"You don't say."
"Would you like a drink?"
Sometimes I go black. Sometimes I have sugar. Sometimes, if I'm feeling particularly rebellious, I even have chocolate sprinklings on top. "A white coffee, no sugar, would be just grand.”
Simon has long legs and suitably long strides, and he reaches the stairs in no time. He is keen to play the perfect host, I think. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, he stretches his narrow body so that the blue veins in his neck are visible.
"Mum!" he shouts. "Can you please make a white coffee? Oh, and bring me an energy drink, please."
His mother groans from somewhere upstairs, somewhere in the house.
"Listen, I'm sorry to hear what happened to your mum, yeah?"
"That's okay," I reply. "And thank you."
"My dad is no longer with us, either," he says. "The circumstances surrounding that weren't good, either.”
"Right."
"So...?"
"So...?"
He shifts on his seat. "It is obviously a privilege to have you visit my humble abode," he says, looking around at the dark, dismal surroundings and allowing himself a smile. I'm momentarily impressed by his self mockery. "This isn't purely a social visit, is it? Why are you here? What has happened...?"
I've asked myself these very questions over the last few days - repeatedly - and yet I still don't have a credible answer. But the simple answer is that I need help. I doubt that he can give any, but I'm running out of options. At the very least this guy should be interested in what I have to say.
"I would like your opinion on something."
"My proverbial door is always open."
"You're a writer, right?"
"I write books, yes. It still doesn't sound quite right to me when I say that I'm a writer, but I'll accept the compliment, for sure."
"You write books about serial killers?"
"I'm a true crime writer, incorporating serial killers."
"And you know who I am, yes?"
"Better than you can imagine. You're Marcus Clancy; formerly Jeffrey Allen. "
"Right. Well. The other day I was in the library, browsing through books about Spartacus. I was amazed how many books there are. This guy kills people. What can possibly be the fascination? Anyway. One book caught my attention. I looked at the back cover and it was your ugly mug. You're something of an expert, right?"
Simon theatrically fans his face. The guy (I think) has a sense of humour. Clearly, though, he is not used to this level of flattery. "Put it this way, if I ever appeared on Mastermind, then serial killers would be my specialist subject. I don't know much about anything else really. Spartacus is easily my favourite serial killer. He's the one that really gets my blood racing."
I bow my head. "Thought so."
I remind myself that I know something about him, something about his theories on what happened, that he won't be aware of. I do this to give me some inner-strength. It somehow feels like it gives me the upper hand.
"I'm hoping you might be able to help with my current predicament."
I sense Simon leaning forward. We are linked in a conspiracy. I can smell his aftershave. It is surprisingly (and welcomingly) overpowering, like he has sprayed on too much to drown out all the other stale odours in his den. It must have taken copious sprays. Reminds me that Baldwin always smelt good. Simon whispers, "Is he back?"
I look up and notice that his eyes, under his glasses, are like saucers: large and round and expectant. I'm shocked by this question. "Why would you think that?"
Simon chuckles. His teeth are unexpectedly small, orderly and white. My first impression was of a crooked, yellow teeth kind of guy. He runs his hands through his long hair. "Oh, come on, Marcus. Why else would you be here...? You've been completely off the grid for thirty years. You've done everything you physically could do to remove yourself from your past life. And then one day - today - you appear in my den asking for a white coffee. Where on earth is that drink by the way? I'm prone to an afternoon dip if I don't get my energy drink." Simon gets up on his feet and stares at the ceiling, like a man might look to the heavens, but then he shakes his head and sits down again. I presume that, now he is on something of a roll, he has concluded that this is far more important. "Listen. My point is that you moved away, you changed your identity, you did everything you possibly could to get away from him, and now suddenly here you are, asking questions. Look at it from my perspective. Put yourself in my size tens for a moment. What else could possibly drive you to make that radical, crazy step...?"
I seize the opportunity. I don't want his professional opinion as an academic; I want his personal opinion, off the record. Some colour has risen to his chalky complexion. His emotions are running high; he is a kid visiting Disneyland, or an Apple store, for the first time. There is a decent chance he has lowered his guard. "So, you think he is still out there?"
Simon shrugs his narrow shoulders. "Why wouldn't he be? I see no reason why Spartacus shouldn't be a fit, healthy and functioning member of society. Sure, he could be in prison, but I think he is too clever to get caught. By all accounts, from the very little we know, and, to be blunt, most of that information has come from you, he was just a teenager when he went on his killing spree. Spartacus was probably eighteen or nineteen back in June 1988. The statements from Julie and Kate Phillips back this up, even though he was dressed as a bio-exorcist when they encountered him. And so, thirty years later, he is
