Page 8 of Psychopath

The corridor was monitored, and guards regularly walked back and forth, but Quinn’s stomach sloshed with unease at the thought of being a few metres away from help, especially after Zane had demonstrated his quick reflexes.

But that was Zane, and the prisoner in front of Quinn was Mackie.

Mackie didn’t look like a man capable of murder. He was bald, plump, and Quinn always heard his wheezing before he saw him in the doorway. The tips of his fingers were stained black from his smoking addiction, and his nails were brittle. He often tore them off while he talked and left them behind on the floor.

Despite the nail-picking habit and the occasional coughing fit, Quinn didn’t mind him.

Mackie was so eager to answer questions he reminded Quinn of a Labrador. He bobbed up and down in his chair and often started answering before Quinn had finished talking. Cleo told him Mackie counted down the hours to their next meetings and smiled solidly for two days after each one.

Quinn prayed for more participants like Mackie.

He was already seated behind the table when Quinn arrived and watched expectantly as he set out his papers on the desk and took his seat.

Quinn wasn’t allowed his laptop, or his phone and both were safely locked away in reception.

They did allow him a modern audio recorder to tape the sessions, and he pulled his pencil from his top shirt pocket to make notes.

Note taking had become habitual since university, and he was one of the rare few students that enjoyed it.

“What are we doing today, Doctor Quinn?”

“Quinn,” he reminded. “And I’m going to ask you about your family, particularly your relationship with your parents. If at any time you don’t want to answer or you’d prefer I’d change the subject—”

“My mum died when I was little.”

Mackie nodded so fast he blurred, and Quinn blinked to readjust. He clutched his pencil tighter, pressing it to the paper.

“That must’ve been traumatic.”

“I was little. I don’t remember.”

“Did you ask your dad about her?”

Mackie frowned and eyed Quinn like he had said something complex. “Why would I?”

“To learn about her.”

“Why? She’s dead. Nothing worth knowing if she’s dead.”

“So you were brought up by your dad?”

“Yeah.” Mackie nodded. “He could be quite a hard man. Keen on punishment.”

“And how did he punish you?”

Mackie grinned and tugged up the sleeve of his T-shirt. Pale circles covered his wide biceps, and he stroked them tenderly. “He put his cigarettes out on me.”

Quinn counted seventeen circles, then grew nauseous and stopped.

“They’re not all bad,” Mackie said quickly.

“What do you mean?”

“The scars. When I was a kid, I used to play dot-to-dot and colour in the sections.”

“I used to do that with the moles on my arm,” Quinn whispered.

Mackie nodded eagerly. “See, you understand. They were fun sometimes.”

---