Franz Kafka “Many people attest to the existence of snuff films even though no one has ever actually seen one.” D.I. Sebastian Fawkes, North Yorkshire Police, Scarbridge Division. The bar downstairs had closed over an hour ago, sending the drunks and the party people careering off into their own or each other’s beds. After the music stopped, the silence seemed deafening to Pierce, and he turned on his radio to fill the gaps. Johnny Cash sang about some unnamed Hurt in his familiar aching voice; Pierce closed his eyes and drifted in someone else’s pain for a little while. The darkness behind the lids coiled like snakes; Pierce found the illusion strangely comforting. Various street sounds filtered through from outside: distant stumbling footsteps, cats fighting over the contents of dustbins outside the takeaway pizza joint, car engines purring along the main road, the intermittent ticking of the traffic lights on the corner, changing up and down through their coloured sequence.
