Текст книги "An Evil Mind"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Newman wasn’t one of the academy’s trainees. In fact, he was a very experienced and accomplished agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, who had completed his training over twenty years ago. Newman was based in Washington DC, and had specially made the journey to Virginia four days ago just to interview the new prisoner.

‘Has he moved at all in the past hour?’ Newman asked the room operator, who was sitting at the large controls console that faced the monitors’ wall.

The operator shook his head.

‘Nope, and he won’t move until lights off. Like I told you before, this guy is like a machine. I’ve never seen anything like it. Since they brought him in four nights ago, he hasn’t broken his routine. He sleeps on his back, facing the ceiling, hands locked together and resting on his stomach – like a cadaver in a coffin. Once he closes his eyes, he doesn’t move – no twitching, no turning, no restlessness, no scratching, no snoring, no waking up in the middle of the night to go pee, no nothing. Sure, at times he looks scared, as if he has no fucking idea why he’s here, but most of the time he sleeps like a man with absolutely no worries in life, crashed out in the most comfortable bed money can buy. And I can tell you this –’ he pointed at the screen – ‘that bed ain’t it. That is one goddamn uncomfortable piece of wood with a paper-thin mattress on top.’

Newman scratched his crooked nose but said nothing.

The operator continued.

‘That guy’s internal clock is tuned to Swiss precision. I shit you not. You can set your watch by it.’

‘What do you mean?’ Newman asked.

The operator let out a nasal chuckle. ‘Every morning, at exactly 5:45 a.m., he opens his eyes. No alarm, no noise, no lights on, no call from us, and no agent bursting into his cell to wake him up. He just does it by himself. 5:45, on the dot – bing – he’s awake.’

Newman knew that the prisoner had been stripped of all personal possessions. He had no watch or any other kind of timekeeper with him.

‘As he opens his eyes,’ the operator continued, ‘he stares at the ceiling for exactly ninety-five seconds. Not a second more, not a second less. You can watch the recording from the past three days and time it if you like.’

No reaction from Newman.

‘After ninety-five seconds,’ the operator said, ‘he gets out of bed, does his business at the latrine, and then hits the floor and starts doing push-ups, followed by sit-ups – ten reps of each in each set. If he isn’t interrupted, he’ll do fifty sets with the minimum of rest in between sets – no grunting, no puffing, and no face-pulling either, just pure determination. Breakfast is brought to him sometime between 6:30 and 7:00 a.m. If he hasn’t yet finished his sets, he’ll carry on until he’s done, only then will he sit down and calmly eat his food. And he eats all of it without complaining. No matter what tasteless shit we put on that tray. After that, he’s taken in for interrogation.’ He turned to look at Newman. ‘I’m assuming you are the interrogator.’

Newman didn’t reply, didn’t nod, and didn’t shake his head either. He simply carried on staring at the monitor.

The operator shrugged and carried on with his account.

‘When he’s brought back to his cell, whatever time that might be, he goes back to a second battery of his exercise routine – another fifty sets of push-ups and sit-ups.’ He chuckled. ‘If you lost count, that’s one thousand of each every day. When he’s done, if he isn’t taken away for further interrogation, he does exactly what you can see on the screen right now – he sits on his bed, crosses his legs, stares at the blank wall in front of him, and I guess he meditates, or prays, or whatever. But he never closes his eyes. And let me tell you, it’s fucking freaky the way he just stares at that wall.’

‘For how long?’ Newman asked.

‘Depends,’ the operator replied. ‘He’s allowed one visit to the shower every day, but prisoners’ shower times change from day to day. You know the drill. If we come get him while he’s wall-staring, he’ll simply snap out of his trance, step off the bed, get shackled and go to the shower – no moaning, no resisting, no fighting. When he comes back, he goes straight back to the bed-sitting, wall-staring thing again. If he isn’t interrupted at all, he’ll carry on staring at that wall until lights off at 9:30.’

