Blood Tears by Michael J. Malone Page B

market.’
    ‘You do know that reset is a crime, don’t you?’ I don’t give him enough time to answer. ‘That means buying stolen goods. You’ve been in trouble before, haven’t you, Paul? It wouldn’t do to get another crime on your sheet, would it?’
    ‘Piss off and prove it, tosser.’ He crosses his arms.
    ‘Previous. You’ve got previous. Got a bit angry, didn’t you, Paul?’
    ‘Aye. So? Bastards deserved…’
    ‘Quite a brutal crime, eh?’
    ‘Like I said the…’
    ‘A lot of hate bottled up there, Paul?’
    ‘Ah didn’t dae Connelly.’ He unbuttons his leather jacket.
    ‘A lot of anger. Mr Connelly died violently, Paul. He died screaming. Did you enjoy it?’
    ‘What is this?’ He sat upright. ‘Fucking  bad cop, bad cop?’ His eyes. There’s something about his eyes. Where have I seen him before? Then he stands up. ‘I’ve seen the papers. I know what you guys do. Can’t find the killer, so you’ll stitch somebody else up. You said I was free to go. I’m leaving.’
    As he turns towards the door, his jacket swings open, revealing a sweatshirt with two white stripes across the middle.
    ‘No you’re not.’ I stand up. I’m aware of Peters’ questioning stare — whose interview is this — but there’s something about this guy.
    ‘Going to stop me, big man?’ He throws his shoulders back and chest forward in the classic pose of the ned. ‘I know my rights.’
    I lean over to the tape recorder and switch it off. ‘You know fuck all, pal.’ I want to punch his smug smile through to the other side of his head. I want to jump on his head until it is pulp. I am so fucking angry and I don’t know why.
    ‘Ray,’ Peters warns.
    ‘Come ahead.’ says Crichton.
    ‘Sit.’ I bark. He obeys me, with a look that says, for now, asshole .  I sit down and stare him out.
    As I look into his eyes the world shifts. I’m back in the dream. This time the fear won’t beat me. This time I will act. The room is suddenly colder and darker.
    I can see the outline of a cross in shadow on the far wall. I hear the discordant note of chair legs, as they are forced across the tiled floor. Crichton and Peters are staring at me from their seats, so it’s me who stood up. I’m having difficulty reading their expressions. It’s like I’m looking at them through a gauze curtain.
    ‘ Not yet, but soon .’
    ‘What did you say?’
    Crichton stubs out a cigarette. Is that a smile?
    ‘ I know where you live .’ Who said that?
    My hands are round Crichton’s neck and my breath is scouring his face. ‘Nobody threatens a police officer,’ I hear my voice from the far end of a tunnel. There’s fear and anger in it and an absence of light.
    Peters is trying to pull me off. If he doesn’t stop, he’ll be next.
    The dream. But it’s not a dream. It’s much more: the sense of danger, the fear that had me gagging on the words I was trying to speak. My hands are shaking, their grip tightening. What the fuck is going on? All I know is that I need to get out of this room. Pronto.
    Somebody is tugging at my sleeve, Crichton’s face is purple as he struggles for air. I can see the pink of the roof of his mouth and a row of black fillings. This strikes me as a strange observation to make when I’m so deep into my fury.
    But then, why am I so angry?
    ‘Ray.’ A voice penetrates into my brain.
    ‘Wha…’ Hands pull mine away from Crichton’s neck. I slump to my seat. What the hell is happening to me?
    Crichton’s shoulders are moving up and down as he works air back into his lungs. ‘You… are… a psycho… mate. You should be locked up.’ His face is turning a healthier colour. ‘I’m going to sue your arse for every last penny, you sick fuck.’
    ‘Shut up, Crichton, before I really hurt you.’ I smile. ‘Besides, nothing happened, did it?’ I face Peters. He’s wearing an expression of outrage. In fact he’s so angry, he can barely talk. Sanctimonious prick. He meets my gaze. Looks