Sleepyhead

SEVEN

Thorne would later classify the minor physical injury as the easiest of the ways in which he became a victim during the Backhand case. Not that he put himself anywhere near the top of the list. His life was not erased with the twist of a skilful finger or put on hold by the deadly and delicate touch of a hand on his neck. He never felt the sob catch in his throat as a sheet was lifted to reveal the expressionless face of a girlfriend or wife or daughter.

He saw them buried, but they were not his blood. But still he suffered.., losses. It was, of course his own doing, but he could only watch as one by one, they fell away. This process, the honing down, the shedding of those around him was a long and painful journey for all concerned, but it began the moment Thorne opened his eyes and saw David Holland at his bedside, reading a copy of FHM. The first thing his brain told his mouth to do was swear, but all it could manage was a gulp and some half-hearted lip-smacking. He closed his eyes; he'd try again in a minute.

Holland was engrossed in a pictorial. The model, a quiz-show hostess, was gorgeous, but he reckoned that actually she wasn't that stupid. He couldn't help but be impressed by quotes like 'The main reason I had breast implants was that I wanted bigger tits.' He wondered what Sophie would look like with bigger tits. He flinched mentally at the tirade of abuse that would surely be heaped upon him were he ever to bring it up.

Hearing a noise he lowered the magazine. The Weeble was awake and trying to say something.

'Do you want a drink of water or…?' Holland reached towards the jug on the bedside table, but Thorne was already closing his eyes.

Holland dropped the magazine and rummaged in a plastic bag beneath his chair. He produced a CD Walkman and, unsure exactly where to put it, placed it on the edge of Thorne's bed.

'I picked this up from your place after you were brought in. Thought you might be… you know.., and I got this from Our Price…' He produced a compact disc and struggled manfully with the Cellophane wrapping. 'I know you're into that country-and-western or whatever. I don't know much about it as it goes – more of a Simply Red man myself. Anyway.. '

Thorne opened his eyes again. Music. It was a nice thought but some sunglasses would have been better. Or a Bloody Mary. His vision was blurred. He squinted at the CD Holland was brandishing and tried to focus on the sleeve. After a second or two he was able to make out the words Kenny Rogers. Before he had a chance to laugh he was asleep.

And Hendricks came. Filled him in on the details. Smacked over the head and drugged. Oh, and Spurs were already thinking about sacking their manager. Then Keable. They'd got nothing from the flat. They'd fill him in when he was back on his feet. Oh, and the lads sent their best.

And finally Anne Coburn.

Thorne was perched on the edge of the bed putting on his shoes when the curtains were pulled aside. She was grinning. 'Fair enough – if I was in the Whittington I'd want to make a quick getaway.'

Thorne smiled for the first time since he'd last seen her.

'Why couldn't it have been the Royal Free, for Christ's sake? I could have done with a day or two with my feet up.'

Anne sat down next to him and gazed around the ward.

'This place isn't that bad, actually. It's just got a bit of a dodgy reputation.'

'I don't think people stick around long enough to find out. As soon as I saw the name on the blankets I started feeling much better.' He took what he hoped would be a final look around. Perhaps they had made an effort but there was something a bit desperate about it. The eastern European eau-de-Nil on the walls had been replaced by a more optimistic orange, and there was even the odd pair of floral curtains, but it was still a hospital. He had spent the previous night failing to sleep through a cacophony of rattling trolleys, humming floor polishers and anonymous screeching. He would have felt only slightly less miserable in a private room with cable television, intravenous red wine and dancing girls.

Anne reached across towards his head. 'Can I?' Thorne lowered his head and she gently traced a finger along the stitches. 'They'd be happier if you stayed another night. I know you don't like hospitals but concussion is unpredictable.., and when you've been shot full of Midazolam on top of it…'

'He wasn't very gentle about that either. I've got a bruise the size of a cricket ball on my arse. He could have tried the champagne – I might have gone for it, state I was in.

'Perhaps you're not his type.' The filthy laugh… Thorne finished tying his laces and stared straight ahead. 'Oh, he'll find out exactly what type I am.'