Newman nodded.

‘But yesterday,’ the operator added. ‘Just out of curiosity, they kept the lights on for an extra five minutes.’

‘Let me guess,’ Newman said. ‘It made no difference. At exactly 9:30, he lay down, went back to his “body in a coffin” position, and went to sleep, lights off or not.’

‘You got it,’ the operator agreed. ‘Like I said, he’s like a machine, with a Swiss precision internal clock.’ He paused and turned to face Newman. ‘I’m no expert here, but from what I’ve seen in the past four nights and four days, mentally, this guy is a fucking fortress.’

Newman said nothing.

‘I don’t want to overstep my mark here, but . . . has he talked at all during any of the interrogation sessions?’

Newman considered the question for a long moment.

‘The reason I ask is because I know the drill. If a special prisoner like this one hasn’t talked after three days of interrogation, then the VIP treatment starts, and we all know how tough that gets.’ Instinctively the operator checked his watch. ‘Well, it’s been three days, and if the VIP treatment was about to start, I would’ve gotten word of it by now. So I’m guessing – he talked.’

Newman observed the screen for a few more seconds before nodding once. ‘He spoke for the first time last night.’ He finally looked away from the wall monitor and stared back at the room operator. ‘He said seven words.’

Six

As Hunter studied the photograph Special Agent Courtney Taylor had handed him, he felt his heartbeat pick up speed inside his chest, and a rush of adrenaline surge through his body. Several silent seconds went by before he allowed his stare to finally leave the picture and wander over to Captain Blake.

‘Have you seen this?’ he asked.

She nodded.

Hunter’s eyes returned to the photograph.

‘Clearly,’ Kennedy said, standing up again. ‘Mr Garner’s pick-up truck clipped the back of the Ford Taurus hard enough not only to release the trunk door, but also to knock that ice container over.’

The photograph showed a family-size, picnic-style ice container that had been tipped on its side inside the Taurus’ trunk. Large cubes of ice had spilled out of it, rolling off in all directions. Most of the ice cubes were crimson with what could only have been blood. But that was only secondary. Hunter’s full attention was on something else – the two severed heads that undoubtedly were being preserved inside the container until it was disturbed by the accident. Both heads were female: one blonde – longish hair; one brunette – short, pixie-styled hair. Both heads had been severed from their bodies at the base of the neck. From what Hunter could tell, the cut looked clean – experienced.

The blonde woman’s head was lying on its left cheek, her long hair covering most of her face. The brunette woman’s head, on the other hand, had rolled away from the container and, with the help of several ice cubes, had wedged itself in such a way that the back of her head was flat against the trunk’s floor, her features clearly exposed. And that was what made Hunter pause for breath. Her facial wounds were more shocking than the decapitation itself.

Three small, locked, metal padlocks crudely and savagely pierced the flesh on both of her lips at uneven intervals, keeping her mouth shut, but not completely sealed. Her delicate lips, crusty with blood, still looked swollen, which indicated that the padlocks had ripped through her flesh while she was still alive. Her eyes had been removed. Her eye sockets were empty. Just two black holes caked with dried blood, which had also run down her cheeks, creating a crazy, dark red, lightning bolt effect.

She didn’t have the skin of an old woman, but guessing her age from the picture alone was practically impossible.

‘That photograph was taken by Sheriff Walton just minutes after the accident,’ Kennedy offered, walking over and pausing next to Hunter. ‘As Agent Taylor mentioned earlier, he was having breakfast in the diner that morning. Nothing was touched. He acted fast because he knew the rain would start destroying evidence pretty quickly.’

Taylor reached inside her briefcase and retrieved a new photograph, handing it to Hunter.

‘This one was taken by the forensics team,’ she explained. ‘They had to travel all the way from Cheyenne, which is only about an hour away, but when you add delay time, assembling the team together and getting on the road, they only got there about four hours after the accident had happened.’

