The heavy steel door slams shut behind Lydia, making her jump, the nightmare still fresh in her memory. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she crosses to the table in the centre of the room and takes a seat.
“Can’t stay away, can you?” Jason leers at her through lank curtains of hair, slumped back in his chair. Lydia’s eyes flick down to his hands, manacled together in his lap, and remembers vividly the terror she felt when he clapped them around her wrists. He didn’t, she reminds herself forcefully. It didn’t happen.
“Tell me about Alice Redmond,” she says flatly. Jason frowns, and a startling thought occurs to Lydia. Has he forgotten her name? After what he did?
“Alice…” he turns the word over. “Yeah, the art student.”
“That’s right, the girl you tortured and murdered. Tell me about her.”
Jason pauses and then shrugs. “You probably know more than me.” He grins. “I just killed her.”
Lydia fights to hide her hatred, her teeth gritted behind pursed lips. “Are we really not past this yet?” she says, in a bored tone. “Honestly, it’s like babysitting a child.”
“Tell you what,” Jason lifts his bound hands onto the table with a thud, and Lydia jumps again, “you promise to read me a bedtime story, and I’ll tell you all about little Alice.”
“We already made a deal, Jason. I held up my end. Will you hold up yours?”
“I’d love to,” he nods towards his crotch, “but you’ll have to take it out for me. As you can see, I’m a little…” he pulls apart the manacles until the chain between them tightens, “tied up.”
Lydia tilts back her head and eyes him with supreme disdain. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m whatever you want me to be,” he replies, his smile fading. “Isn’t that how this works?”
“What do you mean?”
Jason looks about to elaborate, but then shrugs and shakes his head instead.
“What do you mean?” Lydia repeats more forcefully.
“You didn’t come to find out who I am.” Jason’s eyes narrow. “You came to make up a story and put me in it.”
“Make up?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you denying that you did those terrible things?”
“See,” Jason says quickly.
“What?”
“You’ve already made up your mind. You’ve defined me by a handful of events.”
“Events?” Lydia stares at him, incredulous. “You tortured children.”
“It’s not simple like that,” Jason replies, with… is that a smile? Is he smiling, fake smiling or grimacing? She feels a powerful urge to leap over the table and strangle him for the answer.
“Complicate it for me.”
“Alright.” He sits back in his chair again, like a king holding court. “I will. You see, none of us is ultimately responsible for the things that we do—”
“Of course we are,” Lydia interrupts, dismissively. “Who else is responsible for your actions if not you?”
“You’re not seeing the big picture.” He shakes his head. “We are all of us part of something much greater than ourselves. A chain of events, set in motion long before we existed and whose conclusion none of us will live to see.”
“Determinism?” Lydia says, scathingly. “That’s your excuse? Well it’s hardly an original one.” Lydia looks closer and notices Jason’s now twitchy demeanour as he lowers his chin, and knows exactly what it indicates. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“No one’s truly good,” he bitterly murmurs with a hint of regret.
“Most people are.”
“No,” Jason shakes his head sadly. “No, they’re not. People are good and bad, at different times and in different ways, but the balance doesn’t tip to one side. Our nature is far more mixed than we care to admit.”
“You’ve lost me.” Lydia is frowning, but less out of frustration now. Her anger has ebbed. She’s genuinely curious.
“Well,” Jason gazes at her, his eyes bright, “you know that Lucifer was a fallen angel, right?”
“So the story goes.”
“More than a story.” Jason smiles. “Why do you think we’ve clung on to these ideas for so long, even while technology puts them beyond credulity?”
“Tell me.”
“Because on some level, we understand that they’re about us.” He leans forward, his voice becoming more urgent. “They explain us. The Devil used to be an angel, and God is capable of terrible things. A bringer of death. These are the dual, interchangeable characters upon which we imprint our image of ourselves. The Devil, evil. And God, good. They’re one and the same. They are us.”
Lydia stares at Jason Devere, as though seeing him clearly for the first time. How did this person do those things? How is he not the monster she expected him to be? How was she managing to see this humanity in a killer who had done such awful heartless things? What did it say about her?
“What were you asking me about?” Jason leans back, the expression on his face one of satisfaction, but not triumph.
“Alice Redmond,” Lydia replies, the name catching in her throat. She feels like she’s doing the poor girl a disservice with this whole conversation, but has no idea what to do about it.
“Ah,” Jason’s head falls. “Yes. Alice.” He thinks for a moment, uncomfortably, then looks Lydia right in the eye as he suddenly shifted gears, now nonchalant, or at least trying to be. “I wanted to make something terrible out of something beautiful.”
Crime scene photographs fresh in her mind, Lydia thinks this is maybe the most revolting thing she has ever heard. More disgusting than the detailed coroner’s reports, more disgusting even than the photographs she has seen. To hear that justification, calm, defiant, righteous even. It made her feel sick to her soul.
“You think that’s art?” she asks, through gritted teeth.
“Sure,” Jason replies somewhat unconvincingly now, the deep growl returning. “All art is a reflection of the artist. The girl inspired something in me, and I expressed it as best I could. Just as your work is an expression of who you are.”
“No,” Lydia replies flatly, getting to her feet. She’s had enough. “They’re just books.” She turns and heads for the door.
“Oh, Lydia.” Jason’s voice is almost melodic as it drifts after her. “Nothing is just anything…”