The latch clicked shut gracefully, Jack allowing his body weight to sink into the door as he exhaled deeply. He wasn't particularly good in these sorts of situations. He knew that. He found it difficult to be the loving, caring shoulder to cry on. Ironically, that made it even harder and more emotionally draining for Jack Culverhouse, a man without emotion.
Pain and emotion are like drugs. The body becomes immune after a while. When one has felt deep pain and anguish, the threshold rises. Jack's immunity to emotion had risen to the point where he wasn't sure he could feel pain any more. His heart told him otherwise.
Inside, deep down, it still hurt incredibly. The worst part was not knowing where they were and whether or not they were alive. He'd dealt with thousands of missing people and runaway wives in the course of his career and he knew they'd be living the high life on a beach resort on the Costa Del Sol, in all probability, but that made it no easier. There was always that deep, dark, lingering thought. Sometimes, he had hoped she wasn’t alive. At least it would mean she wasn’t enjoying herself.
Tonight was one of those nights where he didn't want to go to sleep. Sleep meant trying to sleep. Trying to sleep meant thinking. Thinking meant hurting. If he stayed up he’d be tired, but at least he wouldn’t be lying alone in the dark, alone with his thoughts.
Reading was his escape. An escape to a world where the bad guys always got caught and the good guys always won. An escape to a world that didn't exist. An escape to pure fantasy. It also kept his mind busy and stopped him thinking of things he didn’t want to think about.
Once inside the kitchen, he pulled the coffee pot from the back of the cupboard and rummaged in the larder for filter papers and ground coffee. It was rare that his eyes even caught the gaze of most of these shelves. He knew there must be tins and jars that were years past their sell-by date, but he couldn’t bring himself to go through the whole lot looking for piddly little sell-by dates on the packets. He never ate any of that shit anyway. Eggs and bread could go a long way for a single man.
The kettle boiled and the coffee filtered, Jack sat down in his living-room armchair with a copy of Ian Rankin's Knots and Crosses. He liked Rebus. He’d already read the series through once, but he’d enjoyed it enough to go through again. Although the books were eerily reminiscent of what he faced every day at work, it was still escapism.
Within ten minutes he had fallen asleep, his mind drifting into pleasant dreams, his mug of coffee slowly going cold.