Anne looked away briefly at nothing in particular. She was starting to get a pretty good idea herself. 'He gave you a big dose, Tom. It can't have been.., pleasant.'

'It wasn't.'

'It might sound strange but that's exactly why we use it. Midazolam fries your short-term memory and detaches you from reality. You go into a dream state. We can stitch up a ten-year-old while they stare at a blank wall and look at the lovely pictures.'

'Mine weren't particularly lovely.' He turned to look at her and tried his best to smile. 'How's Jeremy?'

She tried to look stern, but couldn't manage it. 'He's fine. He seemed rather concerned when I told him what had happened, considering that you two didn't really seem to hit it off.'

'He got home all right, then?'

She stared at him. He knew he was pushing it. He was being stupid and she was anything but. 'I mean, if he was half as pissed as I was, he might have had trouble.' The chuckle was forced and he knew she could see it. There was only one other way to go. He reached across and took her hand. 'I don't suppose we did hit it off, but the two of you were involved at one time.'

'It was twenty-five years ago.'

'Still, I'm hardly likely to invite him down the pub', am I?'

She squeezed his hand and smiled. They said nothing.

Not telling the truth wasn't the same as lying and he would be jealous of Bishop if he didn't feel something a whole lot stronger. Better that she thought it was jealousy. Much better.

Thorne blinked slowly and held his breath. The smell.., and creaking mattresses, and squeaky shoes, and the uncomfortable smile on the faces of people at bedsides. Was it the same smile he'd given his mother all those times he'd sat by her bed and squeezed her hand and looked into her milky blue eyes and tried to figure out where the fuck she'd gone?

'Tom…'

The curtains moved again and Dave Holland appeared. Thorne let go of Anne's hand. 'My taxi's here…'

Anne stood up and moved towards the curtain. Before she turned, Thorne saw her smile at Holland and put her hand on his arm. What the hell was that about? Look after the poor old bugger?

'Give me a ring, Tom.'

She left and Thorne stared hard at Holland. He looked for the smirk but didn't see it. He couldn't see a notebook either. His vision obviously wasn't back to normal yet. As they walked towards the car Thorne could feel the chill in the air. August had finally thrown in the towel and now there would be bad weather coming. He preferred it that way if he was honest. He was happier in an overcoat. A security blanket that covered a multitude of sins. The warm night when he'd stepped out of that taxi, pissed and singing, seemed a long way away. If it hadn't been for the wine he'd guzzled while he and Anne had flirted and talked about Jimi Hendrix and failed marriages, he knew that the whole, hideous thing would be over by now. He might even have been what's laughably called a hero. If he hadn't beer pissed he might have seen it coming. He might have turned round a second earlier and he'd have had him. He might, a the very least, have avoided the blow. But the man in the balaclava with the iron bar and the needle had had a distinct advantage, of course.

He'd known Thorne was pissed, hadn't he?

Holland held the car door open but Thorne didn't resent it. They pulled out on to Highgate Hill.

'Have you got any food in? I had a quick look and couldn't see much.'

'Are you inviting yourself round for a meal, Holland?'

'Do you want to stop somewhere? There's a Budgens on the way, isn't there?'

'You can get me a sandwich when we get to the office.'

'Sir?'

Holland looked across at Thorne whose head lay against the car window, his eyes half shut. He'd been wrong about the Weeble. He looked distinctly wobbly.

'There's not much happening at the moment, to be honest. The DCI said it would be best…

'Office.'

Holland put his foot down.

He'd stood at a bus stop and watched as Thorne and the young DC had climbed into the car and driven away. Thorne had been in hospital less than thirty-six hours. He was impressed.

So, now what?

Things would pick up a bit, wouldn't they? Thorne would be on the warpath for sure. They'd all have taken it personally, he knew that. That was the copper's way. Once you involve one of their own, watch out! Like a piss-poor bunch of Masonic East-Enders. Thorne wasn't one of their own, though, was he? He'd hate that idea. He was getting to know the man, little by little, but he knew that for sure. He just needed to get him riled up a little, that was all.

The bus came, and he stood back and watched as people with no place to go hopped on and off, all of them pale and in pain. He turned away in disgust and started to walk down towards the underground station at Archway.

