Sam, Ray and Chris spoke as one: ‘Yes, Guv.’
‘The man we’re after is a boxer – a boxer with small hands,’ said Gene.
‘How small’s small, guv?’ asked Ray.
Gene grabbed Sam’s hand and forced his finger straight.
‘Our measuring stick,’ Gene said. ‘The width of the killer’s knuckles match the length of Sam Tyler’s pokey-finger.’
‘What bit of the boss can we use if we can’t get to his finger?’ asked Ray, grinning at Sam. ‘You see, my finger’s too big. Way too big.’
Chris tried his own finger against Sam’s and was delighted to find that they matched exactly – ‘Look at that! Peas in a pod!’ – but then Sam forced his hand free from Gene’s grasp.
‘This is my last word on the matter for tonight, gentlemen,’ said Gene. ‘Tomorrow, I want leads – I want information – I want the name of the killer and where we can find him and what he likes on his chips – everything. Understood?’
‘Yes, Guv.’
‘Very well. Sam, your dopey bit of crumpet’ll be gagging for her ouzo by now – bugger off and entertain her.’
‘Will do, Guv,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll see everyone first thing in the morning, then.’
And as he made for the door, he heard Gene drain his pint, slam his empty glass down, and say: ‘Right, let’s talk about birds and football and motors.’
Sam stepped out into the deep, dark Manchester night, pulling his jacket around him tighter to fend off the cold. Away in the distance, across a bleak expanse of open ground, he saw coloured lights whirling and flashing, heard a cacophony of screaming and amplified voices and raucous music. For a moment, he felt a sudden sting of fear, as if he had glimpsed the outskirts of Hell.
Don’t be such an idiot, Sam, he told himself at once. It’s just the fairground.
Tony Barnard’s Fair. He recalled standing high up on the rooftop of CID and seeing the planes trailing their banners across the sky. And then, in the next instant, he recalled her – the Test Card Girl – goading him, mocking him.
‘Don’t you want to know the truth, Sam? Don’t you want to know what I know … about Annie?’
Round and round she went, buzzing through the inside of his head like a trapped wasp, tormenting him with vague doubts and unnameable fears, poisoning his feelings for Annie.
Resolutely, he marched along the street, his back to the noise and colour of the fairground.
There is no dark secret about Annie. It’s all lies. It’s just some crap from deep in the subconscious rising to the surface. A waking nightmare. It’s nothing. It’s less than nothing.
Less than nothing. But could he be so sure? If the Test Card Girl was less than nothing, why did the mere sight of her freeze the blood in his veins? Why did he even now, just thinking of her, feel as if the shadow of death had fallen across him? Why, only moments before, had he glimpsed the far off lights of the fairground and thought – of all things – of hell?
He stopped. He listened. The city had fallen silent. Unnaturally silent. Nothing moved except for his heart, which he now found was pounding furiously.
And then, up ahead, he saw her – the Girl – bathed in the unearthly orange glow of a sodium streetlamp. She was standing motionless, watching him, dressed in her little black dress, her face pale, her eyes filled with the pretence of sadness. She hugged her bandaged doll, then, mockingly, slipped away into a dark alleyway.
Sam rushed after her, tore down the alley, and burst out into the street at the far end. The shops were shut up and dark. The street lights were all out. The whole street sat in an unnatural, smothering gloom.
And there, just visible as a pale shape in the darkness, was the Test Card Girl standing motionless, staring back at him.
‘Why are you doing this?!’ Sam bellowed at her. His muffled, echoless voice was swallowed by the filthy blackness. ‘What the hell are you trying to tell me?! Why don’t you just come straight out with it?!’
He began striding towards the Girl, his shoulders back, his jaw firmly set. Just as the darkness smothered his voice, so it seemed to cling to his body and limbs like treacle, slowing him, dragging him back, entombing him. He forced his way forward.
‘I know this isn’t real!’
He could barely move, so heavily did the cloying darkness weigh down on him.
‘No more mind games, you little brat! Spit it out. Get it off your chest. Then bugger off out of my head forever and leave me in peace!’
The Test Card Girl moved not a muscle. Her pale face glowed dimly.
‘My place is with Annie! And her place is with me! And when I chose to come back here, to this time, to 1973, I did the right thing! And there’s nothing you can do or say that’ll make me change my mind!’
He tried to reach her, but now he was being forced to his knees by the invisible pressure that bore down on him. He fought against it, but it was too great for him. It felt like he was being engulfed by a great avalanche of damp soil, crushing his body, filling his mouth, choking his lungs.
It’s like being buried alive …
And then, quite suddenly, everything changed. The waking nightmare vanished. The deserted high street was now bustling with people and traffic. He could see the lights of late-night newsagents and off-licenses, the illuminated windows of restaurants and chip shops, the brightly illuminated front of a cinema showing Jesus Christ Superstar. The Test Card Girl was nowhere to be seen. Manchester was just Manchester again. And there, standing outside Eleni’s Greek taverna, was Annie, stamping her feet to keep warm as she waited for him. In that moment, she seemed like an emblem for Life itself. Sam pushed from his mind the horrible memory of suffocation and death – he pulled his jacket straight and ran a hand through his hair – and then he strode forwards, resolute, uncowed, undefeated by the worst nightmares the Test Card Girl could throw at him.
Tonight isn’t for that little brat with the dolly in her arms. Tonight is for me … Me and Annie.
When Annie turned her head and caught sight of him, her sudden smile swept all horrors and fears before it, like a steel plough through snow.
Eleni’s Taverna was authentically Greek only in as much as it had moussaka on the menu and the theme from Zorba playing on an endless loop in the background. There were empty bottles of sangria hanging on the walls and a pair of castanets dangling from beneath a sombrero, all of which suggested a very confused concept of Greek life and culture. But for all that, the food was passable and the atmosphere was warm and Annie was happy and relaxed there, and that was all Sam cared about.
‘I don’t think our waiter’s really Greek,’ he confided, pouring Annie a refill of wine.
‘He sounds Greek,’ said Annie.
‘Sort of. In a