Bad Sister(74)

With a slightly more confident step, Connie ascended the stairs and rang Lindsay.

‘What is it you would like to gain from this session, Brett?’ Connie sat in the chair opposite him, no desk as a barrier, no pad and pen. Just her and him. Counsellor and client. She needed to treat him the same as she would any other; be professional.

He regarded her in silence, his eyes locked on hers. She resisted lowering her own gaze.

‘I can’t get my missing years back. My childhood was lost to the system. I have no family. No job, or likelihood of gaining one. This session, the next one, or a million after it, isn’t going to get me anywhere. In effect, my life is over. It ended in the street outside a burning house eight years ago.’

Connie wasn’t sure where to go with this. He wasn’t here for her help, not with cognitive behavioural therapy. He was here for something else. The realisation that it could be revenge chilled her. Had he already carried it out, did he want to talk about it – or was it still to come? And what part was she going to play in his plan? The therapist in her told her to avoid being drawn in to his negativity, to try a different tack.

‘Your PO informs me that as a child you were diagnosed with the disorder pyromania.’ Connie noted a twitch in Brett’s eye as he shot forwards. She held his stare and continued quickly before he could interrupt her. ‘In children, it’s quite rare – and the desire and the need to set fires is thought to be as a form of release. Like from pent-up anger or tension. Can you remember when you first felt that compulsion to set a fire?’

He shrugged. ‘I guess when I was about nine.’

‘What was it about that time that had caused you stress, or anger?’

‘It wasn’t anger. Not then. But stress, yeah – it could’ve been that. We’d just moved in. Been there about a week I suppose, when I saw it. When I got the feeling she hated me.’

‘Who hated you?’

‘Mum.’ His eyes seemed to darken and for a moment he was lost in a memory.

‘You believed your mum hated you? What made you think that?’

‘She was right pissed when she realised we came as a pair.’

Connie narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying – when you came as a pair? What do you mean?’

‘She thought she was just getting my dad. Not another kid. She had one of them. Jenna. She said she had no money to support a benefit scrounger and his scraggly kid. From that day she treated me like shit. She was real mean, nasty. I hated her as much as she hated me. So that’s when I started burning things.’

Connie sat back. Brett and Steph weren’t brother and sister. Had that been why there was nothing in the background information, why Miles didn’t believe Steph? Maybe Miles wasn’t holding back relevant details from her, he simply didn’t know himself. Steph had never offered up the fact that Brett was a step-brother. What else had Steph failed to mention?

‘How did family life progress from the way it was when you first moved in?’

‘Got worse, basically. Mum clearly regretted her decision. I never once saw her and my dad kiss, cuddle, nothing. And as for Jenna, she went in on herself. Didn’t speak, dressed real scruffy, didn’t even wash.’

‘And you remember this?’

‘Yes. I worked a lot on my memories when I was inside.’

Connie raised her brow. It would be interesting to find out more about how they attempted to retrieve memories, delve into it all, but now wasn’t the time. She had to keep up the pace. ‘How about the fire-setting?’

‘I used that to keep me calm. I never did anything too bad, was only ever paper, the odd pillowcase. Small stuff. And it always worked – when she did something, said stuff, burning things always stopped the ball in my gut getting any bigger.’

‘So, you were angry, hurt, upset. All those emotions must’ve been so difficult for your ten-year-old mind to contemplate. It was an accident, Brett. I believe that. I don’t think you would’ve deliberately set out to kill your dad, burn the house to the ground. When we’re young the consequences of our actions aren’t as easy to predict.’

‘What are you on about?’ He slapped his hands down on his legs. ‘I didn’t start the fire that night. I’m trying to tell you, Connie. I used flames to calm me, not to hurt anybody else. I never let the fire get out of control. Never.’ He leant into Connie’s space, his face almost against hers. ‘I. Did. Not. Kill. My. Father.’ He sat back.

Connie cleared her throat. Her pulse skipped with the added adrenaline rushing through her body. She had to be careful how she said what she wanted to say next. Use a tone that was curious, not accusational.

‘All the evidence, in terms of your behaviour at the time, the opportunity and motive, all points to you, Brett—’

‘Can’t you see, Connie? I was the perfect scapegoat. Pin it on the ten-year-old pyromaniac. Perfect.’

Connie’s blood chilled. Scapegoat. Yes, she could relate to that. Is that why he came to her?

‘Why did you look me up?’

‘I thought you, of all people, might understand what it’s like to be blamed – I thought you’d give me a chance.’

‘How did you find me?’

‘Inmates talk. Your “case” was well known. Wasn’t that hard to find you.’