In this new photograph, both heads had been placed side by side, facing up, still inside the Taurus’ trunk. The blonde woman’s face showed exactly the same wounds as the brunette’s. Again, guessing the second woman’s age was nearly impossible.

‘Were their eyes inside the container?’ Hunter asked, his attention never leaving the picture.

‘No,’ Taylor replied. ‘There was nothing else inside the ice container.’ She looked at Kennedy, and then back at Hunter. ‘And we have no idea where their bodies might be.’

‘And that’s not all,’ Kennedy said.

Hunter’s eyes left the picture and settled on the man from the FBI.

‘Once those padlocks were removed from their lips,’ Kennedy explained, nodding at the photograph. ‘It was revealed that they’d both had all of their teeth extracted.’ He paused for effect. ‘And their tongues cut off.’

Hunter stayed silent.

‘Since we have no bodies,’ Taylor said, taking over again. ‘And consequently no fingerprints, one could argue that the perpetrator removed their teeth, and possibly their eyes, to avoid identification, but the sheer brutality of the wounds inflicted on both victims . . .’ She paused and lifted her right index finger to emphasize her point. ‘. . . prior to death, tells us otherwise. Whoever killed them, enjoyed doing it.’ She phrased her last few words as if she’d just revealed a big secret. It sounded a little patronizing.

Kennedy pulled a face while at the same time giving Taylor a sharp look because he knew that she hadn’t told anyone in that room anything they hadn’t already figured out. Despite not being part of the FBI National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, or the Behavioral Analysis Unit, Robert Hunter was the best criminal profiler Kennedy had ever met. He had tried to recruit Hunter into the FBI for the first time many years ago, when he first read Hunter’s Ph.D. thesis paper titled An Advanced Psychological Study in Criminal Conduct. Hunter was only twenty-three years old at the time.

The paper had impressed Kennedy and the then FBI Director so much, that it became mandatory reading at the NCAVC, and still remained so. Since then and over the years, Kennedy had tried several times to recruit Hunter into his team. In his mind, it made no sense that Hunter would rather be a detective with the LAPD’s Special Homicide Division than join the most advanced serial-killer-tracking task force in the USA, arguably in the world. True, he knew Hunter was the lead detective for the Ultra Violent Crimes Unit, a special unit created by the LAPD to investigate homicides and serial homicides where overwhelming brutality and/or sadism had been used by the perpetrator, and Hunter was the best at what he did. His arrest record proved that, but still, the FBI could offer him a lot more than the LAPD could. But Hunter had never shown even an ounce of interest in becoming a federal agent, and had declined every offer made to him by Kennedy and his superiors.

‘Interesting case,’ Hunter said, handing the pictures back to Taylor. ‘But the FBI and the NCAVC have investigated a ton of similar cases . . . some even more disturbing. This isn’t exactly something new.’

Neither Kennedy nor Taylor disputed that.

‘I take it that you don’t have an identity on either of the two victims,’ Hunter said.

‘That’s correct,’ Kennedy replied.

‘And you said that their heads were found in Wyoming?’

‘That’s also correct.’

‘You can probably guess what my next question is going to be, right?’ Hunter asked.

A second of hesitation.

‘If we don’t know who the victims are,’ Taylor said, nodding at him. ‘And their heads were found in Wyoming, what are we doing in Los Angeles?’

‘And why am I here?’ Hunter added, quickly checking his watch. ‘I have a plane to catch in a few hours, and I still need to pack.’

‘We’re here, and you’re here, because the federal government of the United States needs your help,’ Taylor replied.

‘Oh please,’ Captain Blake said, with a smirk on her lips. ‘Are you going to give us the patriotic bullshit speech now? Are you for real?’ She stood up. ‘My detectives put their lives on the line for the city of Los Angeles, and consequently for this country, day in, day out. So do yourself a favor and don’t even go there, sweetheart.’ She pinned Taylor down with a stare that could melt metal. ‘Does that bullshit actually work on people?’

