Текст книги "Joe Victim"

Автор книги: Paul Cleave

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Chapter Twenty-Seven

He hates being here. In many ways, Schroder knows he’s lucky, damn lucky, not to be an actual guest of the prison. The last case he worked got about as bad as it could have gotten. He and his partner, Tate, were forced to make a decision. A guy was starting to cut up a little girl. He gave them an option. Do his bidding, or the cutting would continue. He’d already cut that little girl’s finger off, and there would be more. That’s where the old lady that Schroder killed came into it. That was the guy’s bidding.

The crime was covered up. If it hadn’t been, he’d be in here, probably in the same damn cell group as Joe. He’d know a lot of people too. Others he’d arrested. Santa Suit Kenny is one of his. Edward Hunter. Caleb Cole. There are others too who would love the chance to see him every day in here. He would be joining them for fifteen years.

Only a few people know what Schroder really did. Theodore Tate. A few other cops. And Caleb Cole, because Cole is the person who made him shoot that woman. There are two things Schroder is counting on. First, nobody would believe Cole if he told them what really happened. Second, Cole agreed to keep his mouth shut in order to stay out of general population. Cole had spent fifteen years in general population and it had not gone well for him. He would do anything to stop going back. Plus Cole has a somewhat fucked-up moral system, a real sense of what’s right and wrong. Making Schroder kill that old woman was right. Talking about it was wrong. Cole had wanted that woman to pay, and Schroder had made that happen. So Cole was indebted to him. In some weird way.

Schroder stands while he waits. He’s tired. His baby boy woke up every two hours, and his daughter crept down into their room around three a.m. for cuddles. Before he had kids, he never thought it possible to like them. Sometimes, like last night, he sees he was right in thinking that.

Joe is finally brought in. He doesn’t look healthy. Not many people in jail do. He can still remember last year when the Carver investigation was wrapping up. He was also dealing with another case that involved Theodore Tate and a bunch of corpses found in a lake at the cemetery, and he was dealing with being a dad. When the pieces all fell together at the end in the Carver case, he simply couldn’t believe it. He felt sick. Betrayed. For a few minutes he refused what the evidence was telling him. They all did. Joe Middleton wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t be. There was a mistake. Only there was no mistake. Not only could Joe Middleton be their guy, he was their guy.

Joe sits down in the chair and is handcuffed to it. Schroder doesn’t see any point in pleasantries. He’ll save small talk for the innocent.

“Okay, Joe. What’s your answer? I have other places to be, so don’t jerk me around.”

Joe holds his hand up. “Slow down, cowboy,” he says. “We’re still waiting for my lawyer.”

He wasn’t expecting to hear the L word. “What?”

“If we’re going to agree to anything, I want my lawyer to be here. I think you’d want that for me, to make sure my rights aren’t being tackled over.”

“It’s trampled over.”

“What is?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Schroder says. He had seen Joe’s lawyer out in the waiting area. A guy by the name of Kevin Wellington. He had just assumed Wellington was waiting to speak to another of his clients—why he assumed that he doesn’t know. Just bad detective work, he guesses. One more reason to suggest his firing wasn’t such a bad thing. Well, at least he doesn’t have rainwater dripping off his clothes today.

It takes another minute, but then Wellington walks into the room and sits in a spare chair next to Schroder. He’s wearing a cologne that for a few seconds tickles the back of Schroder’s nose. They don’t shake hands.

“Why am I here, Joe?” Wellington asks, and it’s not hard hearing the contempt in his voice. He wonders if it’s that contempt which has kept Wellington alive. Joe’s first two lawyers were full of bravado, they were keen to make names for themselves and it didn’t end well for them. The body of the first lawyer still hasn’t been found.

“Because Schroder has a deal for us, don’t you Schroder?”

“What kind of deal?” the lawyer asks, sounding interested, but only barely. Schroder is starting to warm up to the guy.

“First of all, let me start out by saying I don’t remember killing anybody,” Joe says, and Schroder glances at the lawyer and the lawyer has the same look Schroder must have on his own face, and he bets Joe hates being the subject of that look. Is it possible that Joe, somehow, can really believe people are going to buy his story? If so, then perhaps he really is insane.

“Come on, Joe,” Schroder says, “don’t waste our time.”

“What kind of deal are you offering?” the lawyer asks. “No, wait, are you still even a cop?”

“Not anymore,” Joe says. “He was fired. Why don’t you tell us why, Carl?”

