‘So sorry, I’m terrible with names…’
‘Dylan.’
‘Dylan. Of course. Forgive me – I knew it began with a D.’ Miles studied Dylan’s face and registered that he was hitting the right note of uncertain but pleasant bonhomie. ‘So are you having much luck then, signing people up?’
‘Yeah…’ Dylan scratched his head. ‘It’s been a bit slow today, to be honest.’
‘I don’t know how you do it. It’s a very difficult job. All that rejection.’ Miles smiled and waited a couple of beats. ‘Well, it was nice to see you.’ He smiled again and stepped away, confident the bait had been adequately set. He took two paces.
‘How’s Sinead doing?’ asked Dylan.
Miles came back to the unsuspecting fundraiser. How easy that part was.
‘I hope her leg’s on the mend.’
‘Sinead… she’s okay, I suppose. Yes. Then again – she could be better.’ Miles let the ambiguous comment land. Dylan was now paying close attention.
‘Everyone’s asking after her, wondering when she’ll be back at work.’
Miles frowned and started fidgeting with his hands. He looked away and shook his head. Dylan leaned in expectantly. Brushing imaginary fluff from his Barbour jacket, Miles said, ‘Hmm… This is difficult. It’s a rather delicate matter.’
‘Is she all right?’
Looking furtively down at the pavement, Miles ran a hand across his chin and gave out a small nervous laugh. He glanced up at Dylan and sucked air through his teeth like he really didn’t want to say anything. ‘I don’t suppose I could buy you a coffee, Dylan? Have a quick chat?’
Dylan wore a concerned expression. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m stuck here. Why? What’s up?’
‘I’m assuming you know Sinead quite well? Because you helped her with the move and everything…’
‘Yeah, sure.’ Dylan hesitated. ‘I mean, we’ve been working together for a bit, I guess.’
‘Were you aware that she had certain issues?’ Miles rubbed his brow and shook his head. ‘No, I shouldn’t… forget I said anything.’ Dylan was just staring at him now. Miles couldn’t quite read Dylan’s reaction and reminded himself not to over-egg his performance.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Dylan.
Miles adopted a concerned countenance. ‘I was actually thinking of contacting her parents. About her mental illness. Do you think that’s a good idea?’
Dylan was visibly taken aback. ‘Umm… maybe. I mean, you know her mum died, right?’
‘Died?’ Now it was Miles’s turn to act surprised. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Yeah. Pretty sure. This was before I met her, but it definitely happened quite recently.’
‘That’s not what she told me. No. She talks about her mother in the present tense.’ Miles looked pensively up the street. Dylan waited anxiously for him to continue as a crowd of students wandered past, laughing and shouting. Finally, Miles said, ‘Have you heard from Sinead lately?’
‘Yeah, I got a message from her the other day. She invited me out for a drink.’
‘Did she? I see.’ Miles leaned in towards Dylan like a concerned uncle speaking to his naive nephew. ‘A word of caution. If I were you I’d avoid alcohol. It exacerbates her condition.’
‘What… what kind of condition does she have, exactly?’
‘I’m not sure what the correct psychiatric term would be. And I’m hardly qualified to make a diagnosis.’ Miles paused for emphasis. ‘She can become highly emotional… mood swings… violence.’
‘Violence…?’ Dylan repeated the word, unable to contain his shock.
‘It was a minor incident, really, but still. She picked up a kitchen knife and… well, luckily there was no danger of her making contact. The broken leg restricted her movements. I must admit though, it did frighten me at the time.’
‘Fuck me…’ Dylan was slack-jawed. ‘Seriously?’
‘Something obviously upset her. A neighbour heard Sinead screaming from his garden and called the police, but I didn’t want to press charges. I felt sorry for her. She’s a nice girl, but obviously very troubled.’
‘When was this?’
‘A few days after her accident. Apparently, she shouldn’t mix her anti-psychotic medication with the painkillers.’
Dylan fell silent. Miles’s charade had worked a treat and he was savouring his own performance. ‘My friends said I should have asked for references. She was so charming at first – the perfect tenant. Until she started bringing home these awful men she’d picked up somewhere. I’m no prude, but the noise they made…’
Dylan’s face paled and he looked absolutely horrified. Miles bit his lip to prevent a smile. It was too easy to get carried away with this fun routine. He needed to pull it back a bit.
‘Anyway, I apologise. I shouldn’t be burdening you with this.’ Miles sighed. ‘I’m probably overreacting. I’m sure she’ll calm down. Well… take care.’
Miles smiled softly at the confused chugger and walked on. After a few paces he stopped and returned. Dylan was deep in thought. Miles said, ‘Can I make a donation? It’s the least I can do after taking up your valuable time. I’ve only got cash on me, though. Is that okay?’ Miles retrieved his leather wallet from an inside pocket.
Dylan was suitably dazed. ‘We need bank account details… direct debit.’
Miles pressed a £10 note into Dylan’s palm.
Dylan muttered, ‘We can’t take cash.’
Miles patted him on the shoulder as a final reassuring gesture. ‘Thanks for listening, Dylan. Rest assured, I’m encouraging Sinead to seek professional help. Don’t worry, she’ll get through this.’ He fixed Dylan with a sincere look, smiled sadly, then strode off purposefully towards Russell Square.
***
Miles sat outside the Russell Square Gardens café, sipping an Earl Grey tea and nibbling a toasted cheese and ham sandwich. He observed the lunchtime crowd milling about in the park: sitting on benches eating their packed lunches, walking their dogs, or participating in strenuous keep-fit sessions. Ordinary, boring folks living their ordinary, boring lives; all totally oblivious to the genius in their midst.
The meeting with Dylan had gone exactly as planned, and making the cash donation was an inspired piece of improvisation: the cherry on top. He was ninety-nine per cent certain that no date would be happening anytime soon. Of course, there was always an outside chance the boy might disregard his besmirching of Sinead’s character and take her out regardless. But his reaction had appeared to be one of alarm, and Dylan didn’t fit the profile of someone brave enough to take on a female headcase, no matter how exciting the sex promised to be. Miles was confident he had neutralised the threat and bought himself enough time to finalise his plans for Sinead. The last thing she needed right now was to be mooning over some dopey loser who sent flowers and made her feel weak and mushy inside. Miles had no interest in that side of Sinead; in fact, it repulsed him. If he hadn’t seen the tough-minded, vengeful creature she tried to keep hidden he’d have lost interest in her weeks ago. He was disappointed that there had still been no news from Catford. Surely Imogen must have found the damning evidence by now? A different strategy might be necessary to stir things up. Like a good actor, what Sinead required was the proper motivation. And a strong director.
An elderly couple at the next table got up and shuffled away, leaving behind a copy of the Daily Mail. Miles left his seat, nabbed the paper and sat back down. After briefly perusing the test match coverage, he flicked back through the pages and found the article he’d been anticipating on page eight. In between mouthfuls of Earl Grey, he read the piece carefully and when he’d finished he closed the newspaper, folded it in two, and nudged it to the other side of the table.