I have his date of birth, his driver’s license number, and his home address.
But most of all, I have his name. I look at it for ages. It looks foreign. Black letters on white parchment. A strange collection of constants and vowels forming words I don’t understand. I read it over and over, trying to marry the shapes of the letters with the pictures of his face. I say it aloud a few times, trying to make it real.
Joseph St John
Joseph St John
Joseph St John
I have what I wanted. A name. His name.
Another email from Allan pops up. I click on it quickly.
Took a while, but I found it. He was piggy-backing off his upstairs neighbor’s wifi.
I click on the first attachment. It’s a screenshot of a search bar on a porn site. I shut it down quickly and click on the next one. And the next one. My stomach contracts. I feel sick. I feel physically sick. My head and mind reel and I start shaking from head-to-toe.
Amateur gay sex
Two guys kissing
Real boyfriends in love
I shred every page of the report Allan sent me. I shred the picture of his father first and I shred the picture of Saint in the police report last.
I sit at my desk, holding onto the edge of the table so hard my fingertips go numb. My breath comes in huge, racking sobs. A storm of emotion consumes me. It takes hold of me and clenches a fist around me. It chokes me. It nearly undoes me. I feel everything. Every feeling that’s ever existed descends on me at the same time and shakes my core.
Chapter 23
Demon
Ileanback,eyeingthe door in front of me. It’s sage green and has a discreet number twelve on it, just above the peep hole. The hallway is wide. It feels spacious. It’s a nice building. Quiet, even though it’s Friday night. The neighbors are friendly. One of them was only too happy to let me in when she saw me waiting at the entrance on the street. I’ve been here for an hour. I’ve knocked so long and hard, my knuckles are pink and they hurt when I straighten my fingers. Regardless of how hard I knock, the fact remains Saint isn’t home.
No matter. I’ve come this far. It’s not ideal, but it won’t deter me.
The man I’m waiting for finally turns up. “You the one who called for a locksmith?”
“Yeah, locked myself out.” I do my best to look sheepish.
He examines the lock. “Don’t see that many of these, a little more tricky than usual but should be doable. Can I see some ID with proof of address?”
“Shit. All that’s locked inside.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “Thing is, we’re not allowed to change the lock unless we see proof that it’s your place.”
“Why not?” I give him my most innocent smile.
“’Cause if we don’t have proof that you live here, how do we know we’re not just breaking and entering on your behalf?”
The man makes an excellent point. “How about this,” I say, taking my watch off my wrist. “How about I give you something different? Not proof exactly, but something I think will help you rest easy.” His eyebrows shoot up. “If you get me in here in the next ten minutes, this watch is yours.”
“But, but that’s a Role…”
“D’you want it or not?”
He has the door open in seven and a half minutes flat.
I let myself in. I’m feeling jittery and weird. Like I’ve had too much coffee. The apartment is big. Bigger than I was expecting. It has parquet flooring and high ceilings with crown molding around the light fittings. The walls are white and bare. No art. No curtains. The kitchen and living room are open plan. He has a large, three-seater sofa covered in a rich looking teal fabric, that’s pointed at a wall-mounted TV. That, along with two stools at the kitchen counter make up the sum of the furniture in the room.
