the same guy may have raped and killed two women – does that count?’
‘Technically? No.’
‘OK – forget that,’ said Ren. ‘In general, though, how do you feel about the following? A problem with the wiring of the brain results in: me. And: serial killers.’
Patient pause.
‘I’m serious,’ said Ren.
‘What exactly are you saying?’ said Ben. ‘Are you trying to relate the two things? You and serial killers?’
‘What I’m saying is – I have something in common with serial killers.’
‘That’s just nuts,’ said Ben.
That’s not a very nice thing to say.
‘Is that what you’re actually thinking?’ said Ben.
‘No.’ Yes.
‘Ren, I know you don’t like me reading up on these things, but I know that bipolar people can sometimes think everything is their fault. Like, they see a natural disaster on the other side of the world, and can manage to feel guilt on some level about that. This sounds to me like a version of skewed thinking.’
‘But … think about it,’ said Ren; ‘a serial killer goes around thinking things that no one knows about. He has these internal thoughts that he can’t say out loud because people would know. They would know.’ She paused. ‘And I have thoughts like that.’
‘All thoughts are internal,’ said Ben.
Oh, yeah.
‘And your thoughts are not about raping and murdering people … That makes a serial killer just that little bit different.’
‘I like how your mind works.’
‘It’s pretty much how most people’s minds work.’
Ouch.
‘I didn’t mean it like that, before you get weird.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m going to stop talking now.’
Ren laughed. ‘I think that would be very wise.’
Donna Darisse reached out of the shower, grabbed a faded towel from the hook on the wall, and wrapped it around her slender body. She stepped onto the tiled floor of the tiny bathroom, grabbed a second towel and quickly dried her fine, wispy dark hair. She looked in the mirror. She sometimes expected to see her pre-chemo hair – this fragile, but fighting hair still had the power to startle her.
There was a knock on the bathroom door.
‘Mommy, can I come in?’
‘Just give me a moment, Cam,’ said Donna. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes! I just wanted to say hi!’
Donna smiled. ‘Hi yourself,’ she said. ‘Now, you go back in to your movie, I’ll be out in a little while.’
‘I wish you weren’t going to work,’ said Cam as she walked away.
It was Donna’s first week back since her treatment. She was high on guilt, low on options. She listened for the DVD player to kick in, and she went into her bedroom. She went straight for the drawer and the wig hidden at the back. She couldn’t bear to tell Cam – she was only six years old. So Donna always wore the wig unless Cam was staying with her father. Five of Donna’s friends had their heads shaved in solidarity when she lost her hair. Cam just thought they’d all gone crazy.
Donna pulled out a red dress she had often had to diet to fit into. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, pulling at the loose fabric. She had made remarks about skinny people in the past – they needed fat on their bones, they needed a burger, a home-cooked meal. She felt a little differently since she became one of them. She had never known the stories of the people she judged.
Donna walked into the living room with a smile on her face. ‘Mommy loves someone very much,’ she said. ‘And Mommy thinks that person is right here in this room. Do you have any idea who that could be?’
‘Me!’ said Cam. ‘Me!’ She leapt up from her cushion on the floor, ran across the room and dived into her mother’s arms.
The doorbell rang, and Donna carried Cam to the door and let the babysitter in.
‘Now,’ said Donna, letting Cam down, ‘you be good, and you enjoy your play date this afternoon. I’ll see you for supper.’
‘Yes!’ said Cam. ‘You look so beautiful, Mama. And I like your white cowboy boots!’
‘You look beautiful too … Belle. I wish I had such a pretty yellow dress. I would dance around the room all day and all night.’
‘Your dress is the prettiest dress in the whole wide world,’ said Cam. ‘You might meet a prince!’
He sat in the car watching the street hookers making their way up and down Colfax Avenue.
Fuck that Hope Coulson bitch. Fuck her and her kindergarten smile and her lines of volunteers.
He turned his attention back to the street.
People only line up for you pathetic whoring bitches when you’re alive. Only so’s you can suck their cocks.
He couldn’t see anything he liked in the parade before him.
Fuck the landfill site. Fuck Denver PD. Fuck the sheriffs. Fuck the Feds. Fuck today’s miserable luncheon buffet. No man could get full on that.
Just as he was about to drive away, he saw one, just the way he liked them.
Hold up, scrawny lady! You’re about to be crowned winner of today’s pitiful pussy pageant!
He drove alongside her.
Donna Darisse leaned down, spoke into the driver’s side.
‘How are you, handsome man?’
‘Well, that’s about the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you hear that all the time …’ said Donna.
He wondered if all the conversations taking place along that strip were the same as his, loading and unloading a whole pile of bullshit every time the trick opened her mouth, every time the john did.
‘Well, you’re a Texan, right?’ she said. ‘You like to keep your boots on? I like that.’ She smiled. ‘How
