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I stood immobile as if stuck to the tree。 It had to be obsession with him； I thought。 The burning fury of Monday had settled down not into grief but revenge。 I hadn't been in my flat for about thirty hours。 How long had he been sitting there waiting？ I'd had a villain wait almost a week for me once； before I'd walked unsuspectingly into his trap。
Obsession…fixation…was the most frightening of enemies and the hardest to escape。
I retreated； frankly scared； expecting him to see my movement； but he hadn't thought of an approach by garden。 From tree to tree； round the patches of open grass； I regained the far gate； eased through it； crossed the road and drifted up the alleyway； cravenly expecting a bellow and a chase and； as he was a farmer； perhaps a shotgun。
Nothing happened。 My shoes； soled and heeled for silence； made no sound。 I walked back to my underground car and sat in it； not exactly trembling but nonetheless stirred up。 So much； I thought； for Tatum's myth of a clever； unafraid investigator。
I kept always in the car an overnight bag containing the personality…change clothes I'd got Jonathan to wear； dark two…piece tracksuit （trousers and zip…up jacket）； navy blue trainers； and a baseball cap。 The bag also contained a long…sleeved open…necked shirt； two or three charged…up batteries for my arm； and a battery charger； to make sure。 Habitually round my waist I wore a belt with a zipped pocket big enough for a credit card and money。
I had no weapons nor defences like mace。 In America I might have carried both。
I sat in the car considering the matter of distance and ulnas。 It was well over two hundred miles from my London home to Liverpool； city of my birth。 Frodsham； the base of Topline Foods； wasn't quite as far as Liverpool； but still over two hundred miles。 I had already； that day； steered a hundred and fifty…Chichester and back。 I'd never missed Chico so much。
I considered trains。 Too inflexible。 Airline？ Ditto。 TeleDrive？ I lingered over the fort of TeleDrive but decided against； and resignedly set off northwards。
It was an easy drive normally； a journey on wide fast motorways taking at most three hours。 I drove for only one hour； then stopped at a motel to eat and sleep； and at seven o'clock in the morning wheeled on again； trying to ignore both the obstinately slow…mending fracture and India Cathcart's column that I'd bought from the motel's news stand。
Friday mornings had been a trial since June。 Page fifteen in The Pump…trial by the long knives of journalism； the blades that ripped the gut。
She hadn't mentioned at all seeing Tatum and me in the Le Meridien bar。 Perhaps she'd taken my advice and pretended we hadn't been there。 What her column said about me was mostly factually true but spitefully wrong。 I wondered how she could do it？ Had she no sense of humanity？
Most of her page concerned yet another politician caught with his trousers at half…mast； but the far…right column said：
Sid Halley； illegitimate by…blow of a nineteen…year…old window cleaner and a packer in a biscuit factory； ran amok as a brat in the slums of Liverpool。 Home was a roach…infested council flat。 Nothing wrong with that！ But this same Sid Halley now puts on airs of middle…class gentility。 A flat in Chelsea？ Sheraton furniture？ Posh accent？ Go back to your roots； lad。 No wonder Ellis Quint thinks you funny。 Funny pathetic！
The slum background clearly explains the Halley envy。 Halley's chip on the shoulder grows more obvious every day。 Now we know why！
The Halley polish is all a sham； just like his plastic left hand。
Christ； I thought； how much more？ Why did it so bloody hurt？
My father had been killed in a fall eight months before my birth and a few days before he was due to marry my eighteen…year…old mother。 She'd done her best as a single parent in hopeless surroundings。 'Give us a kiss； John Sidney 。。。'
I hadn't ever run amok。 I'd been a quiet child； mostly。 'Have you been fighting again； John Sidney 。。。？' She hadn't liked me fighting； though one had to sometimes； or be bullied。
And when she knew she was dying she'd taken me to Newmarket； because I'd been short for my age； and had left me with the king of trainers to be made into a jockey； as I'd always wanted。
I couldn't possibly go back to my Liverpool 'roots'。 I had no sense of ever having grown any there。
I had never envied Ellis Quint。 I'd always liked him。 I'd been a better jockey than he； and we'd both known it。 If anything； the envy had been the other way round。 But it was useless to protest； as it had been all along。 Protests were used regularly to prove The Pump's theories of my pitiable inadequacy。
My mobile phone buzzed。 I answered it。
'Kevin Mills；' a familiar voice said。 'Where are you？ I tried your flat。 Have you seen today's Pump yet？'
'Yes。'
'India didn't write it；' he said。 'I gave her the info； but she wouldn't use it。 She filled that space with some pars on sexual stress and her editor subbed them out。'
Half of my muscles unknotted； and I hadn't realised they'd been tense。 I forced unconcern into my voice even as I thought of hundreds of thousands of readers sniggering about me over their breakfast toast。
'Then you wrote it yourself；' I said。 'So who's a shit now？ You're the only person on The Pump who's seen my Sheraton desk。'
'Blast you。 Where are you？'
'Going back to Liverpool。 Where else？'
'Sid； look； I'm sorry。'
'Policy？'
He didn't answer。
I asked； 'Why did you phone to tell me India didn't write today's bit of demolition？'
'I'm getting soft。'
'No one's listening to this phone any more。 You can say what you like。'
'Jeez。' He laughed。 'That didn't take you long。' He paused。 'You might not believe it； but most of us on The Pump don't any more like what we've been doing to you。'
'Rise up and rebel；' I suggested dryly。
'We have to eat。 And you're a tough bugger。 You can take it。'
You just try it； I thought。
'Listen；' he said； 'the paper's received a lot of letters from readers plaining that we're not giving you a fair deal。'
'How many is a lot？'
'Two hundred or so。 Believe me； that's a lot。 But we're not allowed to print any。'
I said with interest； 'Who says so？'
'That's just it。 The Ed； Godbar himself； says so； and he doesn't like it either； but the policy is ing from the very top。'
'Tilepit？'
'Are you sure this phone's not bugged？'
'You're safe。'
'You've had a bloody raw mauling； and you don't deserve it。 I know that。 We all know it。 I'm sorry for my part in it。 I'm sorry I wrote today's venom； especially that bit about your hand。 Yes； it's Tilepit。 The proprietor himself。'
'Well。。。 thanks。'
He said； 'Did Ellis Quint really cut off those feet？'
I smiled ruefully。 'The jury will decide。'
'Sid； look here；' he protested； 'you owe me！'
'Life's a bugger；' I said。
CHAPTER 11
Nine o'clock Friday morning I drove into the town of Frodsham and asked for Topline Foods。
Not far from the river； I was told。 Near the river； the Mersey。
The historic docks of Liverpool's Mersey waterfront had long been silent； the armies of tall cranes dismantled； the warehouse