The Last Devil To Die полностью

‘Viktor, inside my head, while I can still explain … Things are not moving forward. The world, that keeps moving forward, I understand that, I sense that. It won’t stop moving forward. But my brain is doubling back on itself. Even now, back I go. It feels like a bathtub, when someone pulls out the plug. Circles, circles, circles, and, every time around, something new, something not understood, and there’s me trying to scramble up the sides. And this is me at my best, this is when I still have a grasp.’

‘I can see that,’ says Viktor. ‘You make it plain.’

‘The 42 bus, Viktor, that’s where I remain. Everything else is noises from above, words I’m not hearing.’

‘Stephen, I am here to help, I hope,’ says Viktor. ‘To listen, and to see how much pain you are in. That is what Elizabeth wants to know. And she knows you won’t tell her the truth if she asks. So she needs me to ask.’

Stephen understands.

‘I think I know the answer to this question already,’ says Viktor. ‘I think your face tells me. But are you in a great deal of pain?’

Stephen smiles, then looks to the floor. Then out to Elizabeth and Bogdan on the terrace, and finally back to Viktor again. He leans across and puts a steadying hand on Viktor’s knee.

‘That’s it, chief, that’s it. Pain I couldn’t begin to tell you.’

I just made some Battenberg with stoneground flour, and Garth was quite right. It’s still not as good as his, so I suspect he’s holding something back. If we meet again, I shall ask what it is.

And I do have the feeling that we will meet again, don’t you?

I think Ibrahim and I could both tell that Samantha Barnes and Garth were lying. About what though? They certainly know more than they’re telling.

Either way, he can bake.

It was such a treat to go to Petworth yesterday. After visiting Samantha and Garth we went round a few shops. I bought a horseshoe, because I thought Gerry would approve, and Ibrahim, for reasons known only to himself, bought an old London street sign: ‘Earls Court Road’. He said he bought it because it sounded very regal, but I wasn’t entirely convinced. He’ll have a reason, Ibrahim always does. I asked him what was going on with Ron and Pauline, but he said he was going to ask me the same thing, so I think it might all be over. That would be a shame. It’s always tempting to interfere when you know someone is making a mistake, isn’t it?

As soon as we got home, I popped over to Elizabeth’s to give her a full debrief, but she wasn’t back. So wherever she was going with Stephen and Bogdan, it wasn’t a flying visit.

Visiting a home, do you think? For Stephen? I don’t really want to talk about it for now. We shall find out in due course. The Battenberg is for her anyway, if she wants it.

I decided in the end that I wouldn’t bake scones for Connie Johnson. Ron was quite right there. And, besides, Ibrahim says that Connie gets a regular delivery from Gail’s Bakery at the prison, so they would probably be surplus to requirements. They have a branch of Gail’s in Fairhaven now and, while I still prefer the vegan café near the front, Donna told me to try one of Gail’s sausage rolls, and I confess I’m hooked. What I tend to do is have a tea and a muffin at Anything with a Pulse, and then buy a sausage roll on my way back to the minibus, to take home and heat up later with an episode of Bergerac.

One time, when I arrived home, I forgot it was in my handbag, and I came back into the living room to find my lipsticks and purse on the floor and Alan pretending to look innocent with crumbs around his mouth.

I still can’t find a thing online about that new man who is moving in soon, Edwin Mayhem, which only makes him more mysterious and exciting to me. If he doesn’t ride in on a motorbike, I shall be very disappointed.

It is Saturday tomorrow, and nothing ever seems to happen on a Saturday, does it? Unless you like sport, then everything happens on a Saturday. I hope I’ll be able to report back to Elizabeth, but she does seem to have other things on her mind.

This is completely understandable, but we’re still no nearer finding the murderer or the heroin, so perhaps it’s time I took charge a little bit?

Joyce in charge. I don’t know. I don’t really like taking charge; I prefer taking orders. But I like to be listened to, so perhaps I should be brave.

Because if Elizabeth is absent, then who will take charge?

Ibrahim?

Ron?

I’ve made myself laugh there. Anyway, so long as nothing major happens before Elizabeth surfaces again, it will all be fine. And, as I say, nothing ever really happens on a Saturday.

Sweet dreams one and all.