He was more comfortable talking about Bridget. "All the bad things that were happening to you," he said. "You told her once that you wished you had hair like hers, so she thought if she gave it to you the bad stuff would stop." He smiled at my expression. "Okay, it was a bit wacky but she always did have weird ideas. She put a load of raw onions into her mother's room one time because she read somewhere that onions absorb disease, but the smell was so bad that Vivienne couldn't sleep."
"I think they're supposed to work on colds," I said abstractedly, while pondering the rest of what he'd said. "What made Bridget think bad things were happening to me?"
"You looked so scared all the time," he said matter-of-factly. "It stood to reason there was some lousy shit in your life."
"Did you know what it was?"
A flicker of emotion crossed his face. "We guessed they were doing to you what they did to Annie."
"Who?"
"The Slaters. I saw Alan's dad try to barge you off the pavement one day ... and his mum used to call you a nigger-lover. She said you'd be lynched for the things you were saying if we lived in America."
"What about your mother? Did she agree with Maureen?"
He looked away again, as if the subject of his mother was something he found hard to deal with. "I don't know," he said curtly. "We never talked about it."
"Did you talk about Annie's death?"
"No." Even more curt.
"Why not?"
"What was to talk about? Hell, we were glad to see the back of her. It meant Mum could take in more clients without having abuse bellowed at them through the wall. And that's all she was interested in," he finished bitterly, "making money out of saps."
"It was a vicious circle," I told him. "Every time you or the Slaters ratcheted up your aggression, Annie got worse. She might have been able to control her language if you'd left her alone, but she hadn't a hope in hell's chance once you started invading her space and making her afraid."
He shrugged. "Mum always said she should be in a loony bin."
"Only to give herself something to feel superior about," I murmured. "She didn't like being called a 'whore' ... because that's what she was. The Slaters didn't like being called 'trash' ... because that's what they were."
He gave a surprised whistle as if the comfortable image he had of me had suddenly been shattered. "That's a bit harsh."
"Do you think so?" I asked mildly. "I've always thought how generous Annie was. Had I been her, I'd have come up with something far stronger to describe low-grade scum who got their rocks off torturing cats."
He flinched perceptibly.
"Was it you and Alan who did it?" I asked. "It's the kind of brutality I can imagine you enjoying... inflicting pain on something smaller and weaker... then pushing the sad little remains on to Annie to see how she'd react. Was it Derek killing the marmalade cat that gave you the idea or was Maureen lying about that to protect Alan?"
"Jesus!" he said with a spurt of anger. "And you wonder why I hate the bitch? Talk about fucking twisted. Alan used to say her brains were shot because his dad knocked the sense out of her, but I'd say it was the other way 'round. The bitch was born twisted and that's the reason the poor sap went for her." He leaned forward aggressively. "It was Maureen killed the cat, and she did it because it made her feel good. She got Alan to hold it down on the kitchen table while she beat its brains out with a baseball bat, and when Alan started blubbing because he really liked animals, she took the bat to him instead and said, if he ever told on her, she'd nail the next one to the fence and make him watch it while it died."
It was like a floodgate opening. Once Michael started on his hatred of Maureen he couldn't stop. He talked about her lousy parenting, her drinking, her vilification of him and his mother. "It makes me sick what she's got away with," he finished angrily. "It makes me even sicker that she's on the out and me and Derek are stuck inside."
"What would she have been charged with?"
"Assault and battery of her kids ... drunk and disorderly ... you name it."
"Killing Annie?"
He didn't answer immediately. "All I know," he said then, "is what I told you in my letter. That I came home from the arcade to hear that the stupid cow had died in the street from some sort of accident."
I nodded as if I believed him. "Did you know the Slaters went into the house later and robbed it?"
"Rosie sussed it when the police described old Annie as living in poverty," he admitted. "She reckoned we ought to say something but I didn't want have to explain how any of us knew what was in there."
"Did Alan not mention it?" I asked curiously. "You were inseparable at the time. I'd have expected him to boast about how clever they'd been."
"No."
"Because it was clever, Michael," I said idly. "Way too clever for Derek and Alan alone. It was the odd little extras like turning off the mains water ... and soiling the floors to give the impression of self-neglect and poor hygiene. I've always wondered why that was necessary. Unless the smell of human urine was stronger than cats' urine and needed explaining."
He shook his head, but whether in denial that he knew what I was talking about or in refusal to answer the question, I couldn't tell. From the way he started to look for an officer to rescue him from me, it was clear the whole subject made him as uncomfortable as talk of his mother.
I plowed on determinedly. "You said it makes you sick that Derek's in prison," I reminded him. "Does that mean he's in at the moment?"
"He got two years in February '98. A guy on my wing shared a cell with him in Pentonville before he got shipped down here. He reckons Derek's dying. His liver's packed up with the drinking, and the one brain cell he has left can just about remember his name ... and fuck all else."
"When's he due for release?"
He made a quick calculation in his head. "He'll have served half so he'll be out by now ... assuming he's not dead already."
"What was he convicted of?"
"Burglary," said Michael dispassionately. "It's what he gets done for every time."
"Why does that make you sick?"
He gave an unexpected sigh. "Because he needs an education, not endless bloody punishment. Him and me were on the same landing in the Scrubs when I was on remand for this one. He's completely illiterate ... just about manages a 'd' and 'e' for his signature but can't get to grips with the 'r' or the 'k.' I wrote some letters for him to his kids, but the only one who ever answered was Sally, and then only because she thought he might have some dosh hidden away somewhere. It pissed me off, it really did. The poor sod was only trying to tell them he loved them, but as far as they were concerned he didn't exist."
I was surprised. "You used to hate him when you were a child."
Michael shrugged. "It doesn't mean I can't feel sorry for him. I got to realizing how limited a guy's life is if he can't read and write. It's pretty mind-blowing when you think about it. I mean, you can't apply for a job if you can't sign your name to a form ... and people sure as hell look down on you if they think you're an ignorant jerk. I reckon it's what made Derek violent. The only way he could get people to respect him was to slap 'em about and make 'em afraid of him."
"Is that his excuse?"
"No. He's not into excuses. Maybe that's why I feel sorry for him. He told me a bit about his childhood ... how he got dumped in institutions because his mum didn't want him, then legged it to live on the streets till he was nicked for shoplifting and sent to Borstal. That's why he's illiterate, never stayed in school long enough to learn basic skills. It makes you realize how important love is to a kid. If his mum had wanted him"-he pulled a rueful face-"maybe he'd have been one of the good guys."
I guessed he was talking as much about himself as he was about Derek. "Everyone has to deal with rejection at some point in their lives," I said.