Gus interrupts me. I see the scorn on his face, and I can’t blame him. ‘You’re saying that Ben killed his mum after finding her in bed with someone?’ He laughs and the disbelief in that sound pierces me.
‘Aye, that’s what I’m telling ye. My lads were big lads – they took after me.’
The tartan loon psychiatrist removes his specs and lifts his T-shirt up to wipe them revealing a hairy belly that at any other time would make me laugh, but Angus is still speaking, still in that doubtful tone. ‘So, you took the blame?’
‘Yes, I took the blame. I staged it to look like Rory’s mum’s death – thought they might think it was suicide like they did with her – but they didn’t. Ben helped me set it up. I swore him to secrecy – made him promise to get on with his life … I thought the boys would be better off with different parents. Ones that could take better care of them than an unemployed shipyard worker.’
I’m so attuned to the change in Angus’s moods that I realise from the way his eyes darken, what his next question will be.
‘How could you possibly know anything about Rory’s mum’s death? You were only a kid yourself when it happened.’
He’s tense, doubtful, almost accusing, and I wonder if my honest explanation will be enough to convince him. ‘I already told you that when I was old enough, I traced Coco, didn’t I? She was at university and she often hung out with Rory at lunchtime. I checked him out. Went to an exhibition he had at the Art School.’
I smile, remembering how awed I’d been to see some of the images. ‘There were intricate pencil drawings of your mama as a child and then again when they reconnected at university. They were enthralling. He’d also drawn a series; I’ll never forget it. He entitled it ‘Torture of the Mind.’ In the middle was a charcoal drawing of a woman hanging from a rope. The only colour in the sketch was her toenails which were a vivid red. Her face was blurred, but she looked like she was still, very gently, moving. It was heartbreaking.’
I glance over at Rory; he’s mumbling to himself and not for the first time I curse myself for my part in his downfall. Still watching him, his pencil flashing over his paper, his concentration so focussed on his task, I flinch. The difference between the Rory of those days and this shell of him now taunts me every day. ‘Around the long rectangular drawing were a series of smaller, more detailed square line drawings of various parts of the woman – her feet, her hands, the rope round her neck … they were awful, but so poignant. When I left the exhibition, I just had to find out more about this talented man, who seemed to know my sister after she left us.’
When I look up, Angus is looking at Rory, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Then when he speaks, it’s clear that he still disbelieves me. ‘So, not only did you let my mum continue to think you were dead – something she blamed herself for all her life – you stalked her just as you stalked your own sons. You really are the business, aren’t you, Jimmy?’
It’s no more than I deserve, still his words slice through me and the urge to slam my head against the table is almost too strong to withstand. Yet, somehow, I do. If I mess up now, before I’ve at least made him consider my innocence, then I’m done, and Coco will be in danger. ‘Stalking is a strong word, Angus. I wanted to check she was OK, just as I wanted to make sure my kids were OK too.’ I sip my Irn Bru which has long since gone flat, through the straw. I’m not used to talking so much and my throat feels like I’ve swallowed razors.
‘I was curious about Rory after that. Really curious. They seemed close, he and Coco, and I just wanted to get a sense of what her childhood had been like.’ I pause, remembering my own childhood. The sweat from punters forcing themselves on my pre-pubescent body – the pain – the hurt, the eventual desensitising as I grew to expect it. ‘I had to make sure she hadn’t suffered the way I had. That’s how I found out about Rory’s mum – poor sod found her like that and, it tainted the rest of his life. Even now, when he gets distressed, it’s that image he draws.’
We sit in silence, then. Bernie smiles encouragingly at me and I appreciate it, but the person I want – no, need – to convince is still sceptical. With his dreads pulled back from his face, his angular cheekbones stand out proud. His lips are pursed, and the frown that pulls his eyebrows together is deep and angry.
It’s Carlton who breaks the silence, specs back on his nose, he practically bounces in his chair. ‘Let’s go back to your sons, Jimmy. Tell us about them.’
This is it then. The point of no return. I have to convince them, but I’m not sure I can. Sometimes in the dead of night, I’m not sure I even convince myself. ‘Ben was a weird kid. Had some strange ideas. I hoped his new parents would knock the weirdness out of him, but they didn’t.’
Sensing that Carlton is more unbiased, I direct my next words to him. ‘You know, I think he killed Rory’s wife. I don’t think it was Rory. I think it was my Ben.’
All at once it’s too much for me. I’m struggling against the restraints, tears running down my face. ‘It was lies. It was all lies. Everything was lies. And it’s all my fault.’
Bernie jumps
