Her eyes have narrowed. “He panicked.”
“And that’s your explanation?”
“He’s a schizophrenic. He’s convinced he’s done bad things, but he hasn’t.”
She hears me sigh.
“You should talk to his lawyer,” I say. “Surrender your clinical notes.”
“He’ll have to share them with the prosecution.”
“You’re hiding behind protocol.”
“I’m trying to save Augie.”
“The police can get a court order.”
“Fine. When that happens I’ll abide by the law. Until then I’ll be siding with the angels.”
Our meals have arrived. I choose the bread roll, not willing to tackle the soup.
“You’re not hungry.”
“Not really.”
She signals the waitress, whispers something. Moments later another serving of soup arrives, this time in a mug. I should feel embarrassed, but I have gone beyond feeling self-conscious.
“Will you interview him again?”
“Who?”
“Augie. Talk to him.”
“I don’t see the point.”
“You’ll see I’m right. I’ve worked with him. He’s harmless.”
There’s something she’s not telling me; some other reason that Augie Shaw went to the Heymans’ house that night. He lost his job for inappropriate conduct. He was found in the daughter’s bedroom going through her things.
“Is this about the daughter?” I ask.
Victoria Naparstek shakes her head.
“Not the daughter… the wife.”
I often wonder what I look like now.
I can see bits of me: my hands, my feet, my stomach and my knees, but not my face. We used to have a mirror but Tash broke it and tried to cut her wrists so George took it away.
She didn’t cut very deeply, but that’s only because she couldn’t find a sharp enough edge. We also lost our only pair of scissors because Tash hacked off my hair. She was trying to make me look ugly. Uglier.
Knives, nail-clippers, all the sharps have been taken away like we’re living in some mental asylum. He even took the can-opener because he thought she might use the edge of the baked bean tin, but he gave it back again because we had to eat.
If I lean close to the tap I can see my reflection in the stainless steel, but the curve makes my head look like a squash. It’s like one of those funfair mirrors or the weird pictures you can make using Photo Booth on a Mac.
Tash will be back soon. She’ll bring the police… my mum and dad… the army, the navy, the Queen’s Guard. Every time I look at the window above the sink, I think about her. Every time I close my eyes.
The reason George hasn’t come is because the police must have arrested him. They’ve locked him up and I hope they beat the shit out of him or he gets raped with a broom handle in prison.
I’m sorry about my swearing. I have a potty mouth. I once overheard my mum telling my Aunt Jean that I might have Tourette’s Syndrome so I looked it up on Google and I found out it’s when you say fuck at inappropriate times and you do lots of eye-blinking and facial gymnastics. Gordon Ramsay does that all the fucking time, I thought, and I don’t swear at the wrong times, I just swear a lot.
I’m curled up on the bunk, wearing all my clothes. When Tash was here we used to lie together to keep warm and tell each other stories. We’d imagine eating make-believe meals like fish and chips, bread and butter pudding and chicken korma, Tash’s favorite.
After she cut off my hair, I offered to do hers, but she said it didn’t matter because it was falling out anyway. She could pull out chunks like it was some party trick.
When I was a little girl I used to wet my hair and flatten it with a comb, parading in front of the mirror pretending that I had straight hair. I did a lot of embarrassing things, which don’t seem so bad any more.
I’m eighteen now—as far as I can tell. I have no idea of the date, but I can count the seasons. Tash woke me one morning last spring and said she was throwing me a party for my birthday. We had biscuits and sweetened tea on a blanket in the middle of the floor.
Right now I know it’s winter because of the snow and the naked trees. I can look outside if I stand on the bench and lift myself up on tiptoes. The window is about ten inches high and wider across. If I hold my face close I feel the air coming through the crack at the bottom of the metal frame. At certain times of year, when the sun shines, it angles through the window and makes geometric shapes on the opposite wall that shift and twist. It’s my television, my weather channel.
That’s the window Tash squeezed through by standing on my shoulders. I’ve jammed it back in place so that George won’t be angry, but he’ll know the truth and there’s nowhere for me to hide.