Chapter 9

I suppose the phrase I'm looking for is 'going off the rails' That's what happened to me after I watched Julian walk away. It was like history repeating, I guess. I spent a long time blaming myself, playing over and over pivotal moments, thinking about what I could have done differently, what I could have said or done to change things. I couldn't bear the anger I was feeling at my mother for her part in his disappearance or keeping it quiet all those years and I couldn't handle the pain of knowing that Julian thought our family was so uncaring and would never grow to understand.

I thought about trying to follow him and trace him but all he'd said was 'up north'. That could have meant anywhere the other side of Uxbridge as far as I was concerned. How would I ever know where to begin? The days passed by. I found myself spinning out of control. I could have been a poster child for the ladette culture. My drinking increased, my work decreased. I developed what can only be described as 'a right gob'. In fact, I think that's how Hunt preferred to describe it, and me. "Got a right gob on 'er," I'd hear him say. Anyone spoke to me, I'd soon put them in their place.

More metal appeared in my face. I pumped more beer down my throat than a small brewery can sell in a year. I'd never smoked before but I picked up the habit – what did it matter in a world of my own creation? You can't get lung cancer or heart disease in your dreams, right? Anything to take the edge off, anything at all. I was Self Abuse R Use for a while.

Before I knew it I'd been there two months. Two whole fucking months with no end in sight. I was homesick, exhausted and running out of things to pierce.

I was staring at a memo on my desk one morning when the words changed from "Staff Toilet Allocations during Renovations" to "Start Suction; Internal Haemorrhaging."

I panicked. I freaked out. It was the first message I'd had in a while. I threw the memo, plus ten different items from my desk, to the ground and faced the wrath of Hunt.

"Oi, Metal Mickey," his angry face came towards me like a storm rolling in from the ocean, "I think all that junk in yer face must be screwing with yer brain. Picking up radio signals, are you? Someone remote controlling you to smash up yer desk? No?" I'd never seen his face so full of fury before, "then clean up yer fucking mess and make a latte appear on me desk before I thread shoelaces through those bloody rings in yer face!"

I watched him march out of the office, I was shaking with anger. How dare he talk to me like that How fucking dare he? He only existed because my brain put him there. Why? Why the hell did my head think I needed to put up with something like that dinosaur in my nightmare?

I'd teach him. I knew how. Taking away the most precious thing in his life.

I made a fast entrance to his office, pulled his scotch from his filing cabinet and legged it as fast as I could out of the building. I found a spot just down the road and sat down on the kerb, taking a long swig from the bottle. I wasn't big on spirits but the satisfaction of stealing Hunt's made the slight stinging in my throat worth it. I silently fumed, trying to work out where to go from here. I'd hit my lowest point. I was tired of fighting – tired of trying to wake up, tired of trying to get home, I was empty inside.

And then the feet arrived in my field of vision.

My eyes travelled upward. His coat was the first thing I noticed; dark, flowing, billowing around him. It was like a wall of cloud rolling in or the ocean swirling around him. It was strange but as I peered up at him he seemed almost intangible. Was he real? He barely seemed it. There was a haze of smoke hanging around him, almost like he'd stepped out of a strange mist. He took off his glasses, looked down at me as he cleaned them and gave me a strange smile.

"You look like you're out of place," he said.

That was it; the first time someone acknowledged… the first time that someone seemed to know. Immediately my breath was taken and my attention caught.

"You're not wrong," I told him, clutching the bottle like a security blanket.

He looked at me with an intensity in his eyes. I'd never seen a pair of eyes so dark and deep before.

"Don't tell me," he began, "Hunt. Right"

My face must have been a picture of shock.

"How did you…?" I began.

"I know Hunt," he said, "Oh yes, we go way back. I see he's still up to his same tricks then? Upsetting his team? Being the big playground bully?"

I stared at him as he lit a cigarette, trying to work out who the hell he was and whether to trust him. He seemed to have the measure of Hunt. Eventually I nodded slowly.

"Yeah," I said, "Hunt. He has a collection of nicknames for me – so I decided to nick his scotch."

"A girl after my own heart," he said with a smile, and when he smiled it hooked me in. There was something strange about this man. It was as though already he was trying to weave a spell over me. "Look, you're not the first. But if I have anything to do with it, you could be the last."

I swigged from the bottle.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"He's had his day," he told me, "his throne is starting to fall to pieces. Its time he moved on. No one wants an old relic like that sitting around. It's supposed to be CID, not an antique shop. It's not Dorking, for god's sake." He knelt down beside me. "Look… I want to change things. I can do something about it. Get rid of Hunt. See you all treated right. You'll finally get the respect and recognition you deserve."

I took another swig.

"I don't want recognition," I said quietly, "I just want to go home."

He stared at me. I could almost see his brain working away behind his eyes.

"Home," he repeated, "now that's something I can help you with."

I stared and swallowed. Had I heard that right? I wasn't sure.

"Bullshit," I whispered, hoping he could prove me wrong.

"Straight up," he told me. He leaned a little closer. "We both know you don't belong here, right? So maybe we can help each other out."

I hesitated.

"In what way?"

"Well," he began, "you help me tip Hunt overboard and I'll help you get home to your friends and your family. Your old post." He raised an eyebrow. "Demotion's hell, isn't it?"

My eyes opened so wide he probably thought there were a couple of extra moons in the sky.

"How did you know about that?" I breathed.

He didn't answer my question. In fact, he never did answer it.

"Why don't you meet me tonight," he said, "for a drink. Away from this shithole," he glanced back at the station, "and we'll discuss the details." He got to his feet.

"I don't know," I began but he wasn't listening.

"Meet me tonight at the Gold Bar. Seven o clock. We'll talk."

He left me with one last knowing smile before his coat swirled around him and he almost seemed to vanish before my eyes.

I found myself shaking a little. I had no idea who that man was, but he seemed to know enough. Had I finally found my ticket home? Bringing down Hunt? Was that what I had to do?

I breathed deeply as I tried to gather my courage. Was I really going to do this? Meeting a stranger and plotting against the man with the latte fixation? It seemed my only option. I was going to get home somehow, whatever it took.