They'd probably see what he'd done to Thorne as a warning. Let them. Thorne would know it was something.., other than that. He'd know a challenge when he saw one. When he felt one. He'd been personally involved since the first time he'd laid those big brown eyes on Alison. The sentimental idiot had felt sorry for her, hadn't he? He couldn't see beyond the machines. He couldn't smell the freedom. And he really cared about the dead ones. Oh, he really minded about those.

All in all it had worked out quite well and the business with Anne was a lovely bonus.

He stopped to look through the window of a bathroom shop. Mock antique mixer taps and other such shit. Baths with seats in and handles for the old and infirm. Stupid.

He thought about Thorne's tiny flat. There was the home of a lonely man for sure. No, not a home. Neat and tidy, though, he'd give him that – apart from the empty wine bottles. He knew he'd have the edge on him that night on the doorstep. If Thorne had been sober he wouldn't have fancied his chances.

It was starting to get cold. He pulled down his hat and moved towards the entrance to the tube. Now he wanted some progress. He'd shaken things up for sure and they had to have come up with something. And let the profilers or whatever those over-qualified ponces called themselves, talk about a 'cry for help' or a 'desire to be stopped', if that's what paid their mortgages. Not that Thorne would have any time for psychobabble, he was pretty sure of that. And now that he knew what it felt like, now he knew how those women had felt before he'd laid hands on them, he'd be committed.

He'd known kids like Thorne at school. They just needed to be provoked and there'd be no containing them. Mad kids who would throw a desk out of the window or kill squirrels in the playground if you pushed them a bit if you punched the right buttons. Thorne was no different. And now he'd kicked him in the shins. He'd rabbit punched him. Now Thorne wouldn't stop.

A tall skinny woman with a pushchair beat him to the ticket machine. He stared at the back of her slender neck as she fumbled for change in her cheap plastic purse and stared at the station names as if they were printed in Chinese. Single mother, probably. The poor cow wrung out and desperate for a little comfort. Forty fags a day and a couple of Valium to numb the pain and get her through the afternoons.

He thought about any woman he saw now. He considered them all. He could see what each of them needed. Every one was.., feasible.

'Good to have you back, Tom.'

Tughan's thin lips arranged themselves into what might pass as a smile. Thorne thought he looked like a gargoyle. Holland made himself scarce and Thorne settled into a chair opposite his fellow DI. The comments of other officers were acknowledged with a nod and a lighthearted comment, and some of the smiles were undoubtedly sincere, but there were other faces he was less pleased to see again.

'How's the head, Tommy? Now you know how it feels, mate.,.

His calendar girls.

Yes, he knew what it felt like to have the power over your own body taken away. He'd been out of control so many times that it was almost familiar, but that loss went hand in hand with a warm, sleepy feeling that the booze threw in for good measure. The wine came with a little something special to ease the pain of smashed furniture or grazed knuckles. But the drug had taken him to places he never wanted to see again.

"He took away everything we had, Tommy…'

'I wanted to struggle…'

'We all did…'

'… to fight for my life, Tommy:

Tughan's mouth was moving but the sound was coming from a long way away.

Christine. Susan. Madeleine. And Helen. Drugged into oblivion and confronted by a monster. He'd confronted nothing but ghosts. The memories of ghosts. He thought about Alison. He needed to see her. He was still around and he wanted her to know that. He was still around only because that had been what the fucker wanted. He'd realised that straight away and hated the fucker for having the power to spare him. He'd chosen to give him his life.

He had made a mistake.

'He should have killed me:

'Don't say that, Tommy. Who would we have left to talk to?'

'Tom? Are you feeling all right? You shouldn't have come in.'

Thorne turned his eyes from the wall. He stood up and walked around the desk, catching Holland's eye as he put his hand on Nick Tughan's shoulder. 'Not caught him yet, then, Nick?'

Tughan laughed. Nails on a blackboard. I'll leave that to you, Tom. You're the one with the instincts, aren't you?'

Thorne stiffened. 'The one with experience.' He spoke the word as if he were naming a child molester. 'We're just getting on with the job, following leads. One or two of them yours, as a matter of fact.'

