Nicci French - Secret Smile

'It's very nearby,' he said.

'Still, you'll probably be late.'

'I can't be,' he said. 'There are people waiting for me in a room. I've got to talk to them.'

'You're giving a lecture?'

He took a drag of his cigarette and winced and nodded his head.

'Interesting book?' he said.

'I was just…' I gazed down at the book in my hand, then pushed it back into its space on the shelves.

'Coffee?' he asked.

'No, thanks.'

'I meant, could you make some for me? While I'm getting dressed.'

I was tempted to say that I wasn't his butler, but this was obviously an emergency.

He flinched as he took his sip of the coffee.

'You've got twenty-five minutes,' I said.

'It's only across the square.' His eyes were more widely open now. 'You've done a good job,' he said, looking at the boards. 'Not that I'd know the difference between a good job and a bad job.'

'It's the machine that does it,' I said. 'I'm sorry I was messing with your books.'

'That's what they're there for.'

'Are you a doctor?'

'In a way.'

'Interesting,' I muttered inanely. I was thinking about Brendan pushing dog shit through the car window. And then about my dream; fragments of it rose in my mind, like the mouths of small fish nibbling at the surface of the water.

'My name's Don.'

'I know. I'm Miranda.' I sipped at my coffee. It tasted chocolatey. 'Do you deal with mental illnesses?'

'That's right.'

'I know you must get really pissed off with people asking you stupid questions, but can I ask you a stupid question?'

'What?'

'It's about someone I heard about. A friend of a friend.' I put a shortbread into my mouth. 'Of a friend,' I added thickly.

'Yeah, right,' he said with a faint smile.

'I just know little bits about him, really.' That was true anyway.

I started to tell Don about Brendan. I began with the dog turds and then I went on, and when I got to the bit about the bath flooding and was saying: 'And then she went back and found that her bath was overflowing when she knew that she hadn't Don held up a hand.

'Hold on,' he said. He lit a second cigarette.

'What?'

'This is you, right?' he said. 'The woman?'

'Well, yes, in fact.'

'Good.'

'Good?'

'I was worried you might be the one who put the dog shit in the car.'

'That was a man.'

'You could have changed the sex. For purposes of concealment.'

'This is pathetic, I know,' I said.

'Go on with the story.'

So I did. Even though time was getting short before his lecture, I told him everything. I even backtracked and told him about Brendan whispering to me about coming in my mouth. And then, at the end, I told him about Troy and Laura – but very quickly, so I wouldn't start weeping again. When I finished I picked up my mug and took a last gulp of stone-cold coffee.

'So what do you think?' I asked. For some reason, my heart was hammering.

'Fuck,' he said.

'Is that your considered verdict?'

'You're well rid of him.'

I gave a snort.

'I could say that. What I want to know is, is he a psychopath? Could he be a murderer?'

He held up his hands in protest.

'It's a bit early in the morning,' he said.

'It's actually very late in the morning.'

'I don't want to be pompous and say that I would have to conduct my own investigation before making any comment like that. And I don't want to start throwing technical, clinical terms around. The point is, it doesn't really work that way round. I can't say that this pattern of behaviour means that he is a murderer

'Could be a murderer,' I interrupted.

'The way it would work is if someone were found to have committed certain types of violent acts, then I wouldn't be surprised to find the kind of behaviour you've described.'

'So there we are,' I said.

'No, we aren't,' he said. 'The majority of murderers show earlier signs of dysfunctional behaviour. But a very large number of people display dysfunctional behaviour and the vast majority of them don't cross the line.'

'But if he has crossed the line, which is what I think, even if nobody else agrees with me, is that it? Is he finished? Is he still dangerous?'

Don sipped at his coffee.

'You're piling assumptions on assumptions here,' he said.

'I'm not in court,' I said. 'I can pile anything I want on to whatever else I want. I want to know if he could have burned himself out.' I heard the wobble in my voice and coughed to cover it up.

Don shook his head.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'This is all about hindsight. When people have acted, when they have committed a crime and been caught and imprisoned, then the psychologists and the psychiatrists come out of the woodwork and do their tests and pronounce their verdicts with great authority. And you'll be able to find experts to argue for or against any issue you want.'

'Thank you,' I said dully. I turned to face him. I noticed he had a thin face and auburn hair and he was looking at me kindly.

'Keep away from him,' he said.

'Yes.'

'Are you all right?'

'I don't know.' I pulled the window shut sharply and the room became quieter. I looked at my watch. 'You've got four minutes.'

'I'd better go,' he said. 'You don't look happy.'

'It doesn't make it all right that it might be just a stranger, does it?' I started to gather up the sheets. 'You can't just sit on the bank and let people drown.'

Don looked as if he were going to say something, but had changed his mind.

'What are you going to talk about?'

He frowned for a moment.

'A very rare psychological syndrome. Very, very rare. Only about four people have ever had it.'

'So what's the point of lecturing about it?'

He paused.

'If I started asking myself questions like that,' he said, 'then where would I be?'

I went to see the therapist, Katherine Dowling, again. I sat for a long time in silence, trying to come to a decision. Was I going to deal with the world or with my own head? I looked at my watch. It had been over ten minutes. I told her my dream.

'What does that mean to you?'

'I'd like to continue with you,' I said, 'but in a few weeks. Or a few months.'

'Why?'

'I've got things to sort out.'

'I thought that was why you were coming here.'

'I can't sort them out here.'

I left after half an hour. They still charge you the full amount, though.

You didn't kill yourself, did you? Of course you didn't. I should never have let myself doubt that, not even for a second. You didn't kill yourself and Laura didn't bump her head and drown. I always knew it. The question is, what should I do now, Troy? I can't just not do anything, can I?

No. Of course I can't.

The weird thing is, I should be scared myself, but I'm not. Not a tiny bit. The truth is, I don't care any more. Not about my safety. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff in a howling wind and I don't mind if I fall off or not. Sometimes I think I almost want to.

I hope it didn't take too long. I hope you never knew. I couldn't bear it if you knew.

I couldn't let it go. I was like a bee buzzing round a honey pot. No, that's not right. Honey pots are good for bees. I was like a honey pot knowing that there was a bee buzzing around somewhere. I was like a moth drawn to… No, I'm not going to say it because in fact it's all wrong. I had a boyfriend once and he was studying insects, which was part of the problem. The very first time we met he told me that moths weren't actually drawn to flames. It was a myth. A moth myth. He actually said that. We were in the student union and he was pissed. Our relationship was doomed from the start of course. It was just impossible to imagine myself for long with a boy who would introduce himself to a girl by telling her an interesting fact about moths. The funny thing is that now, about five years later, virtually all I can remember about him is that he was called Marc and the interesting fact he told me about moths which made me fall out of love with him instantly. Because it was pretty interesting.