"Already dere, fille, you do something like dat and you already dere."
Well now there's a line if ever I heard one. I raise a cynical eyebrow. "Ye-righ'," I say sarcastically. I know it's a teenage response, but there it is. It's how I feel.
"Can dey prove it was Remy?" he asks again. His knuckles show up white against his dark skin. He's all frustrated because I'm not answering his question. He probably wants to hit me just as much as I'm dying to hit him. Go ahead, sweetheart, I think loudly at him.
I leave it hanging in the air a long time, that question, letting my hatred fill the space between us. And then I think, fuck it, why lie? The bastard deserves the truth. "Vey'll only 'ave you if I testify. Tell 'em what you just a'mitted to me," I tell him. "Which I will."
"Wha' else dey go' on Remy?" he asks, pushing for more information. It takes a huge effort of will not to drive my thumbs into his eye sockets.
"Bugger all. I's all circumstantial stuff. Lizzie denied any connection to you, so did dose other agents when 'ey got caught. It all lead no where reelly. Vey've got nothing but 'wanted for questioning' on you. Well, vat and the broverhood connection. Baldy says you got out of vat vough, so even 'at'll slide if you roll over on the rest of 'em..." I trail off, to angry to continue, shaking my head.
He doesn't say anything and nor do I. I can't quite believe it when he pulls off the road into a supermarket car park. It's shocking. He's just confessed to blowing up a building and killing three people and now he's getting out of the car and going shopping. It's fucking surreal.
"You comin'?" he asks, sticking his head back in the car. I stare at him.
"Wha'?" I say.
"Shoppin', fille, we goin' shoppin'. For food. For de kids. You comin' or wha'?"
"Are you INSANE?" I almost shriek at him. I leap out of the car and run round it to thump him as hard as I can in the stomach. Couldn't do it while we were driving, but we're all parked up now and I want to pound his skinny butt into the ground. Unlucky for me the thump hurt quite a lot. As it turns out, he's wearing body armour under his tee-shirt. Bastard.
"Damn, fille," he says crouching next to me as I wrap myself over my hand. "You don' think dat 'and 'as been trough enough?"
I learn from my mistake. This time I hit him right in the eye.
"Ahh," he cries, "ahhhhhh, ow." And I feel an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. Maybe the psychopath is going to blow me up but at least I gave him a black eye for his trouble. So NYAH to you Remy LeBeau.
"You feel better now?" he asks me when he finally stops owing away.
"Yeah, actually, quite a lot better," I tell him smugly.
"Good," he says, "me too. Let's go shopping."
And for the second time in the last hour I find myself grabbed by the hand and pulled along in his wake.