'Tom… '

Keable was speaking from the doorway of his office. Thorne looked up and he retreated, the invitation to join him unmistakable.

'I'll catch up with you later, Nick. Why don't you email me what you've got?'

Thorne walked across to Keable's office. He could hear Holland and one of the other DC's laughing as he went. Business as usual. But not for him.

Anne wanted to talk to Alison. Her workload meant that it was becoming increasingly difficult to spend a significant amount of time with her every day and they had stuff to catch up on.

He joined her a second or two after she stepped into the lift.

'David.'

'On the way up to see your locked-in case, I suppose. Any developments?'

'Do you care?'

He pressed the button and the doors started to close. There really wasn't a great deal to look at as a tactic to avoid what was sure to be an unpleasant encounter. She wondered instead if it was possible to escape from a lift using a trap-door in the roof as she had seen people do so often in films.

'I was sorry to hear about the attack on your policeman friend.'

They'd certainly done it in The Towering Inferno.

'Just after your cosy dinner trois with Jeremy, wasn't it?'

And Hannibal Lecter did it in Silence of the Lambs. Just after he'd cut that man's face off. Hmm.

'Anne?'

'Yes, it was, and no, you're not sorry, you're just a twat.'

The lift reached the second floor and Anne stepped out the moment the doors opened. Higgins stood preventing them from closing. 'Hanging around with police officers is obviously doing marvels for your vocabulary, Anne.'

'You're awfully well informed about what I'm up to, David. Using our daughter as a spy is rather pathetic, though.'

'Oh, I thought you two had no secrets?'

Not usually, but maybe it was time that changed. She'd need to talk to Rachel. He was now wearing that hideous smirk she remembered him reserving for tiny triumphs or the expectation of dutiful sex. She smiled at him, feeling nothing but pity.

'Why are you here, David?'

'Just because we're divorcing doesn't mean that I'm not interested in your life. I am.'

She stepped towards him. Did she see him actually flinch? 'There was an Oprah or a Ricki Lake recently about divorcing couples, did you catch it? This woman said that it was only when she was divorcing Duane or Marion or whoever, that she realised how much she loved him. It's weird, because all it's making me realise is how much I wanted to divorce you in the first place.'

The smirk had gone and she could see that the quiff was beginning to wilt slightly, but she could still feel the sharp tingle of the slap in a parked car, and picture the look in his eye after he'd spat at her in an Italian restaurant. Now he tried hard to look world-weary, but just looked old.

'You've become bitter, Anne.'

'And your hair is utterly ridiculous. I'm busy, David.'

The lift doors moved to close again, and Higgins was finding it hard to retain his balance. 'Aren't you at all interested in my life, Anne? What I'm doing?'

He was getting rusty – dollying up the ball like that. She couldn't wait to smash it home. 'OK, David. Are you still fucking that radiotherapist?'

She heard the doors closing as she walked away up the corridor. She knew that he'd never be certain if she'd heard his pathetic parting 'Give my love to Jeremy,' but it didn't matter either way.

She couldn't wait to tell Alison.

'Sit down, Tom.'

Thorne moved to take the uncomfortable brown plastic seat so generously offered. 'Fuck, this sounds a bit serious. Am I going to get a bollocking for being whacked over the head and pumped full of shit?'

'Why are you here, Tom? Do you think we can't manage without you?'

'No, sir.'

'Stop pissing about, Tom.' Keable passed a hand across his face. He was probably trying to appear thoughtful, thought Thorne, or maybe he was just tired. All he had succeeded in doing was roughing up his voluminous eyebrows and making himself look like a bald wolf man. Keable puffed out his cheeks. 'Do you feel rough?'

'What are these leads that Tughan's talking about?'

'There was a note, Tom.'

Thorne was out of his chair in a second. 'At the flat?

Show me…'

Keable opened a drawer and produced a dog-eared photocopied sheet of A4. He handed it to Thorne. 'The original's still at Lambeth.'

Thorne nodded. The Forensic Science Services Laboratory. 'Waste of time..,'

'I know.'

