“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.
“It wasn’t your fault what she did to you, Joe.”
“Yes it was. If I hadn’t broken into her house—”
“She took advantage of you, Joe. She was an adult and you were a kid.”
“I know that,” I tell her. “But if I hadn’t broken into her house, then none of it would have happened. Who knows where I’d be now?”
“What do you mean by that?” she asks, leaning forward, and I sense a red flag on the horizon.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I mean, maybe that was the start of everything.”
She taps her pen against her pad. “Everything? It sounds like you’re self-analyzing, Joe.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” I say. “I just mean, you know, maybe that path led to another, which led to another.”
“Are you sure you never considered killing her?”
“No. No, of course not.”
“Most people in that situation would think of it.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t,” I say, but the truth is I did. I wanted to wrap my hands around her throat every time I had to look down at her face when she was beneath me. Hell, I wanted to wrap my hands around my own throat and squeeze. And yet I missed her.
“When was the first time you killed somebody, Joe?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t remember killing anybody, and if I did, well, I don’t know when it began.”
She reaches for the recorder and switches it off. “Okay, I think that’s enough for today.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You’ve just started lying again. I’ll tell you what. You think about what it is you’re trying to achieve here, and I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll talk again. Okay?”
“Wait.”
“We still have time tomorrow,” she says, and she stands up and knocks on the door.
“I just want to be helped,” I tell her.
“Good.”
The guard opens the door and leans in to get a good look at me. I smile back at him, the full Joe smile with all the teeth. My eyelid stretches a little and hurts. Then I show Ali the full smile too. She walks out. The guard closes the door and I stare at the walls and my eyelid sticks and I have to manually pull it down. I let the smile fall from my face and I hang my head and rest it on my arms, my face only an inch from the table, my breath forming a thin film of condensation on the surface. I haven’t thought about my auntie in a long time, and Ali is the first person I’ve ever told. I always thought therapy was about unloading burdens and sharing pain, but all it’s done is open up a lot of old wounds. I don’t want anybody to know about it.
Suddenly it’s more important than ever that Melissa gets me out of here. If this were to come out in court I don’t know how I could face the world. Even though my mum wouldn’t be there or watch the news, I think somehow she’d hear about all the things her sister did to me, and no doubt she wouldn’t believe me.