Page 46 of Nothing But the Night (Basic Instincts 2)

Marc nodded and rested his chin on Jason’s shoulder. He was right, but whoever was responsible might become more desperate and more dangerous the closer they came to the truth.

“Come and sit down,” Marc said. “You haven’t stopped since I got here.”

“I’m too wired.”

“You need to rest to get better,” Marc insisted. “Sit and I’ll make you some tea.”

“Hey, you’re the invalid, remember. I’ll make you tea.”

“No, you won’t, sit. I’ve got a broken arm, which doesn’t make me an invalid. Besides, I’m right-handed.”

Jason reluctantly agreed and took a place on the sofa. Marc got familiar with the layout of the kitchen and found the teabags and mugs. He put the kettle on to boil.

“What are we going to do next?” he asked.

Jason put a cushion on the coffee table and carefully lifted his sprained ankle onto it, grimacing as he did it. “For the rest of today, we do nothing. But first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll pick up where we left off, and find out all I can about this photographer guy, Blake Remar. Well, almost first thing. Ryman wants to see me in the office to tear me a new arsehole first.”

They both laughed, then Jason clutched his rib.

“Ouch. Laughing is a bad idea,” he said. “Don’t make me do it.”

Marc made the tea and carried it over, one mug at time, before joining Jason on the sofa.

“This is nice,” he said, shuffling closer to Jason. “Just a quiet afternoon together. It’s like something real people would do.”

“Real people probably do it without the injuries and concerns about a murder investigation.”

“Probably,” Marc said lightly. “But this is still nice.”

“Mmm,” Jason agreed.

They relaxed into each other’s company. The tea, together with the strong painkillers Marc had been prescribed, left him in a chilled mood. They chatted about things other than what had been happening. Jason told him about his earlier life and his career in the Navy. Marc wanted to see some photos of him in uniform, but they were both too comfortable and mellow to get up and seek them from the other room.

“I bet you looked handsome in the Naval gear,” Marc said.

“You know, you could be right.”

Then they laughed some more, and Jason complained about the pain in his ribs again. Jason turned on the TV and they spent a lazy hour channel hoping, dipping in and out of a variety of brainlessafternoon shows. Marc dozed off for a while. The aftereffects of the anaesthetic he’d had for his surgery had left him groggy and tired. When he woke, sometime around four, Jason was swearing at the television.

“What’s up?” Marc asked, blinking to regain focus. He hated this fuzzy feeling. He rarely slept more than a few hours a night. Falling asleep through the day was something he only ever did at Christmas. There was a clip from a political chat show playing. He recognised it as a regular Sunday morning programme. The news channel was showing highlights of that day’s edition.

“This prick,” Jason said. “Man of the fucking moment.”

It took Marc another second to realise who was on screen. It was Soloman Archer. Marc sat up straight, suddenly alert.

Soloman was being interviewed by the main presenter. He wore a grey three-piece suit, a candy-pink shirt and a lurid pink and blue tie. He spoke with the oily confidence of a politician.

“What I hear on the doorsteps, is that people have had enough of this woke gender ideology. There are far too many children around today who think it’s fine to self-identify as God knows what.”

The clip ended and cut back to the news studio.

“What was all that about?” Marc said. The pain in his arm made it difficult for him to get comfortable.

“As if he wasn’t insufferable enough, he’s stirring up transphobia for the sake of looking tough. ‘What I hear on the doorstep.’ Absolute bullshit. He wouldn’t lower himself to go knocking on doors in Blyham. And if he did, he wouldn’t hear any of that rubbish. People are more concerned about the cost of living, and whetherthey can feed their kids or afford to put fucking petrol in their tanks this week. They’re not interested in his culture war.”

“Why is he coming out with this anyway?”

“’Cause he’s a fucking clown.”

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