Shooting in the Dark

something about ice and fire, raging against absolutely everything.
    He was aware of his body being dragged along the floor, could feel the carpet trapped beneath him. Then he was hoisted aloft, his body swinging into open space, an astronaut now, something else to add to the long list of jobs on his CV.
    The smell of stale sweat was the first sense to kick in. An ache in his back. But the dream was mixed in there as well, that voice going round and round, ‘Don’t fall apart on me tonight.’
    Sam was lying full-length on the rack. It was his own voice he had heard. He was muttering away to himself, chanting, rhythmical, on the point of song. One of his hands was handcuffed to the side of the rack and the guy was about to lock his other hand in a leather cuff. ‘What’re you doing?’ Sam said.
    He looked up briefly, engaged with Sam’s eyes. ‘I’ve got a drug you might find interesting. It’ll keep you awake while I take your eyes out.’ The blond hair was sticking up in clumps but the eyes were dead, pale blue, almost transparent. The eyes were windows on to a deserted landscape. There was nothing behind them. They concealed nothing.
    Sam didn’t think. He sat up and nutted the blond with all his might, bringing his forehead down on the bridge of the guy’s nose. There was a crack and the man’s blood shot down the front of his shirt and sprayed Sam’s face. Sam leapt from the rack, dragging it after him with his handcuffed hand. With his free hand he reached for the wooden handle of an implement of torture which was decorated with fish-hooks and lead-weights. He lashed the man across the face with it, feeling it stop for a moment as the hooks dug into the flesh of his cheeks. But the velocity of the blow carried it through and the flesh was gouged out in a bloody wake.
    The blond reeled backwards. He turned around on the spot and touched his fingers to the congealed blood on his face. He picked up the duvet and wiped some of the blood away, but as quickly as he mopped it up his body produced more. He screamed like an animal, without restraint of any kind, and hurled himself across the room towards the detective. Sam stayed cool, let his breath come easily, knowing that he had the measure of the guy now. He waited until the man was within striking distance and then let go with his right foot, bringing it up between the guy’s legs with the force of a sledgehammer. The blond stopped. All of his systems seemed to close down simultaneously. Sam watched the breath leave him, saw the colour drain from his torn and ravaged face.
    Sam was ready to lash out again, he still held the fishhook implement and if necessary he would have taken the man’s head off. But the guy had had enough. He went down on his knees and slowly brought his head on to the blood-stained carpet. Sam allowed himself a tiny smile that hurt every muscle in his face. He said, ‘I don’t take drugs. I’m not even an athlete.’
    They were still in the same positions a few minutes later when the police arrived.
     
    Sam had lit a fire in the large grate and Angeles could feel the heat on her face and legs, hear the wood cracking and splintering as the flames consumed it. She fingered the rug and turned to Sam as he stacked logs into the wicker basket standing in the corner. ‘They actually locked him up?’
    ‘Yeah. Don’t worry. They won’t let him go. There’s the evidence of the syringes and Janet can identify him. They arrived and arrested the guy. They took him away. They had him in cuffs.’
    ‘You saw him?’
    ‘Yeah, we were there. The police have got him. He’s out of circulation. Stop worrying.’
    ‘I need a drink,’ she said. She went upstairs and poured a half-tumbler of Scotch. She got a chunk of ice from the fridge and brought the drink back into the room where Sam was waiting. ‘You don’t like this, do you?’
    ‘I don’t mind people drinking,’ he said. ‘As long as they’re in control.’
    ‘But you think I’m an alcoholic?’
    ‘Doesn’t matter what I think. I know I’m an alcoholic; only you can say if you are.’
    ‘Maybe I’m a little bit?’ she said.
    He laughed to register the irony. ‘Doesn’t work like that,’ he said. ‘Either you are or you aren’t. If you can manage it, you aren’t an alcoholic. If you repeatedly drink more than you intend to, you probably are.’
    ‘And if I come to one of your AA meetings, will there be someone there to make a diagnosis?’
    He shook his