Back at Hamilton House, the corner near Karen’s apartment is clear. If it was Mark who left something there, then he hasn’t been back. The bulb hasn’t been replaced, though.
I can’t think of anything else to do through the morning so spend my time pacing the flat going over the conversation with Harry. He’ll say such-and-such, so I’ll fire back with a killer line and then he’ll melt and have to tell me the truth. I waste so much of the morning talking myself in circles that I almost forget I actually have to go and meet him.
It’s some relief that I get to Chappie’s Café before Harry does, although there is a certain sense of déjà vu. Deformed Kevin Bacon is here, this time by himself; as are the mothers from before and the bloke in shorts – who is still wearing shorts and hammering away on a MacBook. The poor keyboard must be on its last legs. I’m even nodded at by the same waitress, who offers a ‘sit wherever you want’. I don’t think she recognises me.
I order the same as yesterday – the cheapest coffee – and then sit around psyching myself up. Harry arrives at a minute to eleven in jeans and a jacket. He’s got an open-necked shirt and seems slightly more tanned than the last time I saw him. He gives me a small wave and a grin and then says something to the waitress before joining me. He takes off his jacket and puts it on the back of his chair, then sits.
‘This is a nice place,’ he says as he turns to look at the various prints on the wall.
‘Have you been in before?’
He shakes his head. ‘You?’
I think about saying ‘yesterday’, but then he might ask why and I’m not sure I could come up with something that sounds plausible.
‘How’s the head?’ I ask.
Harry turns and parts his hair so that I can see the welt on the back of his skull. Whether or not it was set up, there is one hell of a gash in the skin.
‘That looks nasty,’ I say.
‘I’ve been sleeping about fourteen hours a day. I checked with the doctor, but she reckons it’s normal.’
The waitress arrives with a tray that includes a coffee for me and a coconut milk latte for Harry. We thank her and then each sip our drinks.
‘How have you been?’ he asks.
I hide behind my mug, summoning the courage to say something. All those phantom conversations are proving to be precisely that.
‘Who are you?’ I ask, still using the mug to cover my mouth.
Probably unsurprisingly, it takes a second or two to get a response. Harry’s eyebrows arc downwards.
‘Pardon?’ he says.
‘Who are you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You hacked my computer.’
I say it as if it’s a fact. Something that’s on record and indisputable. I’m looking for a response, but all I get is a frown.
‘I did what?’
I’m not sure why I thought he’d fold and confess all. As if my deductions were of such genius that he’d be able to do nothing but collapse and ask for forgiveness. It all feels rather silly, but it’s a bit late to back off now.
‘You’re a computer hacker,’ I say.
‘Oh… kay…’ A pause and then: ‘I told you I worked in internet security.’
‘You didn’t say hacker, though.’
He holds both hands palms-up. ‘Because we don’t call it hacking. I’m not sure what you’re saying.’
‘That you hacked into my computer to find out what I liked so that, when we connected on the app, you could make it seem like we had a lot in common.’
Harry stares at me as if I’m a new creature he’s never encountered before.
‘You poisoned my dog,’ I add.
It’s at this point that I realise I’m raving. Somehow, when I was thinking this through, it all sounded logical. In between the thoughts and the words, it has become apparent that I’m utterly mad. The problem is that there’s no turning back now.
‘What are you talking about?’ Harry says. He pushes himself up from the table until he’s standing over me. It feels like he’s going to turn and storm away – but I still have my trump card.
‘You were on my bus,’ I say.
His eyes widen and slowly, very slowly, he returns to his seat. This time, I know it’s the truth.
‘The number 24,’ I add. ‘That’s why you recognised me at The Garden Café.’
Harry picks up the small biscotti that came with his drink and bites it in half. He’s staring at me, looking for some sort of reasoning. It’s a good fifteen seconds before he says anything. When he does speak, it’s in a tone I’ve not heard before. The playfulness has gone, replaced by something harder.
‘I was disappointed,’ he says. ‘When we met at The Garden Café.’
‘By what?’
‘That you didn’t recognise me. I get on that bus a couple of times a week and I see you all the time. When we swapped pictures on the app, I thought it was you but didn’t want to say anything in case it wasn’t. Then, when we met properly, I realised it was you. I recognised you straight away but you had no idea who I was.’
‘Oh…’
It feels like I’m a balloon that’s deflating. This is not how things went in my head. Even from the photos it’s obvious that all I do on the bus is avoid eye contact. I wouldn’t recognise anyone except, perhaps, the driver.
‘Do you have a problem with me?’ he asks.
I have no idea what to do. My argument now seems flimsy and not well thought through, like something one of my old school reports might say.
‘I went to your apartment block,’ I say.
‘I know – I was there.’
‘No… I went again afterwards. You went around the side when we were together. When I went back on my own, nobody knew who you were. Your name isn’t on the directory or any of the mailboxes.’
Harry’s frown now slips into a full-on scowl. ‘You went to my home?’
‘I, um…’
‘Do you know everyone in your building? How many people did you ask at mine? Did you talk to either of my next-door neighbours? Or Stacy across the corridor? Or Caitlin down the hall?’
‘Er…’
‘I’m not on the directory because it isn’t working properly.’
He cradles his head in his hands and, as I glance around, I realise people are starting to watch. There’s a trio of mothers this morning and they’re offering sideways glances from the front window while pretending to keep an eye on their kids. Deformed Kevin Bacon isn’t bothering to hide it – his mouth is open as he watches us openly. The waitress is leaning on the counter, pad in hand, and quickly glances away when I look to her. I don’t blame them. It’s better morning entertainment than guessing which of Piers Morgan’s five chins he’ll dribble on first.
‘You said pets weren’t allowed in the building,’ I say.
‘They’re not.’
‘But I saw someone coming out with a dog.’
If it’s a triumph, then it doesn’t feel like it. The smoking gun is more like a soppy water pistol.
‘Was it a little rat thing?’ he asks.
I feel tiny. ‘Yes…’
‘That’s Veronica. She’s lived there for fifteen years or so. When the building council changed the rules to ban pets, she already had the dog. They could hardly stop her having it, so it was a ban from then on. There are no new pets.’
‘Oh…’
My evidence is suddenly thinner than the plot of a Fast And The Furious movie.
‘What about your job?’ I say.