Deep RED. Paul Kane

on now, and someone’ll be along in a minute to take it from there.”

      He was handed what looked like a prisoner’s outfit, grey tracksuit top and bottoms. “When do I get my own clothes back?” Peel asked.

      “In due course.”

      “And my ...” He tapped his eye socket. “Sentimental value.”

      Kingsley nodded. “I’ll see to it. Promise.” She patted him on the arm, and the next thing he knew she was gone—taking all her equipment with her. As Peel got dressed, two chairs were brought in and placed on either side of the table. Then a man with a military haircut entered. He was dressed all in black, wore octagonal glasses and held a clipboard in one hand—the other he held out for Peel to sit down. Then he put that same hand in his pocket and took out the missing eye-patch, tossing it onto the table.

      “Compliments of the good doctor,” he told Peel.

      What followed over the next few hours was a grilling the likes of which he had never experienced, not even after the incident at the motel. Question after question ... most of which he simply refused to answer (what the fuck did his childhood have to do with anything?). It went on for so long, he began to regret what he’d said to Pat about caution. These people took it to an art form!

      Just when he thought it wouldn’t end, and was beginning to get ann-oyed, especially with the interviewer’s attitude (“Look mate, I haven’t done a thing wrong—apart from stopping one of your people becoming a hot meal!”) it was suddenly over and he was shown to a room with a bunk and a metal toilet in it. That did little to combat the whole prisoner thing, especially when the door was locked behind him again.

      With nothing else to do, Peel lay back on the bed, arm behind his head. He didn’t think he’d drop off, but hadn’t realised quite how exhausted he was. Pat had been right after all, he did need sleep—and in somewhere he knew wouldn’t be attacked anytime soon.