Adam lay in bed, drifting towards sleep. He had shut the curtains tightly across the window and there was barely a glimmer of light from outside. His thoughts turned momentarily to stupid little Hannah Bird. The short drink had been a success and he had left her wanting more – a dinner date arranged for later that week. He was a good listener and she seemed to want to talk. He had learned more than enough about her, the basics of her family background and schooling in Reading, that she had read geography at university and that she shared a flat in north Finchley with someone she knew from uni who was training to be a doctor and working all hours of the day and night. She was new to London and he had also eventually established that she was new to the Barnes murder squad. He sensed that underneath her excited chatter about working for a murder squad, she felt out of her depth and was struggling to cope. He could also smell her loneliness a mile away. For a policewoman, she seemed naive, but then even the best had been taken in by him in the past. It was a surprise to learn that she was no longer involved in the Dillon case, but as a result she was less wary. Eventually, she confirmed that Sam Donovan was staying temporarily in Shepherd’s Bush with ‘the boss’. She had also let slip that Sam would probably be allowed back to her own house in the next day or so.
He blocked out Hannah’s face from his mind and allowed the darkness to envelop him, imagining a hot summer’s night, somewhere far away. He was lying on a pile of cushions in a boat, floating along a canal, little bridges passing by intermittently above him. Stars filled the sky, moonlight shimmered on the water, and he felt the gentle lulling movement of the boat as Pink Floyd’s ‘Us and Them’ played in his head. He imagined Sam lying beside him, eyes closed, arms at her sides, still and cold to the touch. All his. He tried to picture her as he remembered her, but still she evaded him. Her pale heart-shaped face became interchangeable with others. Nameless others he didn’t want to see. Others who kept forcing themselves into his thoughts and dreams . . .
He heard a noise, a light tapping sound on the window, and opened his eyes. Someone, or something, was trying to get in. The curtains billowed as though in a breeze. Was the window open? He was sure he had shut and locked it. As though by an invisible hand, the curtains peeled back and he saw the window silhouetted against the sky, suddenly glowing bright in the darkness. Through the clouds, the shifting faces swam into view, the evil old hag followed by the younger ones, pressing their damp, mouldy flesh against the glass, covering it with a foul mist until he couldn’t see out. Like smoke, the edges of the faces blurred as they started to squeeze through the cracks; white vapour curled into the room, re-forming in front of him. He knew what was coming and he felt the usual dread. He closed his eyes, waiting, every muscle tensed until eventually he could smell the stinking, icy breath, felt the bony fingers first stroke his throat then grasp it, tightening their grip little by little like a vice. He choked. The fingers loosened for a second or two then tightened again. He screamed, or tried to, but no sound came out. Teasing him, the fingers gave a little. He screamed again and again. It sounded like someone else’s death rattle . . .
‘What the fuck’s up with you?’ a deep man’s voice said.
Adam screamed. This time he heard his own voice deafeningly loud. The overhead light snapped on.
‘Are you on something?’ the man asked.
Panting, it took him a moment to focus in the dazzling light. He was in his bedroom. The narrow little guest bedroom on the ground floor of Kit’s house. The chair he had put against the door to secure it had been knocked over and swept to one side. Gunner stood a few feet away at the foot of the bed, dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers. His face, neck and forearms were tanned, but the rest of him was white as snow. An enormous tattoo of a crow pecking a skull decorated his broad chest, with something written beneath it, which Adam couldn’t make out. How long had he been there? How much had he heard? Was Gunner spying on him? Then another thought occurred. Did he want a shag? Was that what it was all about? If so, he was barking up the wrong tree. Not for Kit, not for anyone, and certainly not a ten-foot tall Norseman who looked like a baddie from a Die Hard film.
The room was oppressively dry and hot. Adam’s heart flapped inside him like a wounded bird and he was bathed in sweat. He badly needed a pee. ‘I was dreaming, that’s all,’ he said, shuffling up in bed, his head pressing back against the wall. ‘I’m fine now.’
‘Bloody funny dream, if you ask me. You were screaming the house down like a bloody whore. I don’t give a fuck what you get up to in here by yourself, but if you don’t keep the volume down, we’ll have the fuzz knocking on the door. They’ll think someone was trying to bloody murder you.’
Someone was, Adam thought, looking at Gunner’s large hands. He was sure it hadn’t been a dream. His throat felt dry as dust, his neck sore, the skin already starting to bruise where fingers had pressed and squeezed. The window was shut, the curtains drawn. The only way into the room was through the door, and the only other person in the room was Gunner. Being semi-asphyxiated was no joke. Unlike some poor, pathetic idiots, wretched Kit included, he didn’t find that sort of stuff remotely a turn on. Was Gunner just another fucking pervert? His gun was locked in a rucksack under the bed, but there was no way he’d be able to get to it with this man looming large above him, studying him as though he were a specimen.
Suddenly aware of his own nakedness, Adam clutched the sheet to his body. ‘Get out,’ he shouted. ‘Get the fuck out and leave me alone.’ Gunner continued to stare at him for a moment, ice-blue eyes like mirrors. ‘I said, get out.’
Gunner raised one eyebrow as if it was all a joke, then turned and padded out of the room, leaving the door wide open, the light still blazing. The pattern of creaking floorboards indicated that he had gone downstairs to the kitchen. Adam jumped out of bed, closed the door and moved the small chest of drawers up against it. It wasn’t strong enough to hold it, but if Gunner tried to come in again, at least he would have some warning. It was one thing fighting Kit off on the rare occasions that things had ever gone that far – a quick few shots of alcohol and a sedative all that was needed to cool his pathetic lust – but Gunner looked a different kettle of fish, probably not the type to care if something was consensual or not. Leaving the light on, he got back into bed and closed his eyes. In the morning he would call a locksmith and get a lock put on the door. Then he would work out how to get rid of Gunner.