I can’t stop the laugh before it bursts free. ‘You make me sound like someone who goes out looking for trouble. I’ve put many a man into the emergency room, but none of them have ended up in the morgue. I put them down and that’s the end of it. If they’re stupid enough to get up and try again, I make sure they don’t get up so easily the next time.’
‘I see a suppressed anger within you, Jake, a rage which will lead you into trouble if you don’t control it. Tell me, has anyone ever attacked you with a weapon?’
‘No.’ I don’t even have to think about the answer.
‘I’m worried that if someone comes at you with a weapon you’ll either get badly hurt or will turn your aggressor’s weapon onto them.’ He pauses. ‘It’s your mother’s worry too.’
That’s a low blow, which hits me twice. The problem is he’s landed the punch on my weak spot. I know that if someone comes at me with a weapon, my blood will boil too hot for containment. It is my biggest worry. Regardless of who comes at me, I make sure that when my hands go up, they stay empty.
I’m not going to admit my fears to him though.
‘You have occasions where you drink yourself into a stupor for days at a time. If someone came at you with a weapon during one of these episodes, do you think you could protect yourself and remain in enough control to not do something stupid?’
I lick my lips to buy a second or two of thinking time. ‘It’s never happened yet. Or at least if it has, I’ve had enough presence of mind to dispose of the body.’
My flippancy sees his top lip curl for a fraction of a second. ‘That’s not exactly a healthy attitude, Jake. You’re more than clever enough to have thought of these scenarios yourself. What do you think would happen?’
I don’t answer him. He has me bang to rights with my deepest fear and there is no way I am prepared to share that with anyone. I haven’t even let Alfonse raise the subject when he gives me one of his lectures.
After every drinking binge I take, Alfonse will regale me with whatever offence I’ve caused or stupid act I’ve committed. Then he’ll lecture me about the consequences of a local hard man being unable to stand when old foes have grudges to settle.
Still, I know leaving this question unanswered will tell the doctor more than anything I do say.
‘I’ve cut right back on my drinking and it’s over a year since I had one of those episodes as you call them.’ I give a self-deprecating shrug. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be. The hangovers aren’t worth the high I get from the first few drinks.’
‘You do know your kind of addictive personality will only drive you on to greater episodes the longer you deny yourself?’
‘That’s why I’ve not had a drink for so long.’ My honesty surprises me. I hadn’t intended opening myself quite so wide.
He looks over his pad into my eyes. ‘Either never drink again, or learn to have one or two drinks once a week. These infrequent binges and the rage inside you will get you into trouble you can’t escape if you don’t.’
18
She’s using the treadmill as the Watcher lifts weights. From his position he can see the beads of sweat beginning to form on her exposed shoulders and the nicotine patch on her upper arm.
In a strange kind of synchronicity, he feels a trickle of sweat run from his forehead into his left eye. A blink clears it and he glances around the room so as not to be so obvious in his observation of his target.
Around the room are the usual suspects found in all public gyms. The elderly battling the effects of time twenty-five years too late, young bucks and does pushing themselves to the limit, as they hone their bodies into whatever sculpture fits their idea of perfection. A pair of morbidly obese guys are huffing and puffing their way towards heart failure or fitness.
One of the sculpted gym bunnies comes over to him and makes a comment or two about his physique.
He smiles, acknowledging her compliments and returns them with praise for her toned body. He can tell she’s into him and plays along a little for appearances’ sake, letting the handles of the weight machine rest against their stops and lowering sweaty hands onto his knees.
Her eyes drift to his left hand. They neither widen nor narrow when they land on the ring Melanie gave him. She talks some more and then departs towards the bank of rowing machines with a wave.
He watches her go, then scans the room for the target, finding her by the wall getting water from the cooler.
She mops her forehead with a towel and totters in the direction of an exercise bike.
While she’s making adjustments to the seat and fiddling with the resistance setting, he switches to a different position and resumes his workout. He feels a sense of gratitude towards her for using the gym he frequents every day.
There’s anything but pleasure on her face as she nestles onto the seat and begins the cyclic thrusts.
The untoned muscle on her legs is flapping as he observes her in more detail. Her face is lined with age and cigarettes. Despite the pumping music and sounds of people working out, he can hear the hungry rasp of her breathing.
Given the choice at her age, he’d forget about exercise and enjoy what little time is left before infirmity takes over.
Tonight will be her last on earth, her efforts at buying more time futile in the face of a scalpel in the wrong hands. His hands.
His plans were prepared long ago for whichever victims fell into the pattern; the method chosen at random from a number of available options.
Once identified, he couldn’t help but select the grandmother who lived alone. It is too easy an opportunity to pass up and he is ready to escalate and gauge the police response. Three murders in four days will give them something to think about.
Her walking into the gym as he worked out was unexpected but not a problem. He’d had no contact with her and his face is here more often than hers.
A yawn climbs his throat and he realises he hasn’t slept for almost thirty-six hours. Knowing he needs to be fresh for tonight, he leaves the others to their workouts and heads for the locker room. A high protein meal, a handful of prescribed drugs and an empty bed seem more attractive than ever.
19
After hearing the growl from my stomach, I delay meeting with Alfonse long enough to catch a burger and fries at Sherri’s Diner.
Tourists visiting the town marvel at its fifties charm and memorabilia. Locals hear their comments about how good a job the designer has done recreating the décor and smile to themselves. Sherri’s hasn’t been refurbished since 1954 and owes its well-preserved state to Sherri’s maxim: ‘It ain’t clean until you can see the face of the person stood behind you’.
Her daughter Terri took over in the mid-seventies and runs the diner with an iron fist wrapped around a gentle heart. Slacking employees and obtuse customers are evicted with a broom print on their ass, while a sob story will always see her reaching for the cash register.
The food is legendary in these parts and many of the higher-class restaurants have tried to lure her cooks away without success. The one time a cook accepted another position, Terri marched into the restaurant and berated the owners in front of a packed dining room.
I welcome the time alone with my thoughts, as I chew through the meat and starch from both my plate and the meeting with Dr Edwards.
His final comments are too informed for my liking, causing me to suspect Mother’s interference. Calling her on it will do nothing more than fuel her concerns. What I want is to quell both her worries and meddling.
There is another suspicion which has plagued me for a while. Perhaps no one has lifted a weapon against me because they can all see I have the capability to take the weapon off them and use it myself.