Our inactive and stunted conversation becomes even more inactive and stunted by the unexpected appearance of an old woman on a mobility scooter. I have no idea what the speed limit is, but whatever it is, she appears to be exceeding it. Her purple hair is in rollers. Her face lights up when she sees Ken. Already, I like the woman.
"Kenneth!" she shouts. "Working hard, I see." She glances down at the coffee and then winks. "I can't stop. I have a date. And I see you have company. I'm quite sure I can't compete with this handsome young man, even if you are straight. But I will see you tomorrow and we will have a proper chat. You hear?"
"I hear," Ken says. His wave is to her retreating back.
Clearly, Ken is part of this woman's life. He is possibly not as isolated as I imagined. I warm to him.
"So, Ken," I begin, clearing my throat, "I was just wondering whether you've had any more trouble off those lads from the other day? No more grief, I hope?"
The spark disappears from Ken's eyes. He takes another gulp of his drink. He looks away. I follow his gaze, almost expecting something to be there. "Not those boys, no. And thank you for that, by the way."
I look closely at him for more clues. His face remains a mask. "There are others?"
He nods his head. "There are always others." He turns to me now, his eyes almost pleading. Even the whites are grey and cloudy. "All I want to do is put the trolleys away and keep the place looking nice." He looks up to the heavens, even though we are under cover. "Is that too much to ask?"
I assure him that it isn't. It isn't right. "Any trouble in particular?"
"Trouble is always there, on and off. I can go for days without any bother, and then the next day it can feel like all I'm doing is brushing them off. Can't actually say I've had any for days. But somehow it feels worse than ever..."
"What do you mean?"
Ken crushes the empty cup in his hand and puts it in his polythene bag. "Think I'm going mad. Feels like somebody is watching me. Must be paranoid. Who would waste their time watching me? Dull as dishwater I am."
I assure him that he isn't paranoid, then I assure him that nobody is watching him. I expect him to query that he must be one or the other, but he doesn't. Keen to move things along, I pull my card from my pocket. It is faded and creased and just a little pathetic. Patrick Bateman would not be impressed. Ken stares at the words. Can he read?
"You want me to go on one of your workshops?" he asks. "What the fuck for? You trying to better me? I'm happy doing what I'm doing."
"No, no," I say, talking hurriedly. "The card has my telephone number on it. You give me a call if you get any more trouble..."
Ken fixes me a stare. It is much more intimidating than any given to me in the boardroom. "Why?"
This - again - is a reasonable question. Again, I don't really have a reasonable answer. "Why not?"
Ken pauses and then nods his head. Uncertain. I shake his hand and then go on my way. Maybe I am content that I have done my good deed for the day. This is what Mum would have done.
Ken calls after me. "Oh. And thank you..."
I tell him that it really is no problem at all, none whatsoever.
DAY FOURTEEN 14TH JUNE 2018
They say once is unlucky, twice is careless.
I won't be tricked a second time. Something reassures me - maybe it is a voice, only this time it is the virtuous one, the one that is on my side - that it is alright, that although it feels far from alright, it is, because none of this is real. Is Richard speaking to me? Whatever, it is a protective shield, and because I am protected, I know that however bad the shit goes down, I'll be alright. This time I know I'm dreaming. None of this is real. It is just a...
He is on the boat again. My boat. Our boat. Me. Erica. Him. His movements are slow. He doesn't want to move quickly - that would be too simple. Simon said he craves excitement, didn't he? Simon says. Spartacus wants to torture me. He wants to kill me slowly, to leisurely suck the life out of me merely for his own sadistic thrill.
I want to spring out of bed, to stand up and fight him but, just like the last time, I can't. My ankles are tied together with shroud-laid rope. I try to kick, but somebody is sitting on my knees, applying their full bodyweight. I am a bird that has fallen from his perch and landed on the bottom of the cage. My body is laden with an almighty weight. I am too heavy, but the excess weight has not translated into strength, for not only am I too heavy, but I am too weak, too.
But it is fine, because I won't be tricked again. I have a protective shield, and none of this is real. It is all just a dream.
He moves closer. He moves agonizingly slowly, but he does move, nevertheless. He will get to me in the end, whether it is
