You drew a picture once, some therapeutic tiger, and it looked quite lifelike - all striped and fierce and ready to kill, but with an old lady's smile. I liked you.
Shared gifts: I'd been afraid and hopeful and lost two teeth crashing into a tree as I flew across the stream on a frayed rope, briefly free of parents and the different city that breathed the other side of the Thames, that queued in Vauxhall Vivas to board the rickety rocky Woolwich Ferry: the city that ached for some new kind of sunlight.
You dumped a handbag in that stream, my stream, this stream, the handbag that got you caught, swallowed by 37/41 forever or until the Home Secretary loses the plot and you must know I never wanted to grow up so quickly?
You were serving in the canteen once - a twisted tuck-shop, trusting - and I heard one of your customers spit 'you know what I want!' and you said, grave, 'how would I fucking know, I'm a psychopath not a telepath?' and you winked at me and we all sniggered, even the ghosts of those old ladies whose skin you'd ripped like old newspapers.
Precious few joys in any of our lives - kept in check by our neuroleptic timidity - the nurses seemed to hate you more for your stabs at normality than for the blood you spilt. Tough: they told me you murdered the place that I'd made myth from, the peace I'd inserted into my childhood.
Yes. Two women in Bostall Woods, one on the Heath. I could never do what you did.