Thorne sat down and read. Typed as before. The same smug familiarity in every sentence. The same enjoyment and belief in a unique and wonderfully detached sense of humour. The same sickening self-love…

TOM. I'M NOT A VIOLENT MAN. (HE PAUSES FOR HOLLOW LAUGHTER AND TO LET THE DETECTIVE INSPECTOR TOUCH HIS SORE HEAD.) DID YOU NEED ST1TCHES I'M SORRY. I HOPE THE HEEBIE-JEEBIES WEREN'T TOO INTENSE. BOOZE AND BENZOS AREN'T THE MOST HARMONIOUS OF BEDFELLOWS. SADLY I DIDN'T STAY TO WATCH. I SIMPLY WANTED YOU TO FEEL SOMETHING OF WHAT IT'S LIKE TO SURRENDER YOURSELF. I KNOW IT WASN'T A SURRENDER IN THE TRUEST SENSE OF THE WORD BUT WHO'S GOT TIME TO BE PEDANTIC? YOU'VE GOT MURDERERS TO CATCH AFTER ALL. A LITTLE PAIN WAS NECESSARY TO BRING YOU UP TO SPEED. AND THE GIRLS FELT NOTHING. REMEMBER THAT. I MUST APOLOGISE FOR HELEN BUT SHE REALLY DIDN'T WANT TO LIVE. ALISON WAS THE ONLY ONE WITH ENOUGH FIGHT TO MAKE IT. WHAT WAS THAT OLD ADVERTISEMENT? IT'S THE FISH JOHN WEST REJECTS…' THAT'S RATHER PAT BUT I'M SURE YOU'LL GET MY POINT. I KNOW YOU'RE ANGRY, TOM, BUT DON'T LET IT EAT YOU UP. USE YOUR ANGER FOR GOOD AS I HAVE AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN'T ACHIEVE. THERE, I HAVE THROWN DOWN A GAUNTLET… OR AT THE VERY LEAST A SURGICAL GLOVE! SPEAK SOON. P.S. I HAVE A PERFECTLY HEALTHY SEX DRIVE AND I WASN'T LOCKED IN A CELLAR AS A SMALL CHILD, SO DON'T WASTE VALUABLE MONEY OR RESOURCES ON CHARLATANS.

Thorne felt sick. He took a deep breath and slid the piece of paper back across the desk. Frank Keable raised his head and Thorne looked him straight in the eye. 'It's Bishop.'

Keable put the note into a drawer and slammed it shut.

'No, it isn't.'

Thorne couldn't look at him. His gaze drifted away to the green metal wastepaper bin, the cheap black plastic hat stand and expensive Barbour jacket. It floated across the dirty yellow walls and settled gratefully on the calendar. September, A particularly uninteresting view of Exmoor in the mist. A two-dimensional and probably long-dead stag the most animated thing in the room.

'So how did you and Dr. Bishop enjoy dinner?'

Thorne was irritated that they'd put it together so quickly. He rather felt that he'd had his thunder stolen. He nodded, impressed. And curious.

'There was a message from Dr Coburn on your machine. She hoped you enjoyed your evening. We called her.'

'Right.'

'Did you, by the way? Enjoy your evening?'

'Yes.'

'Was the spaghetti good?'

'How the luck…?'

'You threw up all over your carpet, Tom. Spaghetti, and a fair amount of red wine…'

Thorne sensed that he might have only the one chance and he needed to perform better than he had last time. A matey tone was best. Conspiratorial. Us against him.

"He's a slimy piece of shit, Frank. He left before I did and waited.'

'He predicted your every move, then? He toddled off with the note he'd already prepared, tucked in his pocket, did he? And an iron bar and a syringe hidden inside his overcoat?'

Thorne was thinking quickly. Did Bishop have a bag with him? Had he seen a briefcase in Anne's hall? He couldn't remember. He was pretty sure Bishop had come by car anyway.

'He would have left the stuff in his car.' Standing his ground.

'Come on, Tom…'

Thorne stood up a little too quickly. He felt dizzy and casually reached out a hand to steady himself. He looked. Keable had seen it. It didn't matter. 'Surely he's worth looking at, Frank.'

