And again. In — Curl — Hold it … Out — Down. The rhythm of the weights consumed Ezz’s conscious mind. His hand, white-knuckled, gripped the barbell. Up to his shoulder – flex – down again. Face red, neck muscles taut, he changed hands and started the sequence with the other arm. It was the reappearance of the face that had driven him to the gym. He’d returned to his flat from his night’s work with Larkin and felt … strange. Somehow changed. His hands had started shaking and, with a shudder of realisation, he had known what that meant: he was going to lose control. The pressure and anxiety had begun to build up inside him, and he had only one chance of containing it. So he had pulled on his running shorts and gone. Over the town moor he went, breath tearing at his chest, legs close to buckling, feeling like half his bodyweight was melting away as sweat. He kept driving on. His lungs begged him to stop; pain shot up his arms, increasing their weight and uselessness. The midnight darkness of the town moor was blotted out by the negative-image sunbursts exploding behind his retinas.
