When my lungs start to hurt, I reach upward, grasping for handfuls of air. My head breaks the surface and I roll onto my back, sucking greedily. The stern of the boat has slipped under. Drums in the workroom are exploding like grenades. The engine has stopped, but the boat is turning slowly away from me.
I wade toward the bank, with mud sucking at my shoes and pull myself upward using handfuls of reeds. I ignore the outstretched hand. I just want to lie down and rest. My body twists. My legs bump over the edge of the canal. I am sitting on the deserted towpath. Giant cranes are silhouetted against gray clouds.
I recognize Bobby’s shoes. He reaches under my arms and grabs me around the chest. I’m being lifted. His chin digs into the top of my head as he carries me. I can smell petrol on his clothes or maybe on mine. I don’t cry out. Reality seems far away.
A scarf loops around my neck and is pulled tight, with a knot pressing into my windpipe. The other end is tied to something above me, forcing me up onto my toes. My legs jerk like a marionette because I can’t get any purchase on the ground to stop myself from choking. I squeeze my fingers inside the scarf and hold it away from my throat.
We are in the courtyard of an abandoned factory. Wooden palettes are stacked against a wall. Sheets of roofing iron have fallen in a storm. Water leaks down the walls, weaving a tapestry of black-and-green slime. Bobby shifts away from me. His face is damp with sweat.
“I know why you’re doing this,” I say.
He doesn’t answer. He strips off his suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt as if there is business to be taken care of. Then he sits on a packing crate and takes out a white handkerchief to clean his glasses. His stillness is remarkable.
“You won’t get away with killing me.”
“What makes you think I want to kill you?” He hooks his glasses over his ears and looks at me. “You’re a wanted man. They’ll probably give me a reward.” His voice betrays him. He isn’t sure. In the distance I can hear a siren. The fire brigade is coming.
Bobby will have read the morning papers. He knows why I confessed. The police will have to reopen every case and examine the details. They will cross-reference the times, dates and places, putting my name into the equation. And what will they discover? That I couldn’t have killed all of them. Then they’ll begin to wonder why I confessed. And maybe— just maybe— they’ll put Bobby’s name into the same equation. How many alibis can he have tucked away? How well did he cover his tracks?
I have to keep him off-balance. “I visited your mother yesterday. She asked about you.”
Bobby stiffens slightly and the pattern of his breathing quickens.
“I don’t think I’ve met Bridget before, but she must have been very beautiful once. Alcohol and cigarettes aren’t very kind to the skin. I don’t think I met your father either, but I think I would have liked him.”
“You know nothing about him.” He spits the words.
“Not true. I think I have something in common with Lenny… and with you. I need to take things apart— to understand how they work. That’s why I came looking for you. I thought you might help me figure something out.”
He doesn’t answer.
“I’ve got most of the story now— I know about Erskine and Lucas Dutton, Justice McBride and Mel Cossimo. But what I can’t fathom is why you punished everyone except the person you hate the most.”
Bobby is on his feet, blowing himself up like one of those fish with the poisonous spikes. He shoves his face close to mine. I can see a vein, a faint blue pulsing knot above his left eyelid.
“You can’t even say her name, can you? She says you look like your father but that’s not entirely true. Every time you look in the mirror you must see your mother’s eyes…”
A knife is gripped between his fingers. He holds the point of the blade against my bottom lip. If I open my mouth it will draw blood. I can’t stop now.
“Let me tell you what I’ve worked out so far, Bobby. I see a small boy, suckled on his father’s dreams, but polluted by his mother’s violence…” The blade is so sharp I don’t feel a thing. Blood is leaking down my chin and dripping onto my fingers, still pressed against my neck. “He blames himself. Most victims of abuse do. He thought of himself as a coward— always running, tripping, mumbling excuses; never good enough, always late, born to disappoint. He thinks he should have been able to save his father, but he didn’t understand what was happening until it was too late.”
“Shut the fuck up! You were one of them. You killed him! You mind-fucker!”
“I didn’t know him.”
“Yeah, that’s right. You condemned a man you didn’t know. How arbitrary is that? At least I choose. You haven’t got a clue. You haven’t got a heart.”
Bobby’s face is still inches from mine. I see hurt in his eyes and hatred in the curl of his lips.
“So he blames himself, this boy, who is already growing too quickly and becoming awkward and uncoordinated. Tender and shy, angry and bitter— he can’t untangle these feelings. He hasn’t the capacity to forgive. He hates the world, but no more than he hates himself. He cuts his arms to rid himself of the poison. He clings to memories of his father and of how things used to be. Not perfect, but OK. Together.
“So what does he do? He withdraws from his surroundings and becomes isolated, making himself smaller, hoping to be forgotten, living inside his head. Tell me about your fantasy world, Bobby. It must have been nice to have somewhere to go.”
“You’ll only try to spoil it.” His face is flushed. He doesn’t want to talk to me, but at the same time he’s proud of his achievements. This is something he has made. A part of him does want to draw me into his world— to share his exhilaration.
The blade is still pressing into my lip. He pulls it away and waves it in front of my eyes. He tries to make it look practiced, but fails. He isn’t comfortable with a knife.
My fingers are growing numb holding the scarf away from my windpipe. And the lactic acid is building in my calves as I balance on my toes. I can’t hold myself up much longer.
“How does it feel to be omnipotent, Bobby? To be judge, jury and executioner, punishing all those who deserve to be punished? You must have spent years rehearsing all of this. Amazing. But who were you doing it for, exactly?”
Bobby reaches down and picks up a plank. He mumbles at me to shut up.
“Oh, that’s right, your father. A man you can hardly remember. I bet you don’t know his favorite song or what movies he liked or who his heroes were. What did he carry in his pockets? Was he left- or right-handed? Which side did he part his hair?”
“I told you to SHUT YOUR MOUTH!”
The plank swings in a wide arc, striking me across the chest. Air blasts out of my lungs and my body spins, tightening the scarf like a tourniquet. I kick my legs to try to spin back. My mouth is flapping like the gills of a stranded fish.
Bobby tosses the plank aside and looks at me as if to say, “I told you so.”
My ribs feel broken, but my lungs are working again.
“Just one more question, Bobby. Why are you such a coward? I mean it’s pretty obvious who deserved all this hatred. Look at what she did. She belittled and tormented your dad. She slept with other men and made him a figure of pity, even to his friends. And then, to top it all off, she accused him of abusing his own son…”