Taylor looked like she was about to reply, but Hunter cut in just a second before.

‘Need me? Why?’ He addressed Kennedy. ‘I’m not an FBI agent, and you guys have more investigators than you can count, not to mention a squad of criminal profilers.’

‘None of them as good as you,’ Kennedy said.

‘Flattery will get you nowhere in here,’ Captain Blake said.

‘I’m not a profiler, Adrian,’ Hunter said. ‘You know that.’

‘That’s not really why we need you, Robert,’ Kennedy replied; he paused a moment, and nodded at Taylor. ‘Tell him.’

Seven

The tone Kennedy used caused Hunter’s right eyebrow to twitch up just a fraction. He turned, faced Agent Taylor, and waited.

Taylor used the tip of her fingers to tuck her loose hair behind her ears before beginning.

‘The Ford Taurus belonged to one of the customers who was having breakfast in the diner that morning. According to his driver’s license, his name is Liam Shaw, born February 13, 1968, in Madison, Tennessee.’ Taylor paused and observed Hunter for a second, trying to pick up any signs that he’d recognized the name. There were none.

‘According to his driver’s license?’ Hunter questioned, his gaze ping-ponging between Taylor and Kennedy. ‘So you have doubts.’ He stated rather than asked.

‘The name checks out,’ Kennedy said. ‘Everything looks above board.’

‘But you still have doubts.’ Hunter pushed.

‘The problem is . . .’ Taylor this time. ‘Everything looks above board if we go back a maximum of fourteen years. Beyond that . . .’ She faintly shook her head. ‘We could find absolutely nothing on a Liam Shaw, born February 13, 1968, in Madison, Tennessee. It’s like he never existed before then.’

‘And judging by the way you were observing me when you mentioned his name,’ Hunter said, ‘you were looking for signs of recognition. Why?’

Taylor looked impressed. She’d always been very proud of her poker face, the way she could study people without them noticing it, but Hunter had read her like a book.

Kennedy smiled. ‘I told you he’s good.’

Taylor seemed to take no notice of the comment.

‘Mr Shaw was arrested on the spot by Sheriff Walton and his deputy,’ she said. ‘But Sheriff Walton also quickly realized that he had stumbled upon something that he and his small department simply wouldn’t be able to handle. The Taurus’ license plates were from Montana, which created a cross-state reference. With that, the Wyoming sheriff department had no option but to bring us in.’

She paused and shuffled through the contents of her briefcase for a new document.

‘Now, here is the second twist to this story,’ she said, moving on. ‘The Taurus isn’t registered under Mr Shaw’s name. It’s registered under a Mr John Williams of New York City.’

She handed the document to Hunter.

Hunter barely glanced at the sheet of paper he’d been given.

‘Surprise, surprise,’ Kennedy said. ‘There was no John Williams at the address the car was registered to.’

‘John Williams is quite a common name,’ Hunter said.

‘Too common,’ Taylor agreed. ‘About fifteen hundred in New York City alone.’

‘But you have Mr Shaw in custody, right?’ Hunter asked.

‘That’s correct,’ Taylor confirmed.

Hunter looked at Captain Blake, still a little confused. ‘So, you’ve got Mr Shaw, who is apparently from Tennessee, two unidentified female heads, a vehicle with Montana license plates, which is registered to a Mr Williams from New York City.’ He shrugged at the room. ‘My original question still stands – why are you in LA? And why am I here and not at home packing?’ He checked his watch one more time.

‘Because Mr Shaw isn’t talking,’ Taylor replied, her voice still calm.

Hunter stared hard at her for a couple of seconds.

‘And how does that answer my question?’

‘Agent Taylor’s statement isn’t one hundred percent accurate,’ Kennedy cut in. ‘We’ve had Mr Shaw in our custody for four days. He was transferred to us a day after he was arrested. He’s being held in Quantico. I assigned Agent Taylor and Agent Newman to the case.’

