He knows he only has two doses left. He knows soon he’ll be in pain, his back in crippling agony. And he has no idea what he’s going to do about it.
CHAPTER
58
THEY’RE RIGHT. HE’S there, watching. And he blends in among the smart suits, the black, the downcast faces.
He forces his expression to remain unhappy. Corners of his mouth turned down, head toward the grass. At one point he even manages a tear—he’s proud of that. He’s learned to copy emotions, to mimic the feelings of others, a necessary evil to keep plodding through the tedium of his life.
The man at the front of the group starts crying, shoulders shaking. Libby’s father, he remembers from the introduction. How much more upset would he be, he wonders, if he knew how his daughter died. If he knew the look of fear that passed across Libby’s face when he showed her the gun. The few seconds he allowed her to run before he started shooting. The stirring in his groin as the bullet tore through her flesh, as she fell to the ground, her hands reaching out in the mud in those last desperate moments.
How he sat in the car after, closed his eyes, and masturbated, remembering her death.
He was nine when he first realized what got him going. He’d seen the erect penises of his father and uncle. He’d seen the ecstatic looks on their faces, experienced firsthand with his small, fragile body, how they got their rocks off. And he’d wondered, how can I be normal if I don’t enjoy this? He’d sneaked in and looked at their porn stash, risking a beating to flick through the pages of naked women, naked men, fucking, penetrating, bodies writhing in pleasure, and he’d felt nothing.
But then, he knew.
He’d stolen a knife from the kitchen, weighed it up in his hand, and crept upstairs. He’d waited in the hallway and peered through the open doors, bedrooms side by side. They’d been sleeping—the heavy drunken slumber of men who had satisfied themselves at his expense—and he’d gone into his uncle’s room. He’d stood at the end of the bed, knife in hand, and for the first time he’d felt himself grow hard. He’d touched his penis through his powder-blue dinosaur pajamas. So this was what it was like.
He’d killed his uncle first. Thrusting the knife into his chest, over and over, blood spattering up the walls, covering him from top to toe. The man barely had a chance to wake up. He’d gone into his father’s room next and done the same.
Then he’d reached down, and picked up his father’s flaccid penis between two fingers. With three strokes of the knife, he’d sawed through, exerting little more effort than he’d need to cut through gristle connecting raw sausages. He’d discarded it on the floor, and as his father opened his eyes, gurgling incomprehensible noises as his chest collapsed, he knew.
He’d felt the sticky warm blood coating his chest, the metallic iron tang in his mouth, and he’d held his own penis in his hand. It didn’t take long—the murders had been more than he’d needed, and with a few quick strokes he was ejaculating. Cum across the bed, across his father’s dead, mutilated body.
