"What?" it's that knee-jerk reaction of a response and he visibly closes up as he turns to face me. Caught out. Shutting down to deadpan when cornered.
"You went there? You were in that shithole? Why?" It's an accusatory tone, spat at him in response. I swallow hard, blood running cold at how much worse this is getting, and slowly I try to sit on the edge of the table, my legs turning to jelly and giving way on me. Forgetting about the box and weakening to lightheaded, that this night just keeps getting worse.
I didn't think it could, and yet he has this great habit of proving me wrong. Alexi in Hackney, in the place I lived. The squalor and shame of that run-down shithole.
Oh, God.
Alexi seems restless and paces away as though he too is having a hard time reeling in a reaction or his
