Page 71 of A Face in the Crowd

Harry turns and parts his hair so that I can see the welt on the back of his skull. Whether or not it was set up, there is one hell of a gash in the skin.

‘That looks nasty,’ I say.

‘I’ve been sleeping about fourteen hours a day. I checked with the doctor, but she reckons it’s normal.’

The waitress arrives with a tray that includes a coffee for me and a coconut milk latte for Harry. We thank her and then each sip our drinks.

‘How have you been?’ he asks.

I hide behind my mug, summoning the courage to say something. All those phantom conversations are proving to be precisely that.

‘Who are you?’ I ask, still using the mug to cover my mouth.

Probably unsurprisingly, it takes a second or two to get a response. Harry’s eyebrows arc downwards.

‘Pardon?’ he says.

‘Who are you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You hacked my computer.’

I say it as if it’s a fact. Something that’s on record and indisputable. I’m looking for a response, but all I get is a frown.

‘I did what?’

I’m not sure why I thought he’d fold and confess all. As if my deductions were of such genius that he’d be able to do nothing but collapse and ask for forgiveness. It all feels rather silly, but it’s a bit late to back off now.

‘You’re a computer hacker,’ I say.

‘Oh… kay…’ A pause and then: ‘I told you I worked in internet security.’

‘You didn’t say hacker, though.’

He holds both hands palms-up. ‘Because we don’t call it hacking. I’m not sure what you’re saying.’

‘That you hacked into my computer to find out what I liked so that, when we connected on the app, you could make it seem like we had a lot in common.’

Harry stares at me as if I’m a new creature he’s never encountered before.

‘You poisoned my dog,’ I add.

It’s at this point that I realise I’m raving. Somehow, when I was thinking this through, it all sounded logical. In between the thoughts and the words, it has become apparent that I’m utterly mad. The problem is that there’s no turning back now.

‘What are you talking about?’ Harry says. He pushes himself up from the table until he’s standing over me. It feels like he’s going to turn and storm away – but I still have my trump card.

‘You were on my bus,’ I say.

His eyes widen and slowly, very slowly, he returns to his seat. This time, I know it’s the truth.

‘The number 24,’ I add. ‘That’s why you recognised me at The Garden Café.’

Harry picks up the small biscotti that came with his drink and bites it in half. He’s staring at me, looking for some sort of reasoning. It’s a good fifteen seconds before he says anything. When he does speak, it’s in a tone I’ve not heard before. The playfulness has gone, replaced by something harder.

‘I was disappointed,’ he says. ‘When we met at The Garden Café.’

‘By what?’