“He hurt children.” I’ve never directly told anyone the reasons I do this, and I have a sense of weightlessness as I admit it.
“Why kill him rather than?—”
“I didn’t plan to,” I interrupt her.
“You looked like you knew him, and you came prepared.” She gestures at the tape holding her.
“I was going to kill himlater. You forced my hand.” I don’t know why I’m justifying myself.
“This is my fault that you murdered someone and kidnapped me?!” She sniffs. “Way to victim-blame.”
I grin. “The victim was to blame, yes. By pulling off my mask he hastened his demise. But he got off lightly.”
There’s a silence, just the sound of the car and her wriggling in her seat, subtly trying to get herself free.
“What were you going to do with him?” she asks eventually, as though she’s been rolling the question around in her head.
“Keep him in the basement and persuade him to tell me about all his friends and victims.”
The whites of her eyes flash and it’s clear she understands that means torture. Mostly people seem to imagine me skinning or dismembering, which isn’t my style. I don’t want to have more than the minimum physical contact with them. I prefer the use of tasers, pepper spray, and other hands-off techniques.
“You keep bad company.” She shakes her head thoughtfully. “Why not just take him to the police?”
“Well, you could call it a hobby,” I say.
“Killing people is your hobby?” There’s disbelief in her tone. “Stamp collecting too exciting for you?”
“I’d describe it more aspartof my hobby.” We’re leaving London now and the sky is blacker and less yellow from streetlights.
“Sky diving is available. Very stimulating and with a risk of…” She circles her hand awkwardly.
“I’m not into throwing myself out of planes. I prefer other people to be afraid.”
“You could get a really tough-looking dog?” And despite the genuineness in her question, I have the oddest feeling that we’re bantering. Maybe even… Flirting?
“Admittedly similar to my hobby in some ways.” I smile humourlessly. “But dogs don’t deserve me.”
“I guess not. So you keep people captive, torture them, and then kill them.” Her voice is remarkably level. She’s controlling herself impressively.
“It beats train spotting,” I quip.
“Do you enjoy hurting people?” She sounds almost afraid to ask the question.
I stare at the road while I consider. “It’s more that it doesn’t bother me. I don’t get nauseated. I enjoy developing more effective tools for my hobby.”
“Are we really calling it a hobby? I don’t think this goes alongside Zumba and gardening. Project?” She’s so calm as we discuss this. Not freaking out.
“Lifestyle?” I suggest deadpan.
I’m rewarded with her snort of surprised laughter. To say this night isn’t turning out as I thought is like saying I stepped into an alternate reality.
“Side-hustle,” she says, almost playfully.
“Side-project.” I can’t remember when I’ve had any fun with my hobby. I’ve never talked to anyone about it. I think some of the other Russian bratva pakhans I communicate with occasionally suspect, but this is different. “But I can’t deny that it pleases me to see men get what they deserve. And combined with my technical interest in how my methods are working, I suppose it would look a lot like enjoyment. Maybe it even is.”
“And now I’m your captive.” Her voice is sober again.
Obviously. I don’t answer that. There’s silence as we both acknowledge that despite the little period of friendliness, she has every reason to hate and distrust me.
