All the Rage

Epilogue

HMP Wandsworth

23 May 2018

The car is waiting for him opposite the gate. His mother. He didn't want any bloody fuss, and certainly not the fucking kids. As for the press, there'll be time enough for that. His lawyer says they're queuing round the block. It's just a question of how much money they're prepared to cough up. A story like this `“ it's pure pay dirt.

His mother gets out of the car. Still the same shitty Fiat. That's something else he's going to bloody well fix.

`˜You all right?' she says as he crosses the road towards her. It's starting to rain. There are splashes on the shoulders of her coat.

`˜Just get in, Mum,' he says. `˜No point getting wet, is there.'

She doesn't hug him. Just looks him in the eye and hands him the keys.

`˜Thought you'd want to drive.'

He smiles. `˜Yeah,' he says. `˜Why not? Get back in the swing and all that.'

He gets in, then leans over and pushes the passenger door open for her. He can smell her fag smoke, under the artificial pine. There's one of those air freshener things stuck on the dashboard. It makes him want to gag. All those years in prison seem to have sharpened his sense of smell.

His mother pulls the door shut, then turns to face him. `˜Well?'

`˜I'm not going to let them get away with it, you know.'

He expects her to tell him to let it go. To move on. But she doesn't.

`˜That fucking copper,' he says. `˜And that bitch wife of his. They fitted me up `“ you do know that, right?'

She looks at him, then nods. `˜Let's just go, eh? Get you home. You can think about the rest of it later.'

But he's not finished. `˜I know there was no hair in the fucking lock-up, Mum. That bloody bitch planted it. She planted it to frame me.'

His mother sighs. She's heard it all before; he's been saying the same thing for nigh on twenty years.

`˜I'm serious. Just you wait `“ those bastards, I'm going to make them pay.'

Pay for all those years inside.

Pay for him not seeing his kids grow up.

Pay, above all, for playing him at his own game.

He knows there was no hair in the lock-up because he wasn't stupid enough to leave it there. Because he knows where to hide precious things like that. Because he knows places the police would never think to look.

And what he hid, all those years ago, will still be there, waiting for him. The long auburn strands he yanked out of that bitch's head. Emma's blonde. Alison's red. The jewellery and the silk knickers and all the other things he took from those girls. He feels a stir in his groin just thinking about it. But that's for later. There's no need to rush. Not now. Thanks to Jocelyn Naismith and The Whole Truth and his dumb-arse lawyers, he has all the time in the world.

He sits a while, clenching and unclenching his fists, allowing his heart rate to slow. Then he puts the key in the ignition and starts the engine.