"I've been worried," she said. "You got me flustered, all your talk of people wanting me dead. I haven't slept."

"I'm sorry," he said. She looked tired. But then she'd looked tired for years.

"Thanks. But that hardly helps."

"I know." He shifted in his seat, leaned closer. "I need to tell you something."

She glanced away. Took a sip. "Why do I feel like I don't want to hear this?"

He could leave now. He could walk away. Everything could stay as it had always been.

Instead, he told her everything. It was the only way he could be sure.

She listened in silence.

When he'd finished, she said, "I don't believe a word of it."

He nodded. "I don't blame you."

"You've been doing this for years?"

"Long time, si."

"How could I not have known?"

"I'm careful."

"But still. You'd think a mother would know that her son was a… a monster." Her face was even paler than usual, her lips like hungry worms. "I should call the police."

"I can understand how you feel," he said. "But there would be no point. I'd just deny it. You'd sound like a crazy old drunk."

"You think that's what I am?" She placed her glass on the table, carefully. It made only the tiniest sound. "What about you? What happened to your sanity? What happened to your conscience, for God's sake?"

"Please, Mum. I can do without the moralising. I don't mention your drinking, do I?"

Her eyes widened. "You just did. Anyway, there's a bit of a bloody difference between… killing people and enjoying a drink."

"Maybe," he said. "Although I don't think Maggie sees it that way."

She wiped a drip off her glass with her forefinger. "She knew what you did when she married you?" She licked her finger, wiped it against her thumb.