Roz’s eyes were over bright.
“I hurt,” she said simply.
“I’ve been hurting for months.” But why was she telling Olive all this instead of the nice safe psychiatrist Iris had recommended? Because Olive would understand.
“Who do you want dead?” The question vibrated in the air between them like a tolled bell.
Roz thought about the wisdom of answering.
“My ex husband she said.
“Because he left you?”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
But Roz shook her head.
“If I tell you, you’ll try to persuade me I’m wrong to hate him.” She gave a strange laugh.
“And I need to hate him. Sometimes I think it’s the only thing that’s keeping me alive.”
“Yes,” said Olive evenly.
“I can understand that.” She breathed on the window and drew a gallows in the mist with her finger.
“You loved him once.” It was a statement, expecting no reply, but Roz felt compelled to answer.
“I can’t remember now.”
“You must have done.” The fat woman’s voice became a croon.
“You can’t hate what you never loved, you can only dislike it and avoid it. Real hate, like real love, consumes you.”
With a sweep of her large palm she wiped the gallows from the window.
“I suppose,” she went on, matter of factly, ‘you came to see me to find out whether murder is worth it.”
“I don’t know,” Roz said honestly.
“Hall the time I’m in limbo, the other hail I’m obsessed by anger. The only thing I’m sure of is that I’m slowly falling apart.”
Olive shrugged.
“Because it’s inside your head. Like I said, it’s bad to keep things bottled up. It’s a pity you’re not a Catholic. You could go to confession and feel better immediately.”
Such a simple solution had never occurred to Roz.
“I was a Catholic, once. I suppose I still am.”
Olive took another cigarette and placed it reverently between her lips like a consecrated wafer.
“Obsessions,” she murmured, reaching for a match, ‘are invariably destructive. That, at least, I have learnt.” She spoke sympathetically.
“You need more time before you can talk about it. I understand. You think I’ll pick at the scab and make you bleed again.”
Roz nodded.
You don’t trust people. You’re right. Trust has a way of rebounding.
I know about these things.”
Roz watched her light the cigarette.
“What was your obsession?”
She ificked Roz a strangely intimate look but didn’t answer.
“I needn’t write this book, you know, not if you don’t want me to.”
Olive smoothed her thin blonde hair with the back of her thumb.
“It’ll upset Sister Bridget if we give up now. I know you’ve seen her.”
“Does that matter?”
Olive shrugged.
“It might upset you if we give up now. Does that matter?”
She smiled suddenly and her whole face brightened. How very nice she looked, thought Roz.
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said.
“I’m not convinced myself that I want to write it.”
“Why not?”
Roz pulled a face.
“I should hate to turn you into a freak side-show.”
