‘I’m going to have the lasagne,’ Erin said. ‘Do you know what you want?’
He turned his head in her general direction. ‘Turkey.’
She scanned the menu. ‘You’re in luck.’ A turkey sandwich was on the list. Best not mention the selection of white bread or brown, mustard or mayo. Too many choices.
When the waitress returned, pencil poised, Erin prompted Tim to give his order. He mumbled, looking at the floor. ‘Turkey. And a… Coke. Coca-Cola. Not too cold, not too warm.’
‘White bread and mayo on his order,’ Erin said, lowering her voice, ‘and I’ll have the lasagne and a cup of tea.’
The waitress gave Tim an odd look before turning on her heel and scooting away. Her face was easy to read: one of those crazies from the loony bin down the road.
From under the strands of hair hiding his eyes, Tim shot quick glances at the other diners. ‘Twelve. Odd numbers are better.’
Two girls breezed inside, bringing with them the metallic chill of the outdoors.
‘Fourteen.’ Angling his body away from the window, Tim stared at a crack in the floor tiles, then his ragged cuticles, and finally the soles of his shoes, left foot, right foot. With a furtive, sideways tilt of his head, his eyes flicked to the two girls who’d installed themselves at the next table. With their long silky hair, bright faces, and animated chatter, they must seem as exotic as toucans.
It was a relief when the waitress arrived with their order. Tim leaned over his plate and sniffed. With the flat end of a spoon, he lifted a corner of the bread and examined the contents, then transferred the tomato and lettuce onto a paper napkin. With the sandwich reassembled, he sniffed again and took a bite.
‘Turkey always makes me think of your Thanksgiving,’ Erin said, her voice bright. ‘It sounds like a fun holiday.’ Liar. She’d loathed Thanksgiving as a child. Holidays in her home were an unceasing nightmare. Alcohol-fuelled rages, humiliation, tears. Worse after her father died. ‘What was Thanksgiving like at your house?’
He made a clicking sound, deep in his throat. On a paper napkin, he sketched with a pencil stub he’d taken from his pocket the skull of a large bird, with teeth the size of tombstones.
What was this?
His face was closed down like a shop after hours, lights off, the window shuttered. But what had she expected? That he would prattle on about happy family holidays? Except for the horrifying deaths that marked a gruesome end to his adolescence, his past was a blank slate. For all she knew, happy times in the Stern home were few and far between. Join the club. Though he claimed no memory of the murders, he’d been told repeatedly what he’d done. Surely the details were lodged somewhere in the caverns of his mind.
Tim fidgeted in the chair. Next to his plate, the paper napkin with the bird skull lay in strips. He tapped his fingers on the table, muttered under his breath. ‘Rat-a-tat-tat, they’re at it again, at it again. Too cool for school. History girl, mystery girl.’
Erin stopped short, fork suspended. It was the string of nonsense words she’d glimpsed on that scrap of paper. Slowly, so as not to disturb the air around them, she placed her fork on the plate.
‘You know,’ she said, resting her chin in her hands, ‘it’s so much easier for two people to get to know one another if they talk about things they like. Shall we make it into a game? Let’s pretend that you and I have just met. At a party, for instance, or maybe a… baseball game.’
A muscle jumped in his jaw. Was she asking too much? She looked away, not wanting to spook him with eye contact.
‘Why don’t I start?’ Erin continued. ‘Let’s see, I like… butterscotch ice cream, but I don’t like… loud noises. My favourite colour is yellow, and I like the way it smells outdoors after a rainstorm.’ She scanned his face. So far, so good. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
She had his attention now. Around his plate, he’d arranged the uneaten bread crusts like the spokes of a wheel.
‘I like…’ He stroked the sickle-shaped scar under his eye. ‘I like… birds.’
‘Great. What’s your favourite colour?’
‘Pink? No. Pink is for girls, blue is for boys. Blue, moo, boo. I like blue.’
‘And what about when you were young. Did you have a favourite toy or book?’
His eyes shifted to the floor.
‘Or a favourite place?’ Silence. ‘I know what mine is.’ She took a breath and ploughed on, blithely ignoring Harrison’s concerns. ‘It’s this little town on the Maine coast I visited one summer with my parents. There were these colourful lobster boats in the bay, and a place by the docks that sold really good ice cream.’
Tim’s chin snapped up, his eyes wide, a deer in headlights. ‘Is this a… a trick? I won’t go back there. Dr Harrison said I never have to go there again.’ He struggled to his feet, upsetting his water glass. A breadknife clattered to the floor. ‘I want to go back to my room now.’ His raised voice was ragged with fear. The other diners turned to stare.
‘Timothy. It’s all right.’ She tried to catch his eye. ‘Look at me. It’s not a trick. I didn’t mean to upset you. Look at me. Deep breaths. You don’t have to go back there. I promise. Look at me.’
Sweat streamed down his face. His pupils were huge. ‘I want to go back to my room now.’ He wrenched his coat off the back of the chair and bolted for the door. She’d never seen him move so fast.
No time to signal the waitress. She tossed some bills on the table and ran after him, wondering what she would say to Harrison if he got away from her.
But he hadn’t run away. Crouched on the pavement
