Before the needle, he’d felt cold.
Not just from the lack of warmth in the room, but also from the events playing out in front of him.
Watching the new boy, Henry Ackroyd, flounder at Tommy’s request, was a hard watch. Henry was only in his twenties. He’d every right to flounder. Listen to his gut and run.
However, after the needle, a warm flush washed away the cold, and the sinking began. Henry and Tommy’s standoff dissolved into atoms. He made a deep descent away from the brightness, away from a frantic place of worry, doubt and crushing pain, into a slower place. A shallow, smooth and silent void in which he could float.
Time had lost relevance.
Moments he loved had no longer ended.
And yet, even in this void, it felt tangible.
His daughters, Molly and Lucy.
His wife, Rachel.
His mentor, Anders.
His young friend, Arthur.
Tangible.
Maybe it wasn’t a void after all?
Maybe DI Paul Riddick had returned to a world he no longer had.
And right at this moment, he didn’t have to worry about staying or going.
Because it simply was.