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Remembering her father’s words, ‘Always tell the truth. There’s less to remember,’ she dove in. As she talked, Monica, used to taking patient histories from people with reasons to lie, kept her face passive. Cynthia was unsure whether that was to be taken as an encouragement or not, but she just told all the details. The lab accident. The first signs that something was wrong. The commando raid on the vet school. The diagnosis by the doctor. The kidnapping and loss of memory. Trying to survive on the streets. Her alter ego, Sex Kitten. Hooking. And finally the murder attempt and her winding up here. Looking resigned, she ended her tale and waited. Monica spoke up, her detached clinician voice speaking. ‘Well, your story has the beauty of being internally consistent. The brain damage you describe could, in a remotely conceivable way, have the effects you’re describing. You realize just how far out this story is?’ ‘Yes. But it’s true.’ ‘Can I see Sex Kitten?’ Cynthia and Kitten swapped. But with the invitation there, politeness dictated that I accept. I entered, letting Mrs Hotter show me into the lounge. “Would you like a drink?” she said. “After all, you are of an age now, aren’t you?”Was it just my imagination, or was there something in her tone? I was still far too inexperienced to tell. “Thank you,” I said. “That would be lovely.”I sounded like a prat. Who was I, pretending I belonged in this swanky looking lounge? But Mrs Hotter merely went over to the sideboard and poured. She’d said she’d been watching a film, but the tele wasn’t on. Maybe she’d switched it off when the doorbell went.“Take a seat,” she said as she handed me the drink. I had no idea what it was, but it burned the back of my throat so bad I choked on the first mouthful. Clearly this was not something to be drunk like orange juice.Mrs Hotter, to her credit, pretended not to notice. She sat down in an armchair opposite. “So how is life treating you, Darren?”“Oh, can’t complain,” I said, again.
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