The Suspect

“You know nothing about him.” He spits the words.

“Not true. I think I have something in common with Lenny… and with you. I need to take things apart— to understand how they work. That’s why I came looking for you. I thought you might help me figure something out.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’ve got most of the story now— I know about Erskine and Lucas Dutton, Justice McBride and Mel Cossimo. But what I can’t fathom is why you punished everyone except the person you hate the most.”

Bobby is on his feet, blowing himself up like one of those fish with the poisonous spikes. He shoves his face close to mine. I can see a vein, a faint blue pulsing knot above his left eyelid.

“You can’t even say her name, can you? She says you look like your father but that’s not entirely true. Every time you look in the mirror you must see your mother’s eyes…”

A knife is gripped between his fingers. He holds the point of the blade against my bottom lip. If I open my mouth it will draw blood. I can’t stop now.

“Let me tell you what I’ve worked out so far, Bobby. I see a small boy, suckled on his father’s dreams, but polluted by his mother’s violence…” The blade is so sharp I don’t feel a thing. Blood is leaking down my chin and dripping onto my fingers, still pressed against my neck. “He blames himself. Most victims of abuse do. He thought of himself as a coward— always running, tripping, mumbling excuses; never good enough, always late, born to disappoint. He thinks he should have been able to save his father, but he didn’t understand what was happening until it was too late.”

“Shut the fuck up! You were one of them. You killed him! You mind-fucker!”

“I didn’t know him.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You condemned a man you didn’t know. How arbitrary is that? At least I choose. You haven’t got a clue. You haven’t got a heart.”

Bobby’s face is still inches from mine. I see hurt in his eyes and hatred in the curl of his lips.

“So he blames himself, this boy, who is already growing too quickly and becoming awkward and uncoordinated. Tender and shy, angry and bitter— he can’t untangle these feelings. He hasn’t the capacity to forgive. He hates the world, but no more than he hates himself. He cuts his arms to rid himself of the poison. He clings to memories of his father and of how things used to be. Not perfect, but OK. Together.

“So what does he do? He withdraws from his surroundings and becomes isolated, making himself smaller, hoping to be forgotten, living inside his head. Tell me about your fantasy world, Bobby. It must have been nice to have somewhere to go.”

“You’ll only try to spoil it.” His face is flushed. He doesn’t want to talk to me, but at the same time he’s proud of his achievements. This is something he has made. A part of him does want to draw me into his world— to share his exhilaration.

The blade is still pressing into my lip. He pulls it away and waves it in front of my eyes. He tries to make it look practiced, but fails. He isn’t comfortable with a knife.

My fingers are growing numb holding the scarf away from my windpipe. And the lactic acid is building in my calves as I balance on my toes. I can’t hold myself up much longer.

“How does it feel to be omnipotent, Bobby? To be judge, jury and executioner, punishing all those who deserve to be punished? You must have spent years rehearsing all of this. Amazing. But who were you doing it for, exactly?”

Bobby reaches down and picks up a plank. He mumbles at me to shut up.

“Oh, that’s right, your father. A man you can hardly remember. I bet you don’t know his favorite song or what movies he liked or who his heroes were. What did he carry in his pockets? Was he left- or right-handed? Which side did he part his hair?”

“I told you to SHUT YOUR MOUTH!”

The plank swings in a wide arc, striking me across the chest. Air blasts out of my lungs and my body spins, tightening the scarf like a tourniquet. I kick my legs to try to spin back. My mouth is flapping like the gills of a stranded fish.

Bobby tosses the plank aside and looks at me as if to say, “I told you so.”

My ribs feel broken, but my lungs are working again.

“Just one more question, Bobby. Why are you such a coward? I mean it’s pretty obvious who deserved all this hatred. Look at what she did. She belittled and tormented your dad. She slept with other men and made him a figure of pity, even to his friends. And then, to top it all off, she accused him of abusing his own son…”

Bobby has turned away from me, but even the silence is speaking to him.

“She ripped up the letters he wrote to you. I bet she even found the photographs you kept and destroyed them. She wanted Lenny out of her life and out of yours. She hated hearing his name…”

Bobby is growing smaller, as if collapsing from the inside. His anger has turned to grief.

“Let me guess what happened. She was going to be the first. You went looking for her and found her easily enough. Bridget had never been the shy, retiring type. Her stilettos made big footprints.

“You watched her and waited. You had it all planned… every last detail. Now was the moment. The woman who had destroyed your life was just a few feet away, close enough for you to put those fingers around her throat. She was right there, right there, but you hesitated. You couldn’t do it. You were twice her size. She had no weapon. You could have crushed her so easily.”

I pause letting the memory live in his mind. “Nothing happened. You couldn’t do it. Do you know why? You were scared. When you saw her again you became that little boy, with his trembling bottom lip and his stutter. She terrified you then, and she terrifies you now.”

Bobby’s face is twisted in self-loathing. At the same time he wants to wipe me from his world.

“Someone had to be punished. So you found your child protection files and the list of names. And you set about punishing all those responsible, by taking away what each of them loved most. But you never lost the fear of your mother. Once a coward, always a coward. What did you think when you discovered she was dying? Has her cancer done the job for you, or has it robbed you?”

“Robbed me.”

“She’s dying a terrible death. I’ve seen her.”

He explodes. “It’s not enough. She is a MONSTER!”

He kicks at a metal drum, sending it spinning across the courtyard. “She destroyed my life. She made me into this.”

Spittle hangs from his lips. He looks at me for validation. He wants me to say, “You poor bastard. It is all her fault. It’s no wonder you feel like this.” I can’t give him that. If I sanction his hatred there is no way back.

“I’m not going to give you any bullshit excuses, Bobby. Terrible things happened to you. I wish it could have been different. But look at the world around you— there are children starving in Africa; jets are being flown into buildings; bombs are being dropped on civilians; people are dying of disease; prisoners are being tortured; women are being raped… Some of these things we can change, but others we can’t. Sometimes we just have to accept what happened and get on with our lives.”

He laughs bitterly. “How can you say that?”

“Because it’s true. You know it is.”

“I’ll tell you what’s true.” He is staring at me, unblinkingly. His voice is a low rumble. “There is a lay-by on the coast road through Great Crosby— about eight miles north of Liverpool. It’s on the dual carriageway, set back from the road. If you drive in there after ten o’clock at night, you will sometimes see another car parked up. You put on your indicator— either left or right, depending on what you want— and you wait for the car in front to respond with the same indicator. Then you follow it.”

His voice is ragged. “I was six when she first took me to the lay-by. I just watched the first time. It was in a barn somewhere. She was laid out on a table like a smorgasbord. Naked. There were dozens of hands on her. Anyone could do what they wanted. She had enough for all of them. Pain. Pleasure. It was all the same to her. And every time she opened her eyes she looked directly at me. ‘Don’t be selfish, Bobby,’ she said. ‘Learn to share.’? ”

He rocks slightly, back and forth, staring straight ahead, picturing the scene in his mind. “Private clubs and swingers bars were too middle class for my mother. She preferred her orgies to be anonymous and unsophisticated.