Hunter’s eyes moved to Taylor for just a second.

‘But as Agent Taylor said . . .’ Kennedy moved on. ‘. . . Mr Shaw has been refusing to speak.’

‘So?’ Captain Blake interrupted, a little amused. ‘Since when has that stopped the FBI from still extracting information from anyone?’

Kennedy was unfazed by the spiked remark.

‘During last night’s interrogation session,’ he continued, ‘Mr Shaw finally spoke for the first time.’ He paused and walked over to the large window on the east wall. ‘He said only seven words.’

Hunter waited.

‘He said, “I will only speak to Robert Hunter.”’

Eight

Hunter didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. His facial expression remained unchanged. If Kennedy’s words had affected him in any way, he showed no signs of it.

‘I’m sure I’m not the only Robert Hunter in America,’ he finally said.

‘I’m sure you aren’t,’ Kennedy agreed. ‘But we’re also sure that Mr Shaw was talking about you, not someone else.’

‘How come you’re so sure?’

‘Because of his tone of voice,’ Kennedy replied. ‘And his posture, his confidence, his attitude . . . everything about him, really. We’ve analyzed the footage countless times. You know what we do, Robert. You know that I have people who are trained to read the faintest of telltale signs, to recognize the slightest change of voice intonation, to identify body-language signals. This guy was confident. No hesitation. No trepidation. Nothing. He was certain that we would know who he was referring to.’

‘You can watch the recording if you like,’ Taylor offered. ‘I’ve got a copy right here.’ She gestured toward her briefcase.

Hunter remained silent.

‘That’s why we thought that maybe you might recognize the name,’ Kennedy said. ‘But then again, we had our suspicions that Liam Shaw was just a bogus name anyway.’

‘Have you tried Tennessee, where this Mr Liam Shaw is supposedly from?’ Captain Blake asked. ‘There might be a Robert Hunter somewhere over there.’

‘No, we haven’t,’ Taylor replied. ‘No need. As Director Kennedy said, Mr Shaw was too confident. He knew that it would take us no time to find out exactly whom he was referring to.’

Kennedy took over. ‘As soon as I heard the name, I knew that he could only be talking about one person. You, Robert.’

‘Do you have that footage?’ Hunter asked.

‘I do,’ Taylor replied. ‘I also have a photograph of Mr Shaw.’ She retrieved one last picture from her briefcase and handed it to Hunter.

Hunter stared at the photograph for a very long, silent moment. Again, neither his facial expression nor his body language gave anything away. Until he took a deep breath, and his eyes moved up to meet Kennedy’s.

‘You have got to be shitting me.’

Nine

The man who called himself Liam Shaw sat on the bed inside the small cell located deep underground – sublevel five of a nondescript building inside the FBI Academy complex in Quantico, Virginia. His legs were crossed under his body, his hands loosely clasped together, resting on his lap. His eyes were open, but there was no movement in them, just a dead, half-scared, half-uncertain look, staring straight ahead at the blank wall in front of him. In fact, there was no movement from him at all. No slight headshake, no twitching of the thumbs or fingers, no tiny adjustment of the legs under him, no shifting or rocking of the body, nothing, except for the unavoidable physical motor-reaction of blinking.

He’d been in that position for the past hour, simply staring at that wall, as though if he stared at it for long enough he’d be magically transported somewhere else. His legs should’ve cramped by now. His feet should’ve been tingly with thousands of pins and needles. His neck should’ve been stiff from the lack of movement, but he looked as comfortable and as stress-free as a man sitting in his own luxurious living room.

He’d taught himself that technique a long time ago. It had taken him many years to master it, but he could now practically empty his mind from most thoughts. He could easily block out sounds and blind himself to what was happening around him, despite having his eyes wide open. It was a sort of meditation trance that elevated his mind onto an almost unearthly level; but most of all, it kept him mentally strong. And he knew that that was exactly what he needed right now.

