‘Course, Dad,’ says Jason.
Ron leans forward.
‘When did you and Karen open presents on Christmas Day?’
‘Straight after breakfast,’ says Jason. ‘When else would you open them?’
‘I bloody knew it,’ says Ron.
Ron looks at Chris, and looks at Donna. Vindicated. Chris waits a moment or two, then continues his previous conversation.
‘Who would Connie use, Jason?’ asks Chris. ‘If she wanted someone killed?’
‘Good question,’ says Jason, back on his feet, getting ready to record another video. ‘Ibrahim’s not been her only mystery visitor in the last couple of weeks. Woman in her forties, maybe late thirties, been a couple of times. No one knows her, but she’s got a dangerous air. And that’s coming from prisoners.’
‘No name?’ asks Chris.
‘Nothing,’ says Jason. ‘Suddenly started turning up a couple of weeks ago. Not long after your murder, eh?’
Ibrahim thought that Mondays in prison might feel a little different, but they seem identical to every other day. He supposes that’s the point of prison.
Although he is a psychiatrist, and he has a professional duty, Ibrahim needs something from Connie today. Elizabeth has given him a task, and he will endeavour to provide satisfaction.
Connie is leaning back in her chair. She is wearing an expensive new watch.
‘Have you ever heard of a man named Luca Buttaci, I wonder?’ he asks.
Connie considers this while she breaks off a finger of her KitKat and dunks it in her flat white. ‘Ibrahim, do you sometimes think you’re not a very good psychiatrist?’
‘I think, objectively, I am skilled,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Do I have self-doubt? Yes. Do I believe I have helped many people? Also yes. Have I helped you?’
Connie is now working on the second finger of her KitKat. She gestures to Ibrahim with it. ‘Let me tell you a story.’
‘May I make notes?’
‘Will the police ever see the notes?’
‘No.’
‘Then you can make notes,’ says Connie, and settles into her tale. ‘A girl pushed in front of me in the lunch queue today –’
‘Oh dear,’ says Ibrahim.
‘Mmm, oh dear. I suppose she didn’t know who I was. Sometimes the younger ones don’t. Anyway, she elbows her way in, so I tap her on the shoulder and say, I’m terribly sorry, you appear to have taken my place.’
‘Were those your exact words?’
‘They were not,’ says Connie. ‘So she turns to me and says, Apologies, but I don’t queue, and if you’ve got a problem with that, then you’ve got a problem with me – again, not exact words. And then she pushed me.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Ibrahim again. ‘Does she have a name, this young woman?’
Connie thinks for a moment. ‘Stacey, I think the paramedics called her. So there’s silence all around, of course there is. Everyone looking. You can start to see she realizes maybe she’s pushed the wrong person –’
‘How would she have realized that?’
‘One of the warders was coming over to intervene, and when I sent him away he just nodded and mouthed, “Sorry,” to her. I think that’s when the penny dropped. So I take a swing and she drops to the floor.’
‘OK,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Is there a point to this story? I don’t really like it.’
‘The point is what happens next,’ says Connie. ‘I see her there, sprawled on the lino, and I’m just rolling up my sleeves and getting ready to really teach her the error of her ways, when I hear your voice in my head.’
‘Goodness,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Saying what?’
‘You were telling me to count down from five. Do you feel in control? In this moment do you feel at peace with yourself? Who is in charge, you or your anger? What is the rational course of action?’
‘I see,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And what answer did you find?’
‘I couldn’t see what would be achieved by kneeling on her chest and continuing to pummel her. Like, that one punch was enough, and my point had been made. Anything extra would just be for my ego.’
‘And you are not your ego,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Or not solely your ego, at least.’
‘And this girl,’ says Connie. ‘I have to hand it to her: it takes guts to jump a queue in prison, so she must have something about her. Her lesson’s learned, I can see that, so I simply stepped over her, got my lunch and got on with my day. And I felt proud of myself, and I thought, “I bet Ibrahim will be proud of me too.”’
‘And the girl?’ asks Ibrahim. ‘How is she now?’
Connie shrugs. ‘Who cares? So are you proud of me?’
‘Up to a point, yes,’ says Ibrahim. ‘It is a progress of sorts, isn’t it?’
‘I knew you would be,’ says Connie, beaming.
‘I wonder if one day,’ says Ibrahim, ‘you might even reconsider the initial punch?’
‘She pushed in, Ibrahim,’ says Connie.
‘I remember,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And, without thinking, without hesitating, your reaction was swift and immediate violence.’
‘Thank you,’ says Connie. ‘It was pretty quick. Now let me help you down from your high horse, because I think you wanted to ask me about Luca Buttaci?’
‘Well …’ says Ibrahim.
‘Here’s me,’ says Connie. ‘The bird with the broken wing, paying you to heal me, to lead me from the path of violence and ego, to find some meaning in a life lived in chaos – these are all direct quotes, by the way –’
