Now my head is filled with his story, Caitlin’s story. The story of where hate leads you. Down a grotesque path that ends with the little nursery song that he sang in a low voice, leaning towards me across the table covered with expensive glasses, linen, china. ‘Old Macdonald had a farm, ee.i.ee.i.o.’

Very low his voice was as he sang, almost a raging whisper.

‘And on that farm he had a pig …’

I feel now as if his eyes had left scorchmarks on my face, as if the hand he held so tight had been burned by the heat of his fingers and his anger.

Slowly he released his grip and we were at the side of their grave, Caitlin and the little girl. He was wearing his clean shirt and his mother was beside him, dressed from head to toe in grey, holding his arm so that he couldn’t escape. I felt the cold and the sorrow by that grave and he became silent and let go my hand and looked down at the table.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

All I could do was nod my head.

He asked for the bill.

I disliked him.

There are times I really despise myself.

I also had the oddest feeling, as I watched him deal with credit card and tips that he was making some kind of play for me. I disliked him even more at that moment.

Sitting here now trying to clear my head for work, I think my imagination must have been working overtime.

He sat very close to me in the taxi on the way home and neither of us spoke.

Pansy greeted us ecstatically. He picked up her lead from the table by the door.

‘Goodnight,’ I said to him. ‘I will be working when you come back. Thank you very much and … and I hope I’ve been some sort of help to you.’

I leant forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

‘I hope that one day you will be happy again. It is possible.’ And I came in here and shut the door.

I hope never to see him again.

Another strange thought has come into my mind, that maybe one day I may use his story; steal it from him. Yes. Maybe he gave me more than I can at this moment handle, something to ferment and foment in the dark cavities of the brain.

ccccllllmmm.

There we go.

The screen is lighting up. Terse but friendly messages pass across it, leaving a lovely inviting empty space. I wonder again why I never recognised the exciting possibilities of the empty page before.

Closed mind.

The Gingerbread Woman

(continued)