Since last night, the agents had stopped bothering him. But he knew they would. They wanted him to talk, but he just didn’t know what to say. He knew enough about police procedure to know that whatever explanation he gave them wouldn’t suffice, even if it were the truth. In their eyes, he was already guilty, no matter what he said or didn’t say. He also understood that the fact that he wasn’t being held by a regular police or sheriff’s department, but had been turned over to the FBI, complicated matters immensely.

He knew he had to give them something soon, because the interrogation methods were about to change. He could feel it. He could sense it in the tone of voice of both of his interrogators.

The attractive blonde woman who called herself Agent Taylor was softly spoken, charming and polite, while the big man with the crooked nose who called himself Agent Newman was much more aggressive and short-tempered. Typical good-cop-bad-cop team play. But their frustration due to his total commitment to staying silent was starting to show. The charm and politeness were about to end. That had become obvious in the last interrogation session.

And then the thought came to him, and with it came a name:

Robert Hunter.

Ten

Hunter eventually made it back to his apartment to pack his bags, but the flight he took just a couple of hours later wasn’t the one he had booked to Hawaii.

After taxiing its way up the runway, the private Hawker jet finally received the takeoff ‘go ahead’ from the Van Nuys airport control tower.

Hunter was seated toward the back of the plane, nursing a large cup of black coffee. His job didn’t really allow him to travel much, and when he did, if at all possible, he usually drove. He’d been on a few commercial planes before, but this was his first time inside a private jet, and he had to admit that he was impressed. The plane’s interior was both luxurious and practical in equal measures.

The cabin was about twenty-two feet long by seven feet wide. There were eight very comfortable, cream leather seats, set out in a double-club configuration – four individual seats on each side of the aisle, each with their own power outlet and media system. All eight seats could swivel 360 degrees. Low-heat LED overhead lights gave the cabin a nice, bright feel.

Agent Taylor was sitting on the seat directly in front of Hunter, typing away on her laptop, which was sitting on the fold-out table in front of her. Adrian Kennedy was sitting to Hunter’s right, across the aisle from him. Since they left Captain Blake’s office, he seemed to have been on his cellphone the whole time.

The plane took off smoothly and quickly climbed up to a cruising altitude of 30,000 feet. Hunter kept his eyes on the blue, cloudless sky outside his window, wrestling with a multitude of thoughts.

‘So,’ Kennedy said, finally coming off his phone and placing it back inside his jacket pocket. He had swiveled his seat around to face Hunter. ‘Tell me about this guy again, Robert. Who is he?’

Taylor stopped typing into her laptop and slowly rotated her seat around to face both men.

Hunter kept his eyes on the blue sky for a moment longer.

‘He’s one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met,’ he said at last. ‘Someone with tremendous self-discipline and control.’

Kennedy and Taylor waited.

‘His name is Lucien, Lucien Folter,’ Hunter carried on. ‘Or at least that’s the name that I knew him by. I met him on my first day at Stanford University. I was sixteen.’

Hunter grew up as an only child to working-class parents in Compton, an underprivileged neighborhood of South Los Angeles. His mother lost her battle with cancer when he was only seven. His father never remarried and had to take on two jobs to cope with the demands of raising a child on his own.

Hunter had always been different. Even as a child his brain seemed to work through problems faster than anyone else’s. School bored and frustrated him. He finished all of his sixth-grade work in less than two months and, just for something to do, he read through all the modules for the rest of his lower-school years. After doing so, he asked his school principal if he was allowed to take the final exams for grades seven and eight. Out of sheer curiosity and intrigue, the principal allowed him to. Hunter aced them all.

It was then that his principal decided to get in contact with the Los Angeles Board of Education; after a new battery of exams and tests, at the age of twelve, he was accepted into the Mirman School for the Gifted.

But even a special school’s curriculum wasn’t enough to slow his progress down.