“I’m not here in the interests of the prosecution,” Schroder says. “I’m here with a private deal from Jonas Jones.”

For the first time Wellington looks genuinely interested. He puts his elbows on the table and shifts his weight forward. “The psychic? I don’t—” he says, but Joe interrupts him before he can add see where this is going.

“He wants me to help him find one of the bodies,” Joe says.

“He what?”

“In return for fifty thousand dollars,” Schroder says.

The lawyer tilts his head and frowns. Then his elbows come off the table and his weight shifts in the back of the chair. This is about to get difficult, Schroder is sure of it.

“I hope you haven’t agreed to this,” the lawyer says.

“Not yet.”

The lawyer turns to Schroder. “I get it,” he says. “You want my client to give you the location of one of the bodies for Jones to find—and you want this done quietly, for which my client will be rewarded—and Jonas wants to take credit for it. That’s it, isn’t it? Jones wants to show the world he’s a true psychic.”

Schroder is shocked at how quickly the lawyer figured that out. And perturbed. If the lawyer is that good, then that could be a problem. Nobody wants to see Joe be given a good defense. “Something like that,” he says.

“Something? Or exactly like that?”

“Closer to exactly,” Schroder admits.

The lawyer turns back to Joe. “If you know where this body is, Joe, this could go toward getting the prosecution to take the death penalty off the table. To sell this information for money you can’t even use in here, well, that would be stupid. Let us use it to bargain with the prosecution.”

“The death penalty won’t be on the table,” Joe adds. “I’m an innocent man. I can’t remember hurting anybody, and it’s just not in my nature to have done that. I’m going to be released, most likely into a hospital for treatment and medication, and when I’m released from there I’m going to need the money.”

Wellington stares at Joe, and then he stares at Schroder, and Schroder knows in that moment that if he were ever to play poker, he’d want it to be against that lawyer because he can see exactly what the guy is thinking. Schroder certainly isn’t going to argue with Joe—the psychopath can believe what he wants if it will help get this deal signed. He’s disgusted at paying a single cent to the man, disgusted at Jonas Jones for using the situation for his own gain, disgusted at himself too for taking the bonus. There is a whole lot of disgust to go around, but there’s also a silver lining—Detective Calhoun will be found. He deserves to be properly buried.

The lawyer starts tapping a finger on the table and he stares at it at the same time, deep in thought. He looks up at Schroder and says, “To confirm, you’re not here in any capacity for the prosecution or the police force.”

“That’s right.”

“Then what gets said in here is between client and lawyer, and right now you’re privileged to that, which means right now you can’t reveal any of our conversation.”

Schroder nods. He isn’t sure if that’s true or not. He never really got lawyers. Nobody really does, except other lawyers, and even then he gets the idea half of them don’t know what the other half are on about. He’s happy to go along with it.

“Fine,” he says.

“Can’t we all just get along?” Joe asks, and Schroder wants to kick him. “I can’t remember killing anybody, that’s the truth, but I might remember where Detective Calhoun was buried.”

“Where?” Schroder asks.

“Well, it’s hard to say really. It’s all so vague. Trying to remember it is like trying to remember a dream. Every time I get a handle on it, it’s whipped away.”

“But the money will make it clearer, right?” Schroder asks.

“Like your boss would say, I’m getting a vision that it would, yes.”

Great. So there are going to be no straight answers. Joe is going to play with them for his money because it’s the only thing in his life he can control right now, and Schroder is just going to have to accept that if he wants this deal to go ahead. Once again he wonders how the hell his life has gone so badly wrong over the last month. Once again he has to focus on the silver lining—on getting Detective Calhoun back.

“Who buried the body?” he asks. “You or Melissa?”

“Like I said, it’s all so vague,” Joe says. “I know I didn’t kill him, and you know that too, because there’s a video of it. I don’t know who filmed the video.”

“The video was in your flat,” Schroder says. “It had your fingerprints all over it.”

“All so vague,” Joe says, and Schroder wants to punch him.

“And fifty thousand dollars will help you remember,” Schroder says.

“That’s the feeling I get,” Joe says, and then he flashes that stupid smile of his that he used to flash back at the police station when he was walking around with a bucket and mop. Back then it was endearing, but now it’s repulsive. “You know, Carl, you don’t give people enough credit. You need to be more positive in life. These bad thoughts—they’ll bring you down.”

Weirdly, he would have to agree, which in itself is a pretty dark thought—one that brings him down.

