I sigh heavily as I close the front door behind me. I’m glad to be home and I know Anne was right when she said I needed the rest. It still makes me feel like a failure, though.
This really isn’t the sort of job where it’s seen as acceptable to be sent home because you look tired. Every police officer’s tired. It’s the nature of the job. We all see things we don’t want to see and we all do things we don’t want to do. We’re all haunted by our experiences.
There’s too much going through my mind to be able to sleep, and I decide I need a drink to help things along. I’ve never dared to see a doctor about my problems sleeping, but I’ve read plenty of stuff online and it all says to avoid alcohol. You’ll get to sleep easily enough, but the quality of sleep will be low and you’ll be worse off in the long run. Sod the long run. Any sleep will be good sleep right now.
I kick off my shoes and walk through the kitchen. The kitchen is gently illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlight in the alleyway that runs down the back of my garden. The tap drips to its usual regular rhythm. Drip. Drip. Drip.
I open the fridge door and let the bright light and cold air hit me full force in the face. I breathe in deeply and the smell of the cold pasta bake assaults my nostrils from beneath the tin foil covering the bowl. But despite the fridge being full, there’s no beer.
I unlock the side door to the garage, turning the key in the lock and hearing the satisfying click as the door moves slightly in its frame. I step down into the garage, feeling the cold, gritty concrete through my socks and switch the light on, the fluorescent tube flickering as the orange glow begins to light up the room.
I bend down to pick up two cans of lager, freeing them from their four brothers, and stand up to turn back towards the kitchen. As I see what’s leaning against the wall next to the door, I have to stop myself from dropping the cans.
I swallow hard, feeling my throat constrict as my eyes cloud with water and my nostrils quiver.
It’s a pickaxe. Not only is it a pickaxe, but it’s a pickaxe with dried blood on the handle and bits of what only looks like brain matter on the metal head. It sounds strange to say, but it looks peaceful, rested; the clumps of flesh and hair quite serene after a hard day’s work.
Without making a noise, I step back up into the kitchen and close the garage door. I can still feel the grit beneath my feet and my first thought is that I need to take off my socks.
My mind is awash with all sorts of noise. I don’t even own a pickaxe. I think back to this morning, seeing the dead woman sit up and look at me. More hallucinations. Sleep. I need sleep.
I know that if I just open the garage door once more and look back at where the pickaxe was, it wouldn’t be there. It’s just another figment of my tired imagination, my brain trying desperately to stimulate itself. But a large part of me doesn’t dare. I don’t want to know.
I lean over the sink and open both cans of lager, drinking the first within the space of a minute and then starting on the second, my eyes never leaving the soft glow of the streetlight at the end of the garden. It’s the glow of hope. I don’t think I’ve ever needed a drink more.
I walk through into my living room and collapse into the armchair, the can of beer now sat on the nest of tables beside me, my tongue fizzing and my mouth watering. I can feel the effect of the alcohol on my brain already; a small injection of energy but an overwhelming desire to just let go. The frustration, though, is gone. My eyelids feel heavier than lead, and I can already feel myself drifting off.