By the age of fourteen he’d glided through Mirman’s high school English, History, Math, Biology and Chemistry curriculums. Four years of high school were condensed into two and at fifteen he’d graduated with honors. With recommendations from all of his teachers, Hunter was accepted as a ‘special circumstances’ student at Stanford University.

By the age of nineteen, Hunter had already graduated in Psychology – summa cum laude – and at twenty-three he received his PhD in Criminal Behavior Analysis and Biopsychology.

‘You said he was your roommate?’ Taylor asked.

Hunter nodded. ‘From day one. I was assigned to a dorm room on my first day in college.’ He shrugged. ‘Lucien was assigned to the same room.’

‘How many sharing the room?’

‘The two of us, that’s all. Small rooms.’

‘Was he also a psychology major?’

‘That’s right.’ Hunter’s gaze returned to the sky outside his window as his memory started to take him back to a long time ago. ‘He was a nice guy. I never expected him to be so friendly to me.’

Taylor frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Hunter shrugged again. ‘I was a lot younger than anyone around. I had never been too much into sports, going to the gym, or any sort of physical activity, really. I was very skinny and awkward, long hair, and I didn’t dress like most people did at the time. In truth, I was a bully magnet. Lucien was almost nineteen then, loved sports and worked out regularly. The kind of guy who’d usually have a field day with someone who looked like me.’

From Hunter’s look and physique, no one would ever have guessed that he’d been a skinny and awkward kid when young. He looked like he’d been a typical high school jock. Maybe even captain of the football or the wrestling team.

‘But he didn’t,’ Hunter continued. ‘In fact, it was because of him that I didn’t get picked on as much as I would have. We became best friends. When I started going to the gym, he helped me with workouts and diet and all.’

‘And how was he on a day-to-day basis?’

Hunter knew that Taylor was referring to Folter’s inner-character traits.

‘He wasn’t the violent kind, if that’s what you’re asking. He was always calm. Always in control. Which was a good thing, because he sure knew how to fight.’

‘But you just said that he wasn’t the violent kind,’ Taylor said.

‘That’s right.’

‘But you’ve also just implied that you’ve seen him in a fight.’

Half a nod. ‘I have.’

Taylor’s eyes and lip-twist asked a silent question.

‘There are certain situations that, no matter how calm or easy-going you are, you just can’t get out of,’ Hunter replied.

‘Such as?’ Taylor insisted.

‘I only remember seeing Lucien in a fight once,’ Hunter explained. ‘And he really tried to get out of it without using his fists, but it didn’t work out that way.’

‘How so?’

Hunter shrugged. ‘Lucien had met this girl in a bar at the weekend and spent the night chatting to her. As far as I am aware, that was it. There was no sex, no kissing, nothing bad, really, just a few drinks, a little flirting and loads of laughs. On the Monday after that weekend, we were coming back from a late study session at the library, when we got cornered off by four guys, all of them pretty big. One of them was the girl’s “very pissed off” ex-boyfriend. Apparently, they’d split not that long ago. Now the thing about Lucien was that he’d always been a great talker. As the saying goes: He could sell ice to an Eskimo. He tried to reason his way out of that situation. He said that he was sorry, that he didn’t know that she had a boyfriend, or that they had just split. He said that if he’d known, he would’ve never approached her and so on. But the guys didn’t want to know. They said that they weren’t there for an apology. They were there to fuck him up, full stop.’

‘So what happened then?’ Taylor asked.

‘Not much. Until then I had never seen anything quite like it. They just went for him. Me? As skinny as I was, I wasn’t about to sit and watch my best friend get beat up by four Neanderthals, but I barely got a chance to move. The whole thing was over in ten . . . fifteen seconds, tops. I couldn’t really tell you what happened in detail, but Lucien moved fast . . . too fast, actually. In absolutely no time, all four of them were on the floor. Two had a broken nose, one had about three or four broken fingers, and the fourth one had his genitals kicked to the back of his throat. After we got out of there, I asked him where he learned to do that.’