We Are the Hanged Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

worked its way under his skin, he let fly with the venom of the old Gods, vomiting his self-righteous bile onto her office floor. She saw him as a classic Mail or Express reader, appalled by modern Britain; except she knew he was also appalled by the Mail and the Express.
    He did the calculation once more in his head, as he had been doing all afternoon as he tried not to think about it. She was in control of the situation, and would not be disposed to consider his objections kindly. If he complained she would go straight to confrontation. He could do the show or he could resign. Resignation would be a fine bloody-minded thing to do, but then she would be quite happy and he wouldn't have a job.
    He didn't love the police force that much, but it was all he did. He didn't hanker after retirement, because he had no hobbies, no friends, no life other than this. And maybe it was shit, and maybe his predominant emotion on waking up was misery and dread about the day ahead, but it was his life, and if he threw it away, what was he going to do then? What did people do when they retired?
    Play golf. Go on a cruise. Write a book. Play Wii Fit and Nintendo Brain Training. Grow vegetables. Crochet. Watch snooker and cricket. Develop a taste for real ale. Buy a boat and sail to the Channel Islands. Slowly slide into senescence and waste away until you die.
    All that was coming anyway, and soon enough. There was no reason to hurry it along. Especially when it was exactly what the Superintendent was expecting and wanting him to do. The alternative was spending a week with the television cameras at his shoulder, trailed around by the kind of pre-pubescent wankers of all ages who applied for these kinds of shows. And once he was back on the television, the press would be after him again, their interest in his story once more reactivated, pictures of Amanda once more on the front pages.
    Between a rock and a hard place, the Devil and the deep blue sea, the frying pan, the fire, the bag of stinking, festering crap.
    'Yes,' he said suddenly. She had looked at him throughout, could see his brain moving in all directions. He may have been cunning, introverted yet full of himself, and more often than not, downright weird, but she still had plenty of moments of being able to read his thoughts, because his petty dislike of her matched her petty dislike of him. She'd been expecting indignation, yet at the same time, she was not surprised by his dull acceptance.
    'Good' she said. 'I thought you might enjoy it. That's why I put you forward.'
    You never put me forward , you lying bitch .
    'They say when they'd be down?'
    Jericho shook his head.
    'I've made Sergeant Light the special liaison with the company. She can sort out the logistics. I expect they'll be down in a day or two to take a look around, and start setting up. The whole show seems to be working to some sort of crazy deadline. Not unlike police work. Perhaps you can explore the similarities as part of your involvement with the process.'
    She smiled again, her head cocked marginally to one side, eyebrows raised. Jericho had one of those blinding, flashing moments when he allowed his imagination to run darkly amok. He looked into her eyes and imagined grabbing her by the hair with his left hand, tilting her head back, and running a blade swiftly across her neck. Slicing again, so that her head came away in his hands. His mind ran on, unspeakable horrors, as he looked into her eyes. He would walk through the office, her severed head in his hand, dripping blood over the beige carpet.
    She held the smile, even as it wavered, and then finally Jericho stood, his hatred unspoken as it spilled out over her carpet, and walked quickly from her office, closing the door behind him.
    She shivered and lifted the phone. Her face was grim and dark until a voice said hello at the other end, and then Dylan leant back in her chair, the smile engaged once more, and she proceeded to use the word darling more in