I like to move it move it, I like to move it move it, I like to move it!
The man winces, just like they did in the coffee shop, only yesterday. He tugs harder on the lead, fearful this crazy, manic man might attack him. Winking as I pass doesn't appease his fears. I feel like telling him not to worry, that it isn't me he needs to fear, it is the serial killer out on the loose, hunting us down. I turn around, but the back of his head becomes smaller and smaller.
I keep walking, yet I still keep glancing over my shoulder. It is an urge, a compulsion, some kind of nervous twitch. I remember I did the same during my Welsh O Level in school. The desks were set in straight lines in the gymnasium. Rows and rows of desks. I had the feeling that the boy sat behind me was doing something behind my back, something with his hands. I had no idea what, but whatever it was put me in great danger. I kept turning around, but he had his head down, scribbling away, just like everybody else in the hall; everybody else in the hall but me. I knew that I had to concentrate to pass the exam; but, how could I? I was in terrible danger, but I had no idea what of.
Nothing happened in that gym hall, of course, apart from me failing the exam.
I keep swinging my arms, long and high until they're almost punches. I raise my knees high to my waist. The perceptions through my senses are dull and foggy; the images in my mind are bright, clear and clinical. My world feels like it has been turned upside down. I picture the girl in the coffee shop, though I'd like to blank her out. Her lips curled and her eyes widened, didn't they? The girl knew something, didn't she? But how? It isn't possible. My mind has to be playing tricks. Her image is replaced by the girls from school. We were just children. I was shy, overweight and awkward and I didn't have many friends, at least, not after my brother left me I didn't. Luke, why did you leave me? I repulsed girls. I was neither attractive enough nor cool enough for them to want to be associated with me. Quite the reverse: they didn't want to be tarnished by association. This was over thirty years ago, of course. What can it matter now? But I still long to push the images out of my mind: the girls are glancing and whispering and pointing. I felt exposed. I felt like a freak.
Of course, one girl was different. One girl seemed more like me, seemed to understand me. And yet, I ruined that, too, didn't I?
My pace quickens until I'm almost jogging. The sound of the girls laughing quietens, becomes more distant, and it is replaced by the words of Baldwin, in the interview room, speaking in my ear.
I know you're not telling me everything. I know you have a secret.
I press my body against the brick wall and bend at the waist, hands grazing my knees. The world becomes clear again as I look down at the dry pebbles and the wet worms slithering on the floor. My hands move to my waist and my eyes rise to the curve of the tunnel, to the cobwebs and the pigeons that lurk like shadows, like danger. A car rumbles and splutters over the bridge. The back of my head knocks against the wall. It feels damp. I press the palm of my hand to my mouth to smother my gasps.
And then, I wait.
I wait and wait until I wonder what it is I'm waiting for, but then I catch the leather of his shoe as he comes around the corner, as he enters the tunnel. Does he have any idea what or who is waiting for him?
My hands circle his throat, the tips of my thumbs press into his Adams Apple. The whites of his eyes widen as the black fades away.
"You," I say.
*******
Blaming everything on paranoia has given me some comfort. After all, if I'm merely paranoid, then all of the perceived atrocities of the world exist only in my mind. I am only a risk to myself. Heal my mind and the world around me heals itself. Now, the only reassurance is that I wasn't going mad.
I'd prefer madness.
A table separates us, just like in Richard's office. I estimate that I could reach his throat if I leaned forward and pressed my belly against the curved edge of the table. On the other hand, my chair is the closest to the exit. I'd be the favourite in a chase. I need to keep my options open: fight or flight.
His face was one of sheer terror when I pinned him in the tunnel. I recognised that look. From my dreams. My nightmares. My dreams are nearly always nightmares. I recognised the look as that of my own when he was about to slash me with the razor. The look sucked the life out of me.
I watch him now as he eyes his cup of tea like it is a precious jewel. I make sure he knows I'm watching him. He appears fascinated by the rim of the cup. My eyes burn into him. One of his cheeks flushes pink, like a birthmark.
"You were at the bowling complex," I tell him. "I saw you. I thought I imagined it, but I didn't, did I?
