and not just with your panic attacks,’ she said, lowering her voice so she wouldn’t be overheard. ‘I’ll help with the Harkness case too. We’ll be like Cagney and Lacey.’
‘Which one are you?’
‘I could never remember which was which. I’ll be the good-looking one. Kean and Darke Investigators Extraordinaire.’
Matilda smiled, but not with her eyes. ‘You’ve got your own work. I can’t ask you to help me all the time.’
‘You’re not asking. Look, what is actually bothering you in all this; is it Ben Hales?’
‘No. I’m worried that I’ll screw up again.’
‘You didn’t screw up before.’
‘Didn’t I? Adele, I killed a child, for crying out loud.’
The winter months meant dark evenings, dark nights, and dark mornings. Usually the only daylight Jonathan Harkness saw was when he looked through the window of the bookshop he worked in. Any other time he was surrounded by darkness, and he loved it.
When he was away from work he was still surrounded by books. His flat was full of them. He lived on the ground floor of a small apartment block. There were two bedrooms, a large living/dining room and kitchen and bathroom. There were books in almost every room, taking up every available space.
Aunt Clara had told him the ability to read and write was important. While hiding from the agony of the murder of his parents he lost himself in fiction. While hiding from the neighbour children and the bullies at school he sought solace in fiction. Eventually books became an obsession and he spent every waking moment reading.
His biggest passion was crime fiction. In his living room, the large back wall was lined from top to bottom with purpose-built shelves, all of them bursting with books. Hardback and paperbacks of all sizes. They were in alphabetical order and then categorized in the order they were written. He lived in his own little library.
It wasn’t long after he had moved into the flat that he ran out of space for his collection and he turned the box room into a reading room. He built shelves and bought an expensive leather wing chair. He blacked out the window to make sure no natural light would fade the colours on the spines of the book covers. This room was his haven. Every night when he finished work he would have a bite to eat, usually a sandwich, then go into his reading room – closing the door behind him, locking himself away from the outside world – and absorb himself in fantasy.
Reading the exploits of detectives such as Wexford, Jordan, Thorne, Banks, Dalziel and Pascoe, Dalgliesh, Frost, Grace, Rebus, Stanhope, Cooper and Fry, Serrailler, and Morse he was able to leave behind his own life and troubles and be somebody else.
He would read until his eyes stung with fatigue before retiring to bed and falling asleep, hopefully dreaming of his favourite detectives and not of the horror that haunted his real life.
Jonathan was a Luddite. He did not own a television or a computer. He didn’t have a mobile phone and had no interest in the Internet. He didn’t own any CDs and the only music he listened to was whatever the radio station was playing when he was woken up in the morning. His life revolved around books.
By the time Jonathan arrived home it was pitch-black and the temperature was well below freezing. He was wrapped up in a knee-length black reefer coat, had a black scarf swathed around his neck several times, and black leather gloves. He held himself rigid, his body language closed and stiff, not all due to the cold; he was always tense.
He carried two plastic bags. One contained the bare essentials from the corner shop: butter, milk, coffee, cheese, bread, and the other three paperbacks from the bookshop. Even when he had the day off, he couldn’t stay away from the place.
He opened the main door leading into the well-lit communal hallway. His neighbour directly above him, Maun Barrington, was at her post box. Her eyes lit up when she saw him and she smiled.
‘Hello Jonathan, you’re home late,’ she said.
‘I’ve not worked today, had a few things to do.’ He pulled the scarf down from around his mouth. He didn’t make eye contact and kept his head bowed. He had learned to judge who was around him without looking up and actually seeing.
Her smile dropped. ‘It’s not like you to take time off work.’ She waited, expecting him to elaborate but he didn’t. ‘It’s a cold one today isn’t it?’ she asked, desperate to keep the conversation going.
‘It certainly is,’ he said, unlocking his post box and taking out the single item of junk mail. He looked at the envelope, saw it was a circular offering him cheap broadband, and immediately tore it in half; placing it in the bin under the table.
‘I bet we’re in for a long winter, don’t you?’ Maun said looking outside into the darkness. ‘So depressing.’
Jonathan was just opening the interior door taking him to the corridor where the two ground-floor apartments were when she stopped him.
‘Jonathan, I don’t mean to intrude but…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I know tomorrow is the day of the demolition. It can’t be an easy time for you.’
‘No it’s not. Not much I can do about it though. It’s not my house.’
‘Are you going?’
He thought about it even though his mind was already made up. ‘Yes, just for a while.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
He gave her a feeble smile. ‘That’s nice of you to offer but no thanks.’
‘I don’t mind.’
I bet you don’t. ‘No, honestly, it’s fine. I’m going into work straight afterwards. I just want to see it get started. I’ll only be there about ten minutes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’ He edged further into the corridor.
‘Well, you know where I am if you change your mind.’
He smiled at her once again and walked quickly away. Conversation over.
Maun Barrington was in her early sixties. She was a widow and had been for almost twenty years. She and Jonathan were very alike; neither had any family and no friends to speak of. The only difference was Maun wanted people around her whereas Jonathan didn’t. She liked Jonathan. She was happy to have him in her life. Nobody else in the building acknowledged her and she looked forward to her conversations with him. She wished he would stay for longer chats, or accept the many invitations to dinner in her flat that she offered.
As Jonathan left she went upstairs into her own home and closed the front door behind her. The layout to her flat was identical to Jonathan’s. She stood in the hallway in silence and listened intently. She heard footsteps coming from below. Jonathan was
