There's something I'm hanging onto, something that is giving me hope. An absolute game changer. I tell myself that, however messed up this is, it could all still be alright. It all clings on what he tells me next. I'm urging him to say the words, to spit them out, but then I'm pushing them back into his mouth, fearing what he'll say.
I hope it is him who's been playing these games. I can cope if it is. I can beat this guy physically and - possibly - mentally. I don't fear him. And, it would quash my greatest fear.
Spartacus isn't out there after all.
"Yes," he says. "I was there at the bowling."
My heart races. Open up my hands. Ask him to continue. He keeps avoiding eye contact. Remains silent.
"Tell me why I shouldn't just go to the police.”
He looks up. His eyes burn into me now, making my cheeks flush. "You tell me. I don't know why you don't go to the police. That's something I've wanted to ask you."
I go to explain, go to justify the reasons, but then I stop. Why am I explaining anything to him? I'm not giving him the upper hand, letting him back me into a corner. "Why have you done this?" I ask. "What have I done to you, Simon?"
"What exactly is it you think I've done?"
"Everything."
I hope that it is everything.
"I haven't done anything.”
I slam my fist on the table. His precious tea spills over the rim of the cup. "Bullshit! You've already said you followed me at the bowling. And I've just caught you following me down by the canal. Didn't you realise I knew you were there all along? Why do you think I picked up my pace? You think you're the one playing games? Don't sit there and tell me you haven't done anything, okay?"
Leaning back, Simon holds up his hands. "Okay, I've been following you. But I haven't done anything..."
"Not done anything? So why were you following me then?"
"Because I want to catch him. And you're the key to finding him."
My heart sinks. My shoulders hunch forward. I've heard those words before. From Baldwin. Repeatedly. It didn't end well.
Now I want to slam my fist into the side of his face. Not because he wants to catch him. I want to pummel his face because he is convinced Spartacus really is doing this. It crushes any last hopes I have that it isn't him.
"I know what you think about me," Simon says. "You think I'm some loser kid who lives in his basement with his mum, don't you?"
"But you do. That isn't opinion. It is merely fact."
Simon jerks his head. He needs to approach this from a different angle, doesn't he? One that actually makes sense. "Yes, I still live with my mum. Yes, I spend a lot of time in the basement. I know better than anybody that this is classic serial killer fodder. I know it would be easier for you if I was the psycho, that you hope I am the psycho..."
Damn. He knows what I'm thinking. He is right. Never before have I wanted somebody to be a psychopath so much. "Sometimes if it looks like shit and smells like shit then it probably is shit," I reply, but even as the words come out of my mouth I know I'm punching from the ropes.
"That there might be the problem," Simon says. The sparkle in his eyes - hidden somewhere behind his glasses - has returned. "You've reverted to stereotype because it is the easiest thing to do, because you don't want to face up to reality. Let us start with the basement, shall we? That is my workplace, my sanctuary, my little piece of the world that is separate from everything and everybody. It is just like an office or a shed. I work long hours..."
"Sounds delightful."
"I write a lot of books..."
"About serial killers."
"About serial killers," he says. "Somebody has to, because there is a demand for it, there is a thirst for it from millions of people who live perfectly normal lives. I just happen to be better than most other people at it, that's all. I'll come back to that. You know that house, though, Marcus? That house is mine. I paid for it with my money, primarily from the sales of books that I wrote. About serial killers. So really - no, fuck it, there is no really about it - my mum lives with me. I moved her in to live with me. She isn't getting any younger and, if she didn't live with me, then she'd either live on her own or in a nursing home. I just want you to reconsider those preconceptions before you reach your conclusions about this situation. I look after my mum just as much as she looks after me..."
I consider this. It is only his living arrangements. It does change the preconception I had about him. But then - really - who gives a fuck? Goddamn, plenty of men live with their mums these days, it is just the way of the world. The real issue at hand is whether or not he is behind these games, isn't it? And none of this changes any of that. My hope that he is the psychopath I want him to be, though, does feel like it is draining away.
"She used to own her own home," Simon continues. "She used to live with my dad until my dad died."
He told me when we first met that his dad died. He appeared keen to tell me about it but I didn't really want to know, did I?
