having her throat cut and dying."
I took a packet of cigarettes from my
pocket, lifted from Julie's stash specially
for the occasion. He looked up. I offered him one
and he took it. I tossed my box of matches
across the table, as if I was among friends. "The
police must have asked you if there was anything at
all you remembered."
"That's right."
"I want to approach it from a different angle
that might jog a memory. I want to know a bit
about what you felt."
"What do you mean?"
"About Lianne being killed?"
He shrugged. "I think about it."
"Because you were nearby?"
"I suppose."
"What do you think about?"
"I go over it in my mind."
"Over what?"
"X. It," he insisted. "I think what it must
have been like."
"What do you think it was like, Michael?"
He laughed. "Isn't that your job? Don't
you try to imagine what it must be like to kill
women?" 77
"You said you couldn't get it out of your mind."
"I didn't see anything. So I imagine
it."
"That's what interested me," I said. "If you
didn't see anything, why did you come forward?"
"Because I was in the area. The police asked."
"Are you all right, Michael? Have you been
talking to anybody?"
"You mean a doctor?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"Sometimes it helps to talk about it."
"I have talked about it."
"Who to?"
"To a friend."
"And?"
He shrugged. "We talked."
There was another pause. "You're interested in the
case. Is there anything you'd like to know about it?"
His look shifted now. Evasively? "I'm
interested in what the police are doing. I want
to know how it's going. I feel strange, being there
and not knowing anything."
"When you can't get it out of your mind, what do you
see in your mind?"
He thought for a moment. "It's like when you flash a
light on and off very quickly. I see the woman."
"Which woman?"
"Just any woman. I see her out there on the
towpath. Someone coming up behind her, grabbing her,
cutting her throat. I see it all in a moment.
I see it over and over."
"What does it make you feel?"
He shook himself, almost shivered. "I dunno.
Nothing. I just can't get rid of it. It's there.
I only wanted to help." His voice was
plaintive and high. He sounded like a little boy.
I remembered the details I had read about his
life yesterday in the files, when I'd gone into the
station to talk with Furth: taken into care at eight,
having been neglected by his alcoholic mother and
beaten by his stepfather. Twenty residential
homes and ten sets of foster-parents by the time he
was sixteen. A history of bed-wetting; running
away; of being bullied at school, then of being a
bully. He'd tortured a cat in one of his
foster-homes, and set fire to his bedclothes in
another. He'd been moved to a special unit
for disturbed children at thirteen, where his violent
behavior had escalated. By the time he was 79
independent, living in a squalid
bed-and-breakfast, wandering around streets with his wandering
eyes, and spying on girls in the park, he was a
crisis waiting to happen.
"Nobody listens," he went on fretfully.
"That's what the trouble is. Nobody ever listens.
You say something and they don't hear you because they think
you're scum, or something. That's what they call
you. They don't hear what you say. That's why I
go fishing, where I don't have to meet no one. I
can be there all day. Even when it's raining. I
don't mind the rain."
"Has nobody ever listened to you?"
"Nobody," he answered. "Not ever. Not
her." I guessed he meant his mother. "She never
cared. Didn't even see me after I was taken
away. Never seen me. I don't even know if
she's alive. If I ever have a little baby boy
or girlie"--here his tone became cloyingly
sentimental--"I'll cuddle them and pet them and
never let them go." A column of ash crumbled
onto his trousers.
"What about in the homes?" I asked. "Did
they listen to you there?"
"Them? That's a joke, that is. Sometimes I
did bad things, I couldn't help it, like I was
all full of stuff
I took a packet of cigarettes from my
pocket, lifted from Julie's stash specially
for the occasion. He looked up. I offered him one
and he took it. I tossed my box of matches
across the table, as if I was among friends. "The
police must have asked you if there was anything at
all you remembered."
"That's right."
"I want to approach it from a different angle
that might jog a memory. I want to know a bit
about what you felt."
"What do you mean?"
"About Lianne being killed?"
He shrugged. "I think about it."
"Because you were nearby?"
"I suppose."
"What do you think about?"
"I go over it in my mind."
"Over what?"
"X. It," he insisted. "I think what it must
have been like."
"What do you think it was like, Michael?"
He laughed. "Isn't that your job? Don't
you try to imagine what it must be like to kill
women?" 77
"You said you couldn't get it out of your mind."
"I didn't see anything. So I imagine
it."
"That's what interested me," I said. "If you
didn't see anything, why did you come forward?"
"Because I was in the area. The police asked."
"Are you all right, Michael? Have you been
talking to anybody?"
"You mean a doctor?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"Sometimes it helps to talk about it."
"I have talked about it."
"Who to?"
"To a friend."
"And?"
He shrugged. "We talked."
There was another pause. "You're interested in the
case. Is there anything you'd like to know about it?"
His look shifted now. Evasively? "I'm
interested in what the police are doing. I want
to know how it's going. I feel strange, being there
and not knowing anything."
"When you can't get it out of your mind, what do you
see in your mind?"
He thought for a moment. "It's like when you flash a
light on and off very quickly. I see the woman."
"Which woman?"
"Just any woman. I see her out there on the
towpath. Someone coming up behind her, grabbing her,
cutting her throat. I see it all in a moment.
I see it over and over."
"What does it make you feel?"
He shook himself, almost shivered. "I dunno.
Nothing. I just can't get rid of it. It's there.
I only wanted to help." His voice was
plaintive and high. He sounded like a little boy.
I remembered the details I had read about his
life yesterday in the files, when I'd gone into the
station to talk with Furth: taken into care at eight,
having been neglected by his alcoholic mother and
beaten by his stepfather. Twenty residential
homes and ten sets of foster-parents by the time he
was sixteen. A history of bed-wetting; running
away; of being bullied at school, then of being a
bully. He'd tortured a cat in one of his
foster-homes, and set fire to his bedclothes in
another. He'd been moved to a special unit
for disturbed children at thirteen, where his violent
behavior had escalated. By the time he was 79
independent, living in a squalid
bed-and-breakfast, wandering around streets with his wandering
eyes, and spying on girls in the park, he was a
crisis waiting to happen.
"Nobody listens," he went on fretfully.
"That's what the trouble is. Nobody ever listens.
You say something and they don't hear you because they think
you're scum, or something. That's what they call
you. They don't hear what you say. That's why I
go fishing, where I don't have to meet no one. I
can be there all day. Even when it's raining. I
don't mind the rain."
"Has nobody ever listened to you?"
"Nobody," he answered. "Not ever. Not
her." I guessed he meant his mother. "She never
cared. Didn't even see me after I was taken
away. Never seen me. I don't even know if
she's alive. If I ever have a little baby boy
or girlie"--here his tone became cloyingly
sentimental--"I'll cuddle them and pet them and
never let them go." A column of ash crumbled
onto his trousers.
"What about in the homes?" I asked. "Did
they listen to you there?"
"Them? That's a joke, that is. Sometimes I
did bad things, I couldn't help it, like I was
all full of stuff
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