Feeding Frenzy #6
The paramedic shrugged. “Well, he’d scarpered by the time we got here, probably legged it out the back. If you reckon you saw him, you’d better speak to the police. Do you feel up to it?”
It was over an hour before Adam arrived back at work. Nigel, who Adam had phoned to explain his lateness, met him at the door and tugged him aside, though only to ask whether he’d prefer to take the rest of the day off.
“No, I’m fine,” Adam said. “I’ll only dwell on it if I go home.”
“Good lad,” Nigel said, despite Adam being older by several years. “Well, if you find it a bit much, I’ll let you slip away quietly.”
“Thanks,” said Adam, but despite his ordeal he spent most of the rest of the afternoon surprised at how okay he was feeling. Okay, but…strange, as though he was observing himself from afar, watching and waiting, with an almost academic detachment, for the reaction to kick in.
Perhaps side-stepping reality, or feeling as though he was, was his way of reacting.
Certainly, when he tried to conjure up an image of the figure he had seen in the bagel shop, it was like trying to grasp a slippery bar of soap with wet hands.
Instead of recalling details, his mind kept substituting the image on the cover of Night of the Blood Fiend.
The reality, such as it was, of the figure, remained elusive, unformed as a half-forgotten dream.
It wasn’t until he took a break at four p.m. that Adam realised he had had nothing to eat all day. Perhaps that was part of the reason why he was feeling so light-headed; perhaps lack of food was making him hypoglycaemic, which was what his mum always claimed to be when she needed a cup of tea.
The earlier sunshine was spread thinly across a sky like hard white marble when he hurried down the street towards the newsagent’s several doors from Starbucks.
Despite not having eaten for almost twenty four hours, the thought of a ‘proper’ meal, even a sandwich, made Adam feel slightly nauseous, but he was not averse to filling up on empty calories – crisps, chocolate bars, maybe a packet of biscuits.
His stomach began to growl the instant he entered the shop, which was stuffed so full of displays of confectionery, magazines, drinks and cigarettes it gave the impression it was being squeezed narrow by its more muscle-bound neighbours.
Adam selected a Crunchie, a Yorkie, a tub of Pringles and a cellophane-wrapped packet of chocolate chip cookies, then waited impatiently as a barrel-shaped man in a football shirt that smelled of stale sweat took his time buying cigarettes from the turbanned proprietor.
Eventually the man rolled out of the shop and it was Adam’s turn. He had placed his selection on the topmost copy of a stack of local newspapers on the counter, and was delving into his pocket for coins, when he noticed the headline that his Yorkie bar seemed purposely placed to underline.
Instantly he froze, then snatched at a breath to quell the sense that his thoughts were beginning to spiral lazily in his skull. The old Sikh man, face the colour and texture of used teabags, wild, peppery beard tamed within a fine black net, watched him serenely.
As carefully as a bomb disposal expert dealing with a volatile device, Adam dragged three pound coins out of his pocket and placed them on the newspaper.
He felt as though he was dredging his voice up from deep within himself, and so was surprised at how normal it sounded when he said, “I’ll take a paper too. ”
The old man scooped up the coins with a hand made of too many knuckles and gave Adam his change.
In a daze, Adam stuffed the food into several of his pockets and folded the newspaper towards himself as he peeled it from a pile of its clones, then lurched out of the shop, wondering whether the sensation that his knees were no longer connected properly was apparent to anyone but himself.
Half-way back to Hanson’s he unfolded the paper to look at the headline again, hoping for one brief moment he had misread it. But no, there it was, in bold black letters: HORRIFIC TRAIN MURDER. And beneath that the strapline: 14 Year Old Girl Tied To Railway Track.
Three times, he thought. Three times it had happened now. Three deaths. Three’s a crowd. Third time lucky. The Three Stooges – Father, Son, Unholy Ghost.
He thumped to a halt in the street, closing his eyes, pressing his hands to his throbbing head. Ink and paper. He could smell ink and paper.
“Are you all right, Adam? You look white as a sheet.”
He could barely remember getting back to Hanson’s, thumping up the motionless escalator, then up the concrete stairs beyond the door in the café, to the break room.
His outward persona was a pre-programmed robot, not him.