'Yes, and Tughan's done it. We're not completely stupid. There's nothing there.'

'Tughan hates the idea because it's mine…'

'Nick Tughan's a professional…'

'Bollocks.'

Thorne was trying hard to sound controlled but he knew that by now the rest of the team would be eavesdropping without much difficulty.

Keable raised a hand. 'Go steady now; Detective Inspector.'

'Sir.' Thorne met Keable's eye. He pushed himself away from the wall and lowered his voice. 'I know what you think and I'm well aware of a certain reputation that I may have…'

'Let's not get into that, Tom.'

Thorne stared hard at him, breathing heavily. 'No, let's.'

Keable wouldn't hold the stare. 'There's no evidence, Tom.'

'Dr. Jeremy Bishop has to be considered a major suspect. He worked at the hospital from which the Midaz61am was stolen. He now works at the hospital where Alison Willetts was taken after she'd been attacked. I think he took her there after he'd attacked her to try, unsuccessfully, to give himself an alibi. He has no alibi for any of the murders and he fits the general description of the man seen talking to Helen Doyle on the night she was killed.' He'd said his piece.

Keable cleared his throat. He was going to say his.

'Bishop was involved with Dr Coburn, wasn't he?'

'Some years ago I believe.., yes.'

'Are you?'

They couldn't confuse what he thought about Bishop with his feelings for Anne, could they? It was necessary to let Anne think that Bishop got to him on that level but Keable would see beyond that surely…

'Tughan isn't the only professional.., sir.'

'Let's talk sensibly, Tom. Everybody agrees we're looking for a doctor.'

'But?'

'The Leicester connection is a red herring due to the date of the theft, if, in fact, the drug stolen was that used on the victims in the first place. Your reasoning as far as the Willetts alibi goes seems to me fanciful at best, and what he was or wasn't doing when the first three victims were killed is irrelevant.'

'What?'

'You know the game, Tom. The GPS isn't even going to look at the first three if we make an arrest. It was all pieced together too long after the event. We've got to go for Willetts and Doyle if we want to secure a conviction. We don't even have an accurate time of death for the first three victims.'

' When he decided it was time, Tommy. That was when: 'Bishop was on call every one of those nights. He's only on call one night a week, it's a hell of a fucking coincidence.' He was almost whispering. 'I know it's him, Frank.'

'Listen to yourself, Tom. This isn't police work, this is… obsession.'

Thorne was suddenly very hot. Here it was, then. Calvert. His mark of Cain. Keable was going to pick away the scab.

'I'm sorry, but you were the one who talked about reputations. I'm not interested in reputations, but I wouldn't be doing my job if I wasn't aware of… recurring patterns.'

'You're talking like I'm a basket case. How many murderers have I put away in the last fifteen years?'

'You were right fifteen years ago. I know that.'

'And I've paid for it ever since. You've got no idea.'

'You've been right lots of times since then, but it doesn't mean you're always right.'

A minute or so earlier he'd felt like a fight. He'd wanted to get into it, but now he was suddenly exhausted, beyond it. 'Most of those times I was lucky. I could just as easily have fucked it up. I didn't always "know". But I knew fifteen years ago. And I know now.'

Keable shook his head, slowly, sadly. 'There's nothing there, Tom.' Then, an afterthought: an attempt to damp down the flames a little. He waved towards the main operations room. 'And you know full well that half the men in that office fit the general description.'

Thorne said nothing. Jesus, Exmoor looked bleak. Even the majestic stag looked deeply pissed off about the whole thing. Thorne saw himself walking into the mist, a tiny, distant figure leaving this shit behind him and disappearing. He felt the curtain of fog closing behind him, clammy on his shoulders as he marched across the damp, mossy ground with the voices of the girls echoing far behind him.

He knew they'd be the only ones who would care where he'd gone.

'Now, sit down, Tom, and let's talk about the things you can do. The reconstruction's already been shot. It's out in a couple of days.'

'Let Tughan do it.'

Thorne was walking quickly towards the door. He'd Keable. He didn't care. He opened the door then: back to the DCI. 'If, you said.' Thorne shook his h Keable stared at him. 'If we make an arrest. Not when!" really are an inspiration to us all, Frank.'

