Free Killing Time by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles Page B

Atherton in on his thought processes, and therefore laid him open (ouch, change metaphor) left him vulnerable to the momentary mistaken identification which had let Gilbert get his blow in. Atherton had even, in his worst moments of despair, blamed Slider himself; but the truth was that it had all happened so quickly, even if he had found himself faced with a complete stranger when the door opened he wouldn’t have seen the knife coming. But Slider felt responsible, and visiting every day was one small way of making it up. And Atherton liked to have him visit. It broke up the day a bit.
    ‘Nicholls came yesterday,’ Atherton said.
    ‘He knew I wasn’t going to make it. Did he tell you they’ve started getting the bill together for Mr Wetherspoon’s charity concert for Children in Need? Nutty’s going on in a fright wig and sequins singing “Hey Big Spender”. He’s billed as Burly Chassis.’
    Atherton smiled painfully. ‘Don’t. It hurts to laugh.’
    ‘Sorry.’
    ‘When’s that coming off?’
    ‘The concert? September some time.’
    ‘Maybe I’ll be out for it, then.’ Atherton sounded so doubtful that it seemed better to both of them for the subject to be changed. ‘Tell me about the shout.’
    ‘The shout?’ Slider’s mind was elsewhere and he sounded vague. ‘Isn’t it that painting by Munch?’
    ‘Give the man a coconut,’ Atherton said, secretly ratherimpressed by Slider’s knowledge. ‘Not
The Scream –
the shout. Your shout.’
    ‘Oh! Oh, it was a corpus. In a flat on the White City Estate.’
    ‘Blimey, not again,’ Atherton said. Slider told him about it. Atherton did not know Busty Parnell, and was faintly amused at Slider’s seedy Soho and showbiz connections. What a Bohemian past his boss had had! He had heard of
Hanging Out in the Jungle,
of course – everyone had – and of Jeremy Haviland’s suicide; but to Atherton it was Theatre History, it was like talking to someone who had actually met Flo Ziegfeld.
    ‘Well, you’ve got enough there to be going on with,’ he said. ‘Seedy connections, mysterious lover, poison pen letters. You won’t be bored for a week or two.’ His voice cracked, and he licked his lips.
    Slider looked at him carefully for a moment. ‘What’s the matter?’
    ‘Nothing. Why?’
    ‘Hey, it’s me. What’s the matter?’
    Atherton hesitated, and then, with a hollow sense of helplessness he admitted, ‘I’m afraid.’
    ‘You’re entitled,’ Slider said.
    Atherton shook his head slightly. After a while he went on. ‘I’ve never been scared before. Not like this. When a bloke pulls a knife on you—’
    Slider nodded. ‘The adrenalin kicks in. Afterwards you think, “Shit, he might have killed me.“’
    ‘Afterwards. Not before. That’s the difference.’ He turned his head a little on the pillow, looking towards the shadows. ‘It only happened to other coppers. Now it’s us.’ He licked his lips again. ‘Aren’t you scared?’
    It was what Slider had been trying not to think about. But he owed Atherton that, at least. He looked it in the face and said, ‘Yes. Shit-scared. I don’t want to end up a notch on some stupid scumbag’s belt.’
    ‘So – what, then? Why go on?’
    ‘The odds are on our side.’
    Atherton closed his eyes.
    Slider thought. Yes, the odds were on their side. But the odds were shortening all the time; and anyway, that wasn’t it. So what, then? He couldn’t do anything else, wasn’t trained for anythingelse. But that wasn’t it either. It was what had made him take the job in the first place, that made him stay with it. An inability to do nothing. There were those who, seeing two kids smashing up a telephone kiosk, hurried past, and those who had to protest. His body might have its own views, but his soul sickened at the stupidity and waste of crime, and if he didn’t do something, his bit, to stop it … It wasn’t exactly that he couldn’t stop caring. That was perfectly possible, something he