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He rummages in one of the grocery bags, bringing out a bottle of whiskey. Unscrewing the cap, he takes a swig. “You want some?”
I take the bottle from him, swallowing enough to make me cough. “That’s strong stuff,” I say, my voice strained.
“I’ve got an hour before I need to get going.” He sits on the one armchair in the room. It bulges sideways and for a moment I think it’s going to collapse. Somehow, the joints hold. “I want to talk to you about something.”
“About what?”
“You were the best I ever had, you know that?”
“Come on, I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Not been another girl since you.”
“Bullshit. You expect me to believe that?”
“It’s true. I haven’t been able to look at another woman since that night we spent together.”
“Yet you never once tried to get in touch. I’m not falling for this crap. Try it on someone else.”
“Why do you think I’m here? Why do you think I’m doing this?”
“I don’t know. Guilt maybe?”
“It’s because I care about you, Clarissa. I could have shot you and you’d never have known, but you’re alive because I didn’t do it.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me?”
“It’s supposed to tell you we’ve got something between us. Don’t know why, because you’re being an asshole right now.”
“Me? I’m the asshole? You’re such an asshole you’ve got particles of shit orbiting around you right now.”
“That’s a delightful image.”
“You don’t care about me. You fucked off, remember?”
“And you never told me about Sophie. We could play this game all night.” He takes another swig from the whiskey bottle. “I could have killed you the moment I saw you.” He’s not looking at me. He’s staring at the curtains, like he sees something there I can’t. “Now I’ve got to resolve this and I’m running out of time.”
A chill runs down my spine. It’s the way he says it, like he’s already dead. “What happens if you run out of time?”
“They take me out and…”
“And what?”
“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
“There is more to this than you’re telling me. What is it?”
He says nothing, just keeps staring into the distance.
“Come on, talk to me. What’s really going on, Jack?”
“Nothing.” He spits the word out, leaping to his feet, the muscles in his neck bulging. “Don’t ask me again.”
“All right.” I hold my hands up. “I got a message the other day. He’s coming for you. I’m guessing I was being warned about you.”
“Who sent it?”
“No idea. I don’t know the number.”