“You have a contract already drawn up?” Wellington asks.

“We do,” Schroder says, and slides a thin folder over to the lawyer, who doesn’t pick it up, but stares at it, and Schroder wonders if the lawyer can see a future that he doesn’t want to be a part of and if so, then good for him.

“I’m going to need ten minutes with my client,” he finally says.

“No problem.” Schroder stands up and knocks on the door. “Let me know when you’re ready,” he says, and one of the guards comes and gets him and leads him back out to the waiting area.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

My lawyer is wearing the same outfit and has the same annoyed expression on his face. We sit in the same room and make the same kind of conversation.

“What’s going on here, Joe?” he asks.

“It’s simple. I tell them where I think the bodies are. If I’m right, I get fifty thousand dollars.”

“No, Joe, what you do is risk your entire defense. For a guy who can’t remember anything, this is a stupid ploy. You tell them where the body is, that proves you can remember things.”

“Doesn’t work that way,” I tell him. “Jonas Jones is going to ‘find’ the body,” I say, and I use air quotes around the word find, and when I do I realize I’ve never used air quotes before and never will again because they must make me look like a complete asshole. “That’s what the contract is for. They can’t afford for the public to find out what really happened. It’s safe,” I tell him.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Joe.”

“This isn’t a game,” I answer, somewhat annoyed at him. “This is my life. The world is telling me I’ve done these terrible, terrible things, when I really haven’t. Not me, not the person in front of you. A different Joe, maybe, but this Joe doesn’t remember that Joe. When the jury realizes that, when I’m set free, I’m going to need money. It’s that simple.”

I can tell he doesn’t believe a word I tell him. I can tell he’s starting to think that I really must be insane. “Well, it’s your decision,” he says. “Things must be going really well with the psychiatrist for you to be this damn confident.”

“Things are going okay,” I tell him, confident that this isn’t going to go to trial. I’m going to show Schroder where the body is. And Melissa is going to come and save me.

“Fifty thousand dollars isn’t going to help you if you’re executed. If you want to make a deal, then we’ll make a deal. If you want to show them where the body is, then we use that as a bargaining chip. We can start by getting them to take the death penalty off the table.”

“It’s not even on the table.”

“It will be,” he says.

“The public won’t vote for it.”

He shakes his head. “You’re wrong. They’re going to vote for it.”

“I need the money,” I tell him.

“You need to listen to your lawyer.”

“I am listening,” I tell him, “but you’re not the one facing life in jail, you’re not the one being accused of these awful things. It’s your job to tell me what you think, but I still get to make the decisions, right?”

He nods. “That’s right,” he says.

“Then let’s do this,” I tell him.

“Let me read this contract,” he says, and he opens up the folder.

I watch him as he reads it. He’s either a slow reader or a slow understander. Or it’s written by a lawyer who’s never used plain English in his life. The contract is three pages long. I could write it up in two paragraphs. When my lawyer has read it, he reads it again—this time making notes on a pad. I grow impatient. I don’t interrupt him. I just keep staring at him, and after another few minutes I let my mind drift. I start to think about Melissa, and how we’re going to spend our first night together. I have a pretty good idea of what we’ll be doing. Then I drift further into the future—a week, a month, ten years. Then my lawyer brings me back.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Joe? There is every risk it will come back and bite you in the ass.” His face is without any expression. He’s like a man watching a football game who not only doesn’t care who wins, but also doesn’t understand the rules. Or perhaps this is the face of a lawyer who doesn’t give a damn about his client.

“I want to do it,” I say.

“Okay,” he says. He gets up and bangs on the door. The guard opens it and they talk for a few seconds, then my lawyer sits back down and a few minutes later Schroder comes back in. He looks tired. And annoyed. There’s a lot of that going around.

“Do we have a deal?” Schroder asks.

“We do,” my lawyer says.

“Almost,” I say.

Both men look at me. My lawyer sighs and breaks his don’t give a shit expression. Schroder sighs too and maybe they’ll leave here together and sigh each other to sleep tonight.

“The thing is, it’s vague,” I say. “I can’t quite remember where he’s buried.”

“Yeah. You said that a thousand times already,” Schroder says.

“Because you need to understand just how vague it is.”

“We get the point, Joe,” my lawyer says, “now how about you get to yours.”

“Well, my sense of where Calhoun is is so vague it’s impossible to give directions. I’d have to show you.”

