Six of Hearts(57)

“Okay, Mr Wonka.” I laugh. There’s a moment of quiet before I say, “Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away.”

“What’s it like in prison?”

Jay lets out a bark of a laugh. “Be honest. You’ve committed some heinous crimes that are about to come to light, and you’re afraid of being thrown in the can. I’m right, aren’t I?” That mischievous look that’s so often on his face is there again.

I raise my hands in the air, replying deadpan, “Okay, you’ve got me. I’m secretly an underground drug lord, and one of my cronies has sold me out to the authorities.”

Jay laughs some more. “You’re funny.” He pauses, and his face sobers. It takes a while before he says anything. “It’s like being locked in a world where violence is God and you’re constantly waiting to become the next victim of its wrath.”

Wow. That was kind of poetic.

“Did you really almost beat a man to death? Is that why you were put in there?”

Jay shakes his head and his eyes grow dark, like he’s remembering the experience. “I was put there for pickpocketing, which, coincidentally, is great training for doing magic. You’ve got to steal stuff right out from under a person’s nose without them ever realising you’re there. I told you I used to pick pockets, didn’t I? Had to. It’s the only way to survive on the streets.”

“You did. But Una Harris said you were put away because you beat a man.”

“She’s obviously gotten her wires crossed,” says Jay, a satisfied look passing over his face, and then it’s gone. “I’ve been arrested a few times for getting into fights, so perhaps that’s where she got it from. When you’ve got nothing, you’ll justify many things in order to survive, even hurting people.”

The serious look on his face gives me pause, and I’m not sure why, but I feel immense sympathy for him in this moment. I clear my throat and continue speaking.

“So, Una must have seen some of your records from back in America, then.”

“Must have.”

“I don’t get how such a shoddily researched article ever made it to print. Wouldn’t her boss have made sure it was all true before giving the green light to publish it?”

“More lies are printed than truths, Watson. I think we both know that. And perhaps her boss is just as much of a degenerate as she is.”

“A degenerate?” I question curiously.

“She’s not the only one who’s done some snooping. In fact, I probably know more about her than she does about me.”

I get up now and go to sit beside him, asking seriously, “What do you know about her?”

He rubs his chin. “Well, now, let me see. She’s addicted to prescription meds. Oh, and plastic surgery. Her husband divorced her because she had an affair. She lives alone with her pet Chihuahua. She’s abusive towards her housekeeper. She gets a manicure every Friday morning. She attends church every Sunday, you know, to keep up appearances. And, last but not least, she’s been sleeping with her boss on and off for the last sixteen years.”

“What?! Her boss at the newspaper?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Like I said, I’ve been getting my ducks in a row for a while now.”

“Yeah, but you can’t use any of that information in court, Jay. Especially if you came across it illegally.”

Suddenly, I remember the time when he’d gone to speak with that shifty-looking man in the bar after Simon Silver’s seminar. There had been an exchange of envelopes. Was he a private investigator or something else?

“I doubt I’ll need to. This shit always comes out in one way or another, and Una Harris is hiding too much shit to keep buried. Sooner or later it’s going to hit the proverbial fan.”

Again, I get the impression that there’s far more he’s not telling me. I don’t push him, though, don’t feel it’s my place.

“I’m sorry she’s been spreading lies about you,” I say, putting a hand comfortingly on his shoulder.

Jay’s eyes travel to my hand and stay there for a moment. Then he reaches up and puts his hand over mine. “And I’m sorry that you had to go through everything you did. That you were alone in the world,” I continue.

“I wasn’t alone — I just chose to be. At the time I’d rather live on the streets than with a lunatic uncle. I’d already suffered enough madness with my father before he died.”

This is a rare moment of candour, and I want to know more, so I ask in a whisper, “Your dad was crazy, too?”