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PROLOGUE
THE FIRST THING he notices is cold concrete under his bare feet, gritty dust between his toes. It’s dark. So dark.
He moves his head; everything spins. He blinks. Lines, corners, the edge of a table come into view: dim shapes in the gloom.
He’s confused. He feels light-headed; he tries to take a long breath in, but there’s something over his mouth. Sticky, suffocating. He reaches up to touch it, body tensing as his hands don’t move. Can’t move. He tugs at them, breath quickening.
Legs the same. Secured tightly. He’s sitting up, must be a chair. But his feet are freezing, his shoes and socks are off. The air is damp, cold fog edging under his shirt, settling on his skin, making him shiver.
There’s a throb from his forehead, a thud thud in time with his frantic heartbeat. But nothing else. No other pain.
What happened? How did he get here? Think. Think. But nothing comes. Just darkness, just panic. He’s feeling woozy now—not enough oxygen getting through. He forces himself to stop, focus on his breathing. How he was taught. In for six seconds. Out for six. Shuddering jerks, through his nose. Too fast. Not working. He tries again, closes his eyes, counts slowly.
His heart rate subsides, his breathing settles. If he does this, if he stays calm, he’ll be okay. He will.
But then he feels it. His hand is uncomfortable, something’s there. Something is in there. Cold, hard metal. He wriggles his fingers, trying not to think about what he’s experiencing. There it is again. One in his hand, one in both hands. Oh, God. No. No.
And his feet. There too. There’s no forgetting that feeling. The foreign body puncturing his skin, resting in his vein. He feels the familiar panic grow. The shaking. The sweats.
Don’t pass out, he tells himself. Not now. Not here. Don’t. Because if you do, who knows what will happen.
But his head feels light, blood draining south. What little he can see in the room blurs.
And in the moment before he loses consciousness, he hears footsteps. A handle being turned. And a door opening.
PART 1
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth, 1606.
CHAPTER
1
Day 1
Saturday
IT’S LATE, THE bar already full when he arrives. He works his way through the throng, taking a position at the back of the room, pressed against the wall. It’s loud, crowded. Just as he likes it. He can be anonymous; nobody pays him any attention—he blends into the background of similarly dressed men.
He watches, bottle of beer against his lips: preening men at the bar, shouting drunks hurling abuse, a hen party wasted and raucous. The worst society has to offer, his own shortcomings rendered unimportant in the face of such debauchery.
A blonde staggers her way to the toilets. Short skirt, wedding ring—the man leering behind unlikely to be her husband. On the other side of the room, a tweaker shifts and fidgets. He’s approached, a glance around, then a quick transaction—a flick of the fingers and cash is pocketed in exchange for a good night. Someone else looking to forget.
He notices the small details; this is how he makes his way through life. He takes a swig from his beer. He resists the urge to intervene—that’s not why he’s there tonight.
His eyes scan the room. Something else catches, makes him stop. A black and white uniform, creating a void as he steps forward. The copper catches his eye, then lowers his mouth to talk into the radio on his shoulder.
