Free Killing a Stranger by Jane A. Adams

habits, I guess. It’s still the first thing I do when I come home. I can, just, tell the difference, if I stare straight at it.’
    â€˜I dreamt about Rob last night,’ Patrick said and Naomi understood what this was all about.
    â€˜You often dream about Rob,’ Harry said gently.
    Patrick sounded shocked. ‘How do you know?’
    â€˜Sometimes, you call out his name.’
    Naomi could feel Patrick’s shock at this exposure. She wondered what she should say.
    â€˜Look, I think I’d like to go home now,’ Patrick got in first. ‘See you on Monday, Naomi. If that’s OK?’
    â€˜Of course.’ She heard him get up again and cross the room to the corner where he’d dumped his bag and coat.
    Harry got up to follow his son. He bent down to kiss Naomi on the cheek.
    â€˜Go slowly,’ she breathed. ‘Don’t push it, Harry.’
    She felt him nod, then the footsteps across the room, the door close, the front door slam.
    Did she still dream? Oh yes. Panicked dreams where she searched in vain for her friend Helen. Dreams in which she was a child again, lost and confused and very, very scared. Sometimes the dream child would wander into the armed siege. The child in Naomi crying with fear as the shots rang out and the men’s voices were raised in threat and anger, and the worse thing was, she didn’t even need to be sleeping for the dreams to come.
    â€˜You want to talk about it?’ Harry asked. He reached to switch on the radio. Experience had told him that distraction, such as listening to music, could make it easier for his son to relax.
    â€˜Not really, thanks anyway.’ Patrick was trying hard to sound mature and off hand.
    â€˜OK, then,’ Harry told him. Experience had also told him, and Naomi reminded him, that pushing too hard was likely to have the opposite to the desired effect. ‘Well, I’m here. Naomi’s always ready to listen too, you know that. And there’s your counsellor.’
    â€˜Her,’ Patrick snorted. ‘Dad, I don’t know why you keep paying for her. All she does is sits me down and waits for me to “open up” to her. Like that’s going to happen.’
    â€˜She seems pleased with your progress,’ Harry said mildly.
    â€˜Oh, sure she is. She’s pleased with the money you keep paying her, whether she does any good or not.’
    â€˜Or whether you turn up or not?’
    â€˜Whether I …’ Patrick sighed and reached to change the channel on the radio.
    To Harry’s surprise, he settled on a station playing jazz. Harry listened, trying to place the piece. ‘What is that?’ the question was self-addressed, but his son answered.
    â€˜It’s Miles Davis,’ he said. ‘“Angel Eyes”. It’s on that compilation Nan bought you for your birthday.’
    â€˜Oh yes, so it is. I didn’t know you liked it.’ He turned to glance at his son.
    Patrick shrugged. He was staring hard out of the side window. Harry could see his reflection in the shadowed glass. The face, tight and pinched. Emotion dangerously close to the surface. ‘I like all sorts of stuff, you know that.’
    â€˜Well, yes. I suppose you do.’
    They listened in a silence that was almost companionable, then when the last notes of ‘Angel Eyes’ tailed away Patrick asked, ‘Do you think you could kill someone?’
    Harry flinched at the question. Asked for a description of Harry, most people would use words like ‘mild mannered’ or ‘even tempered’, but … ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I believe I could. If someone threatened those I love, I believe I could take their life, or maim or injure and not even hesitate.’
    He half felt, half heard his son release the breath he had been holding and wondered at the cost of asking that question. It saddened him. He and Patrick had once been able to discuss anything,