Both my visitors go quiet. Schroder starts shaking his head. Then my lawyer starts shaking his head too. It looks like they’re having a competition. Then they look at each other. To their credit, neither man gives a What are you going to do? gesture.

“You’re not showing us anything,” Schroder says. “We’re not making any deal that lets you outside of here even if it’s only for an hour.”

“Then you’ll never find Calhoun,” I say.

“Yes we will. Dead people have a way of showing up eventually,” he says.

“Not all the time,” I answer. “And you know that. Let me show you. Maybe you’ll find something there that will help you track down Melissa—that’s what you want, right? More than anything? You get that, and your psychic sidekick gets what he wants.”

“More than anything I’d like to see you hang for what you’ve done to this city,” Schroder answers, and I think what he really means is he’d like to see me hang for what I did to him. I made him look like a fool. He starts to stand up. My lawyer reaches out and puts a hand on Schroder’s arm, and if my mother were here she’d be convinced by now that outside of these walls these two men would start doing the kind of thing my mother would highly disapprove of.

“Wait,” my lawyer says, and Schroder lowers himself back into the chair. My lawyer looks at me. “What exactly is it you want, Joe?” he asks. “What is it you’re trying to gain by showing where Calhoun is buried? Do you think that by showing instead of just telling that somehow you’ll manage to break free?”

“I don’t need to break free,” I tell them, and then I laugh just to prove how stupid their suggestion was. Even if it is accurate. “No jury in the world is going to convict a man who wasn’t in control of his actions. But I can’t tell you where the body is because I just can’t,” I tell them. “If I could, I would. Honestly, Carl, it’s impossible. What am I supposed to do? Tell you to turn left at the third rock down a dirt path? It was a year ago. Come on, even you must know that’s impossible. You’re going to have to believe me,” I tell them, “no matter what else you think, this is the truth,” I say, but it’s not the truth. Not even close. “The absolute truth.”

“You don’t deserve an hour out there, let alone a minute,” Schroder says.

“Doesn’t matter what you think,” I say. “What matters is whether you want me to show you where Detective Calhoun is.”

“What matters even more is you staying put,” Schroder responds.

“Why? You think I’m going to escape? I can see how you’d think that—after all, you’re the man who let the Christchurch Carver roam free for years. It’s only natural you don’t think you can stop me from escaping.”

“Nice try, Joe, but you’re not going to goad me into taking you out of here.”

“Well, it’s your choice, Carl. You take it or leave it. There’s a lot riding on it. Your new boss is going to make a hell of a name for himself. And I need the money, so I want to make this work. And let me ask you, Carl, how much are you making on this? Huh? You wouldn’t be doing this unless there was a little something in it for you,” I say, holding up my hand rubbing my fingertips against my thumb in the We’re talking about money gesture.

“Fuck you, Joe.”

“And you want Calhoun back, don’t you?”

“Gentlemen,” my lawyer says, putting his hands out. “Can we stay on point here?”

“I’m not a cop anymore, Joe,” Schroder says. “You know that. I can’t organize a deal like that.”

“You’ll find a way,” I say.

Schroder shakes his head. “You just don’t get it,” he says. “God,” he says, throwing his head back and looking up at the ceiling. “How the fuck could somebody so stupid have gotten away with it for so long?” He looks back at me. “I must have been stupider than I thought for not arresting you sooner than I did.”

“What are you going on about?” I ask.

“For me to make what you’re asking happen would involve the police. If the police are involved, then there is no deal, because they’re going to know you led us there. And if the police are involved, then that doesn’t help Jonas Jones, does it?”

It takes a few seconds for what he’s saying to sink in.

“He’s right,” my lawyer says, and fuck it, he is. They both are.

I shake my head. I could waive the deal, and just agree to show the cops. It just means no money. If I have to, then that’s what I’ll do. I have to do something to be outside tomorrow twilight. That’s all that matters.

“You two need to figure out a way to make it happen,” I tell them, “and it needs to happen before the trial starts.”

“Joe—” my lawyer starts.

“We’re done here,” I tell them.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Schroder says.

I stand up. The one thing I hate is being called stupid.

The one thing I hate even more is looking stupid. My wrist is still cuffed to the chair and I’m almost pulled back into it. “Guard,” I shout out, and I bang on the table. “Guard!”

The guard opens the door. He gives me a really unimpressed look. I tell him I’m done here. He comes in and takes off the handcuff.