He was cowering inside himself, his thoughts twisting like snakes in a pit.
He was a murderer, though he had never killed anyone.
He had the power to destroy, though he felt helpless and inadequate.
He made himself read the article, though he knew what it would contain.
The girl’s body had been found by the earliest of that morning’s commuters.
She had been tied to the railway track and dismembered by a train.
Police were not yet naming her, though the detective leading the inquiry said it was the most appalling crime he had ever had to deal with.
Alone in the break room, Adam made a crumpled tent of the newspaper and placed his head inside it.
It smelled of ink and paper, or his headache did.
He lowered his head to the table until he felt the coolness of formica against his brow.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he whispered over and over, “It’s not real, it’s not real.
” He crumpled the newspaper around his head, filling his ears with the sound of its crackling.
It was Jacinta’s voice that roused him. It wasn’t until he looked up at her blearily that he realised he had been asleep.
“Was it a dream?” he asked.
“Was what a dream?”
Instead of answering he snatched the newspaper off his head, smoothed it out, read the headline, groaned.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s just…I’m confused. I’ve got a headache. I’ve had nothing to eat all day.”
Jacinta made them both coffee while Adam, after his first bite of chocolate, tried not to eat as quickly as his body wanted him to. “How long have I been up here?” he asked.
“I don’t know. What time did you come up? It’s quarter to five now.”
“Soon be home time.”
“You don’t sound too happy about it.”
He shrugged. “It’s just…I don’t want to sound like a whinger, but it’s been hard recently finding anything to look forward to. I split up with my wife a couple of months ago and now I live in a dump. I’m sure once I’ve been here a while and we start getting paid, things’ll start to look up.”
It came out in a rush, and was surprisingly easy to say, and although it was all true, Adam was aware that it was no longer at the heart of his problems, that he was merely peeling off the outer layers.
He had reached the stage where he needed someone to help shoulder his burden, someone who could put things into perspective and suggest a practical solution.
He couldn’t deal with what was happening to him on his own any more.
He felt engulfed by it. He didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t, whether he was sane or barking mad.
Managing to restrain himself from clutching at Jacinta’s sleeve, he said, “I don’t suppose you fancy a drink tonight?”
Before she could reply, Nigel’s voice boomed over the intercom. “Hi everyone. Could you all drop what you’re doing and meet me in the café in five?”
Jacinta gave him a resigned look. “Better see what our esteemed leader wants, I suppose.”
Adam followed her out of the room. Not wanting to sound too needy, he left it until they were half-way down the stairs before saying, “About that drink…”
“I suppose we’ll all end up in the pub at some stage,” Jacinta said airily. “We usually do.”
Adam could picture it – a big group of them crammed around a couple of tables, the loud ones hogging the limelight, no chance to be intimate or discreet. He had no choice but to make the best of it, though, would simply have to tag along and hope for the best.
Looking scalier than ever, wearing flakes of himself on the shoulders of his black U2 T-shirt, Nigel started the meeting by thanking them for coming.
“You’ve all been working bloody hard these past few days.
I couldn’t be prouder of the effort you’ve put in.
Having said that, because of what happened yesterday morning, and because the dozy prats at head office have under-estimated the amount of work that still needs doing to get us up and running by next week, we’re falling behind schedule.
What I’m therefore proposing – and head office have given the okay – is that instead of locking up at six we make tonight an all-nighter.
You don’t have to stay, of course, it’s strictly volunteers only, but those that do will get double-pay for the extra hours they work, plus we’ll order in pizza and beer and make a bit of a party of it.
A working party.” He grinned so widely at his own weak joke that Adam thought his face would split.
“So let’s have a show of hands. Who’s for the graveyard shift? ”
Adam was going to keep his hand down until he realised he would be the only one who did.
Jacinta’s hand shot up so quickly he instinctively felt it had been the excuse she’d been looking for not to have to listen to his problems, before telling himself he was being paranoid.
There was no way she could know what he was going through, and how much he needed a friend.
“Incredible,” Nigel said, looking overwhelmed. “You guys are just stunning. I don’t know how to thank you enough.”
“Make it triple pay instead of double,” someone said, and Adam tried to join in with the laughter.