I just know, from the tingling in my cheeks, that my face has reddened. It takes a lot to make me blush, but I am blushing.
"You got me there. I accept that is good. Of course that is good."
Richard nods his head and raises his eyebrows in unison. It is rather distracting. "You know what it means?"
I shake my head and look away from his eyebrows.
"It means," he says, "that now you know you can beat him. You thought you could before. But your belief had not been tested. Not for a long, long time. You've developed and grown from an introverted teenager into a strong, confident man. The transformation has been dramatic. This should give you even more confidence. Before you were like an elephant. You were big and strong and respected, but not really doing a great deal. Now you are like a lion. You are King of the Jungle. How does that make you feel?"
I feel like hammering my fists against my almighty chest. I rock back and forth in the chair. "I feel good," I say.
"Do you think you could have beaten him the first time you sat opposite me in that chair, all those years ago? Ten years ago now, is it?"
"No way. He would have beaten me down and spat me out."
I don’t know if Richard is aware, but we tend to have the same conversations again and again. We have for ten years now and there is a decent chance we will do so in another ten years. Sometimes I wonder whether he has the same conversations with all of his other clients, too, or if I’m the chosen one. Richard doggedly sticks to the same approach. His belief is unfaltering and borderline irrational. But unlike that guy in the group session all those years ago, I don’t question it.
Richard guffaws. And then he snorts. He sniffs through his impressive nostrils. "You know what that is?" he asks.
I shrug my shoulders.
"That, my friend," he says, "is the scent of progress."
His laughter is thunderous, and it fills each corner of the room.
I thought that I was supposed to be the crazy one. I should have known that Richard would try and take all the credit. I break into a smile and give him a high-five.
DAY ELEVEN 11TH JUNE 2018
I stand still, on the spot, and it feels like the rest of the world is moving around me in fast forward. My feet remain motionless but my thoughts are racing, moving faster than any of the people that surround me. I have a decision to make. An important one. This can't be rushed.
My fingers rub against the card in my hand. I considered throwing it in the bin, hoping I wouldn't need it, but then I kept it, just in case. I eye the building, large and intimidating. I imagine DCI Reeves sat in his office, watering his plants or polishing his desk, maybe sipping his herbal tea. I picture his reaction when he sees me. He will be polite but brisk, making sure he does what is expected of him but at the same time bristling with irritation. After all, I'm a waste of his invaluable time. Picture his face when I brief him on the developments. Things have changed. I have something more substantial for him.
I think back to the library. I pressed my hand to my mouth when I saw the words on the mirror, felt bile rise up my throat. Then I pulled my hand away and grabbed my phone and took a photo. It was my gut reaction, the first thing that came to my mind. My second thought was that he'd left evidence. His blood was smothered on the mirror. Forensics would have a field day. The last thing I wanted to do was go anywhere near it, for it repulsed me - but I had to, didn't I? But as I stepped closer, I realised something: it wasn't blood, it was lipstick. What did I feel? Disappointment? Or relief? Right then, I wasn't quite sure.
I thought about wiping away the writing with some toilet paper and water, for it made me feel exposed, that a dirty secret was up on the wall for the world to see. But then, it didn't actually mean anything, did it? So, I just ran, partly to get out of there and partly because the library was about to shut. My senses were on red alert, looking around, expecting him to spring from behind a bookshelf. Nothing. And there has been nothing since. Four days.
I wonder what Reeves will say when I tell him. He'll probably get hung up on the trivial details, smirk that I sneaked into the cubicle for a cheeky read of the newspaper at closing time, roll his eyes when I show him the photo. I know what he'll think, though: somebody is messing with me. He'll reassure me that they take harassment very seriously. He'll take a statement. Ask some questions of the library staff. Maybe check the CCTV.
But what he won't accept is that it is him, that this is the work of Spartacus. He'll fire out a comprehensive list of reasons why it isn't him, deliver a longer list of alternatives. I don't want him to half-heartedly investigate a possible stalker, tick the boxes to show he's doing his job. I want him to hunt down and slay one of the most notorious serial killers of recent times.
That's what Baldwin would have done. He would have rolled his sleeves up and taken whatever means necessary - fair or foul - to catch the evil bastard.
Another memory from the library plays in my mind. It is an alternative. Another way.
I make my decision.
I turn from the building. Start walking away.
Somebody knocks into me.