“Make it happen,” I tell Schroder when I reach the door, and I’m escorted back to my psychiatrist.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“She called me the following day,” I tell my psychiatrist, and I’ve switched from Joe Escape Artist back to Joe Victim, and that’s fine, because Joe Victim gets a much prettier view. “I thought she was going to wait for the weekend, but she called me after school. First she spoke to my mother and told her she wanted me to help around her house, and in return she would pay me. My mother thought it was a great idea because it meant that was less time I would be spending around our house. So I went there and mowed her lawns. Then it turned out she wanted the garage painted, inside and out, including the roof. So that became the project for a few weeks. Only it wasn’t the only project. She kept calling me day after day to go around there until . . . well, until she grew tired of me.”

“Tired of you?”

“Tired of me.”

“Grew tired of you doing the chores?”

“Not exactly,” I say, and I look down at my cuffed wrist, at the arm of the chair, at my feet and at the floor. The view might be prettier for Joe Victim than it was staring at my lawyer ten minutes ago, but looking into the past is ugly. “She grew tired of me about two years later.”

“Joe?”

I look up at her. “Do I have to spell it out for you?” I ask her.

Slowly she’s shaking her head and she’s trying to hide the disgust on her face, but she’s not doing a great job. She pauses, taking a few breaths before continuing. “Are you trying to tell me your auntie kept your secret in exchange for sex?”

“I’m actually trying not to tell you about it,” I say. “But yeah, that’s what happened. Like she said, she was lonely. She hadn’t had a man around the house for six years.”

“She blackmailed you.”

“What else could I do? If I didn’t do what she wanted, she would go to the police. She would tell my parents. She said she would tell people I had raped her if I didn’t go along with it. So I had to keep going back. I mean, the only thing I could think of was to kill her. And no matter what you think of me, I’m not a killer. At least I don’t want to be one.”

“Was it the first time you’d ever had sex?”

“Yes.”

She keeps staring at me as if she’s about to ask me how much I enjoyed it, and if it went anything like this, followed by her taking her clothes off and bending over the table. “Tell me about it,” she says.

As much as I want her turned on, I don’t really want to tell her about my auntie. “Why?”

“Because I asked you.”

“About the sex itself?”

“Tell me about your auntie. About leading up to what happened.”

I shrug. Like it’s no big deal. Like being forced to have sex with one’s auntie is as trivial as talking about the weather, although marginally more entertaining. But it is a big deal. One that for a long time had stayed bottled up inside of me. After my auntie died and we were going through her house, after I saw the crossbow, and after mom packed everything away, I felt sick. I actually went to the cemetery she was buried in that night, and I found her grave and I took a shit on it. For me it was a form of closure. It was a way of saying good-bye to a woman who made me feel bad about myself, good about myself, and then bad about myself all over.

“I had just finished painting the roof,” I tell my psychiatrist. “It was a hot day. Back then summer was always hot days and blue skies—at least that’s how it seemed. These days we’re lucky to see blue sky twice a week,” I say, and my earlier thought was right—auntie rape is as trivial as weather watch. “I got burned pretty bad up on that roof. I’d been working for my auntie for four days. The Big Bang happened on my fifth, which was our first Saturday together. I was up on the roof and—”

“You call what happened the Big Bang?”

“What would you have me call it?”

“Carry on,” she says.

“So my auntie came outside and called me down. I went down there expecting her to tell me that suddenly the garden needed doing or a lightbulb needed changing, or that I wasn’t painting the roof as well as she wanted, and when I got inside she reminded me why I was there,” I say, and I can still remember it, can still remember the dress she was wearing, and she was wearing lots of makeup too. I can almost feel the sunburn and smell the aloe vera she would rub into my skin later that same day. She told me to sit down on the couch and I did and she handed me a drink of lemonade that she had made that tasted how I imagined cat piss would taste if you carbonated it and threw in a slice of lemon. Then she sat down next to me. She put a hand on my leg, then told me not to flinch when I flinched. Then she told me she had another job for me, and that if I said no, I’d be going to jail. She put one hand in my lap and one hand on the back of my neck and told me to kiss her. I didn’t know what to do. She pushed her face into mine and I’d never kissed a girl before, and it tasted like cigarette smoke and was wet like coffee, and I still remember that my thought was to try and bite her nose off, but before I could think how, she was straddling me. I tried falling back further into the couch, I put my hands on her shoulders and pushed her away. She said if I pushed her away again she would tell my parents what I had done and that I had raped her.”

