The evening that Marvin had told me about his cousin and Johnny Hodges, I didn't think I was going to make it to the end of the shift. Darkness had shrouded me. Marvin kept talking, but I fell into despair; the world around was crushing me.
"Hey, mate ... mate, are you all right?" Marvin asked, snapping his fingers in front of my face. "You went a bit pale. Don't fucking tell me that you get travel sick."
"I'm fine, bad heartburn," I snapped back, trying to breathe, but the air wasn't getting into my lungs. I knew the psycho Marvin was talking about; I knew him well, as I had been seeing his face in my nightmare for quite some time now. He was dead, shot during riots. He was lucky that I didn't get my hands on him first; otherwise he would've suffered a long and very painful death. For months after Charlotte's funeral, I imagined how much she had to suffer that day, how much that psycho had hurt her.