Gang of One: One Man's Incredible Battle to Find His Missing Read Online Free PDF Page B

crying.
    ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘I had no idea.’ He didn’t finish as I walked past him, my own tears falling freely now and a physical, aching pain clutching at my chest.
    The memory of this last goodbye still felt raw as I looked at myself one more time in the mirror. This was all so hard. Was this man in front of me capable of handling this? I had no idea, but it didn’t look promising. I knelt down and blessed myself and did what I often had done during any crisis in my life. I prayed.
    ‘God give me strength,’ was all I said before I faltered once more. I hoped He would have been paying attention and would know the rest of it. I knelt in silence for a few more moments and tried to gather myself. Then I stood, turned, grabbed my wallet and phone and took one final look at the desolate flat that had been my pre-prison prison for the last twenty-two months. The grey suit hung silently in the cupboard where I would leave it; the rest of the flat was empty save for a few abandoned boxes. I had a flight to catch to Big Spring, Texas. My gaolers awaited, and God only knew what else.

3
    IF THE SOAP DROPS . . .
    T HE LOBBY OF MY APARTMENT BLOCK was deserted and I looked up to check the wall clock at precisely 5 a.m. – an apt time, it seemed, to be hauling yourself off to prison. The cab was parked directly outside. I had to meet Reid, my lawyer, at his hotel and then catch the 8.20 a.m. flight to Midland/Odessa. From there it would be around a two-hour drive through to Big Spring, Texas; my new home.
    ‘Where to, buddy?’ the much too enthusiastic driver asked.
    ‘Downtown Hilton, please,’ I responded morosely. Houston was empty, and the quiet added to my isolation. I was trying to hold back wave after wave of fear. Part of me kept questioning why I was going through with this; why I wasn’t fighting, screaming, doing something, anything, to avoid what was happening to me. It seemed bizarre to be calmly taking myself off to prison.
    I thought about calling someone in the UK – it was nearly 11 a.m. there – but who would I call? What would I say? ‘I’m just off to prison,’ or ‘Don’t forget to write?’ I decided against it; I knew that if I called, then what little strength I had left would fail me. I had to face this alone.
    The taxi arrived at Reid’s hotel way too quickly. I stood for a moment looking down Lamar Street, now deserted and silent again, save for the taxi pulling away. It wasn’t daybreak yet, and there were no birds singing, just the sound of the occasional car horn in the distance. I’d never known Houston this quiet during my enforced stay here. I had grown to love the city and its inhabitants, despite everything. The population was just over two million people, with an unfeasible number wearing cowboy boots and cowboy hats, none of whom seemed to be a real cowboy. Now there wasn’t a cowboy hat in sight as I stood, my back to the hotel, reluctant to move. It was surprisingly chilly for Houston, even for late April, and I regretted not wearing an old jacket for warmth. I gave an involuntary shudder – was that the cold or the fear I wondered?
    ‘Thinking of running?’ It was Reid behind me, right on time as usual.
    ‘I was thinking about it, but I wore the wrong shoes.’ I turned round to face him. He was immaculate as usual: suit and tie; clean-shaven; perfectly polished shoes; Ivy League parting in his tidy, sandy blonde hair. He was in his early fifties, still fit and trim, with a style like an older Don Draper from Mad Men .
    ‘You look like a lawyer,’ I said to him, meaning it as an insult.
    ‘Well, thanks!’ he smiled, taking it as a compliment. ‘I wasn’t sure what to wear, to be honest.’ We were both silent for a moment. ‘You want a cup of coffee?’ he asked finally. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. I got you here early because I know what a nightmare you are for showing up anywhere on time!’
    His smile was sympathetic, almost sad. Reid