'DI Thorne-' Keable was on his feet, shouting, Thorne was already half-way across the operations to. Those with the imagination picked up conversations they hadn't left off and those that couldn't be bothered stared at their shoes. As Thorne passed him, Tughan looked up, smiling, from his computer screen. 'I don't know you're getting so worked up about, Tom. He's a doctor a lecturer.'

Thorne kept moving. He would make the bastard for that one day, but now was definitely not the time. Holland stood in the corner brandishing a sand and watching his boss stride towards him without looking left or right.

'Sir?'

'Right, Detective Constable Holland,' said Thorne.

'Now you can take me home.'

Rachel Higgins lay on her bed, listening to her mother moving about in the bathroom. She had the sound turned down on the TV but every so often she glanced at screen and tried to figure out exactly what was happening plot wise. It was a trashy late-night Channel 5 skin flick so it wasn't difficult. She heard the toilet flush. Mum was on her way to bed.

She reached over for her Walkman and swept her long brown hair behind her ears before putting on the headphones. The Manic Street Preachers would take her mind off the fight with her mother. It was so stupid the whole thing. It had started with the usual argument about the bloody results. So what if her grades for IT and chemistry were not what they'd been expecting? She wasn't doing any science subjects in the sixth form anyway. They'd knocked that around for a while and got on each other's nerves and then she'd started on about her 'privacy'. Her right to have a life! Jesus Christ…

Maybe she and her mum should stop pretending they were mates in that wanky Ab Fab middle-class way. If that was what her mother wanted, that suited her just fine. She'd only been talking to her dad, for fuck's sake. It wasn't like she'd been told not to.

On TV a flabby sound engineer was trying to get some session-singer's bra off. Or maybe he was her manager. He was ugly and she had saggy old tits.

She quite liked the copper, actually, and didn't give a toss if her mum wanted to shag his brains out, but now all of a sudden her mum was moving the goalposts. Certain things were 'her business' and she was allowed to have a private life. It was obvious that the flabby bloke wasn't going to get out. She picked up the remote, flicked off the TV and lay there in the dark trying not to cry. The volume on her Walkman was turned up as high as it would go. The noise would send her to sleep eventually and the row would be forgotten in the morning.

It didn't really matter anyway. Her mum could have her secrets if she wanted.

Rachel had plenty of her own.

It sounds as if Anne gave that tit of a husband as good as she got by the lift. She's definitely well shot of him. I wish I could tell her to stop pissing about and make a move on that chunky copper. They've done dinner, now she should go for it, no question. Especially now some hurter's smacked him over the head. Get 'em while their resistance is low. Give him one while he's still dizzy.

I've always been good at getting people together. It was me who got Paul to go and chat Carol up. I wonder if they're back from their honeymoon yet. Presumably not or they'd have been in.

We had a really good laugh, actually, me and Anne. Well, she had a good laugh and I just thought about laughing. It's fucking freaky to tell you the honest truth. When I'm half out of it, which is most of the time (did I mention that the drugs in here are fantastic?) I imagine that all the nurses are actually inside me instead of outside in the real world. I try and pretend that they're like these little munchkins running about inside my body and doing all the things that my brain tells them to do. Sweet little mobile body parts. Nursey to open my eyes. Nursey to wipe away the sweat. Nursey to scratch an itchy tit (well, once I've mastered telling them it's itchy). Remember the Numskulls in that old comic? A funny bunch of dwarfs that lived inside this bloke's head. I think "hungry" and this little thing in a blue uniform with a stiff Cap and an upside down watch comes and sticks something yummy in my feeding tube. I think 'pissant', Bob's your uncle, the next little slave empties my catheter. Well, fuck it, you've got to get through the day.

That's another thing. I've got no bloody idea what time of day it is. Anne makes a point of telling me but ten minutes after she's gone I'm confused again. There's a lot of dizziness as well ('No change there, then; the girls at the nursery would say). I wonder how all the kids are doing? Some of them will have moved up into the next room. A new lot for Daniel to start biting. I really miss them.

I wonder if I could still get pregnant?