I tell the psychiatrist this and I can feel my face going red, as if the sunburn and shame from then is finding a way back into my life.

“And in the bedroom,” the psychiatrist says, “your auntie was in control?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t really want to talk about it,” I say.

“Joe—”

“Please. Can’t we just drop it?”

“What happened afterward? When you were finished in the bedroom?” she asks.

“She sent me back outside to work on the roof.”

“Just like that? She didn’t try talking to you first?”

“A little, I guess. Mostly about my uncle. She said that I reminded her of him in many ways. I didn’t know what ways she meant and didn’t know if she meant sexually. Things had been . . . you know, pretty quick. Then she made me go back outside.”

“How did you feel?”

“Well it was hot out there and I burned some more.”

“I mean how did you feel about what your aunt had done to you?”

“I’m . . . I’m not sure.”

“Angry? Hurt?”

“I guess.”

“Excited?”

“No,” I say, but maybe just a little. Not that excited though. There’s a reason my uncle died—looking at my auntie every day couldn’t have helped his health. If my auntie had been hotter—well, that might have been quite conflicting. As it was I felt strange about the whole thing. “It happened again a few days later. Then it just kept on happening, and every time when I got home all I could smell was the cigarette smoke.”

“And this lasted two years?”

“Almost, yeah.”

“Did you try to stop it?”

“I didn’t know how,” I say.

“But you tried something, right?”

I nod. “I killed her cat,” I say.

She doesn’t look alarmed at my response. “You said earlier you hadn’t killed any animals.”

“I pretty much forgot about it,” I say, and it’s true. In this case, anyway. “There’s a lot I had forgotten about that time until you wanted to talk about it.”

“And the cat?”

I shake my head. “The cat didn’t want to talk about it.”

She doesn’t laugh. “You killed the cat, Joe. Tell me why.”

“I thought if I killed her cat it would give her something else to focus on and she wouldn’t want to keep having sex with me,” I say, “only the opposite turned out to be true. She needed me more at that point.”

“How did you kill it?”

“I drowned it in the bath,” I say, “and then I used a hair dryer to dry it out so my auntie never knew what happened. She just thought it died naturally.”

“At what point during the sexual abuse was this?” she asks.

“What the hell? I didn’t fuck the cat,” I tell her. “I just drowned it. I had to do something.”

“That’s not what I mean, Joe. I mean the abuse between you and your auntie.”

“I wasn’t abusing her,” I say. “Why are you thinking the worst? How am I going to have a fair trial if everybody keeps—”

She puts her hand up to stop me. “Listen to me, Joe. You’re misunderstanding me. Your auntie was abusing you. You were an innocent kid and she took advantage of a bad decision you had made. What I want to know is how long had she been abusing you for before the cat died, and how much longer after that did the abuse continue.”

“Oh,” I say, and yes, that makes more sense. Only . . . the abuse? Is that what it was? “Oh,” I repeat, relieved that she’s on my side. Everybody is on my side once they get to know me a little. But really—once you start throwing that abuse term around, it makes me sound like a pussy. “It was halfway in, I suppose. A year into the . . . into the . . . abuse, then a year of abuse after the cat died.”

“How did it stop?”

“She just said that she was done with me. I didn’t understand it. Just like that. I should have seen it coming. I was going around there less and less near the end. I felt . . . I don’t know. I felt something.”

“Rejected?”

“No. Relief,” I say, only she’s right, I did feel rejected, then I realize that’s just the kind of thing that might be worth sharing, the kind of thing that will make me look more fucked-up than the stable person I really am. “I mean, of course I felt rejected. I didn’t want to be having sex with my auntie, but I didn’t understand why it just stopped. Was I not good enough for her?”

“It’s not about that,” she says.

“Then what is it about?”

“You were the victim,” she says. “It was about power. It was about finding somebody she could dominate. She probably found you were becoming too confident, too grown-up. What kind of relationship did you have after that?”

“We didn’t. I actually never saw her again.”

“Not at Christmas, or other family events?”

“My dad’s funeral,” I tell her. “I guess that’s the only other time. We didn’t speak to each other. I mean, I tried, but she didn’t have time for me. She was hanging around with Gregory, who’s one of my cousins, five years younger than me. It was weird. In some way, I missed her.”

“That makes sense,” she says.

“What does?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, and she’s right, really. None of this matters. It’s just filling in time in a room slightly more pleasant than my cell until Melissa rescues me. Killing time in a room with a very pretty lady. Life should have more of those killing moments.