Conviction

by Denise Mina

I said that one of the stories in the Arabian Nights is specifically about the urge to tell a story. It’s primal, the need to tell. It’s not about the listener but the storyteller. In some cultures, not telling your story is regarded as a sign of mental illness.

But then he brought up specific instances of my rudeness, my selfishness, my shutting down. Like that time he was opening up about his feelings of inadequacy and spotted a book on my lap and realised I was reading it under the table. He said I was a cold bitch.

There is a warmth and a comfort in hearing about people in worse situations than your own. Pity is a hollow virtue. I like it. It’s a form of self-aggrandisement really, bigging yourself up by defining someone as below you. True-crime podcasts are usually great for that but sometimes you have to look really hard to find anyone down there. I had not murdered my family and killed myself. I hung onto that.

Just when you think something can’t get any worse someone who dislikes you comes to watch.

Human beings are programmed to find patterns, to make sense of random events, and, back then, curses were a favoured explanation. The modern equivalent might be conspiracy theories.

‘The eternal companions of all clever women are mistrust and scorn.’

‘Personal fashion isn’t a celebration, it’s a defence. It’s the armour of everyday life.’

Then we held hands as we sat on the rickety train, rolling into a grey November London. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t sexual. We held hands like Hansel and Gretel on their first night in the forest. We were both sad and I think we were both grateful that someone else was there, someone kind.

‘Nine years ago you didn’t think he would kill himself? That’s wishful. It’s an impulse not a fixed character trait.’ I suddenly knew she was right. It was a passing impulse. It was a circumstance. I’d never thought of it like that. I was so relieved at that possibility: I hadn’t inherited my fate. I didn’t need to pass it on to my girls. None of it was inevitable.

She smirked, flashing deep dimples at us. She really was a gorgeous-looking woman. It’s dismaying to meet someone in their sixties who is better looking than you will ever be.