Blink {Featured}

Chapter Twenty Four

JOHN FINNIE (35y), JULY 2022, 09.16

John sat in his wheelchair. Ever since his altercation with the psychiatrist, he had decided it would be better all-round if he had limited contact with people. Samantha had protested of course, and so had Mam and Dad, but John had guessed that something may be wrong; his head was full of bad thoughts. He had watched the footage of him attacking the psychiatrist over and over. He paused the recording at the point when he said the word Grimsol, his snarling face twisted with hatred.

Why? And what the hell did that mean? Why had he attacked the man?

It confused him to the point of madness and so he launched the screen off his lap onto the floor in a fit of rage. Cleaners came in straight away and cleaned up the broken gadget. John stared out of the window, not acknowledging their existence. He also noticed that he got the shakes if he didn't get a regular shot of morphine, with a grimace.

'Nice one John,' he said out loud. 'You're a violent drunk with a substance dependence. What a total fuck up I've become, in just a few months. Would I have been better if I'd reverted back to a drooling vegetable?' He wheeled over to the window and looked at the view outside. The sunny day was getting warmer, John closed his eyes and enjoyed its warmth, then from nowhere the blinds closed. John opened his eyes and looked down. The remote for the blinds lay in his left hand.

'Why would I do that?'

He opened the blinds again and closed his eyes. Again the blinds closed. This was it; he was going bloody mad. He opened the blinds once again and tossed the remote on the bed. He looked down at his left hand again. 'Close them now fucker,' he said and closed his eyes to enjoy the sun on his face once more.

(35y) JULY 2022, 20.11

It was dark when he opened his eyes again, a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat on his lap. His head was fuzz, as if he had been drinking, and the remote for the blinds lay smashed on the floor. Five cigarette stubs also lay dead in the ashtray, and smoke still hung heavy in the air.

'What the fuck?' he slurred as he looked around.

John looked at his watch. 'I don't understand,' he said. 'I was enjoying the sun a minute ago. Now it's night-time. Did I pass out?' He looked at the bottle. 'Nah, unconscious people don't drink whiskey and smoke. When did I start smoking?' He shrugged and poured himself another drink.

'You're a fucking looney John, a junkie alcoholic cripple looney.' He raised his cup as he looked at his reflection. 'Here's to you, you crazy old bastard!' And knocked it back in one go.

MARTY, JULY 2022, 07.56

Another long day awaited Marty. How many times had he gone over the evidence for the case? He'd lost count. His superiors said this case was his main priority. Having been hand-picked meant he still excelled as a Detective Inspector, but the workload was immense. He craved to be back in firearms, he enjoyed the banter, having other people to bounce off. His main thought remained the same, if he cracked this case people would be saved. Even better, kids would be saved. The Collector had to be stopped, and to top it all, the two previous top detectives who'd handled this case had committed suicide. Jack Parnell, his mentor, had shown Marty every trick of the trade, but it hadn't been enough to save him. He was found hanged in the woods four years ago--it had devastated Marty.

The photos of all the missing girls he'd pinned on a board four years ago, the day after Jack's death. The first had been a girl named Abigail Brown in an old sepia-coloured photo. It had taken him quite a while to get them pinned on, with a map showing their last known location and red string connecting them. Marty stood back and viewed the board; it gave him no satisfaction at all. Especially since three had gone missing since he had taken over the case. He stared, as he had done for years, at the board with girls' faces on. He recognised every single one of them now. Where are you, you son of a bitch?