The Harder They Fall by Debbie McGowan

charm since he’d stopped having to compete for screen-time. Instead, he was going through his emails and chatting with Sophie via instant messaging. He was, he claimed, supposed to be reading a report on token economies, but it was badly written and ill-informed, so he decided to give it a miss. Yesterday’s lunch had really helped him get some perspective, although not with regards to Josh—that issue had yet to be addressed—but he’d decided to withdraw from his placement at the prison. It wasn’t just that the psychologist was using him like a work experience kid: his time there had made him realise that this was absolutely the wrong type of counselling for him. In fact, he was starting to question whether counselling was for him at all, or if he’d merely pursued this career path to be close to Josh. He was nowhere nearer finding the answer than he had been yesterday evening, when he’d also stalled on taking any action about the suitcases.
    So, he and Sophie were idly ‘chatting’ away, when all of a sudden a message appeared from Joe, whom he hadn’t spoken to since he signed over the ranch and was almost certain he’d removed from his ‘friends’.
    “Hey, G. How’s it going?”
    “Great, thanks. How’re you?”
    “I’m good. Just came on to say there’s a fax come for you.”
    “Who from?”
    “It’s back in the office. I was going to send it on, but don’t have a number.”
    George pondered for a moment. They didn’t have a fax machine, so that wasn’t an option.
    “Can you scan it and email it?”
    “Sure thing. It’ll be a couple of hours. OK?”
    “OK. Thanks.”
    And then Joe was gone again. George sat back and rubbed his chin. It was the first time he’d ever received a fax and a bit of a mystery all round.
     
    Josh took the long route home, still trying to come up with a way of telling George that he’d looked in his suitcase. He sort of wished he hadn’t—that he’d given him the chance to tell him of his own accord—but he was also relieved at what he’d found. In the hours between discovering the cases locked in the shed and when his curiosity prevailed, he had gone through all kinds of wicked possibilities, including the utterly absurd notion that George was hiding child pornography. It was entirely unfounded and driven by a client he’d been working with recently, who didn’t have child pornography, but admitted to wanting to look at it. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard this, although it didn’t get any easier or less repulsive through repetition. The man was sick, in need of help way beyond Josh’s capabilities, or at least that’s how he felt about it when they were sitting in consultation with only floorspace between them.
    No, George was nothing like that, and nor was he a drug smuggler (yes, he’d been through that one too), nor a transvestite (that one wouldn’t have bothered him at all, apart from the hilarious image it created in his mind’s eye), nor an armed bank robber (possible—he could have picked up some tricks at the prison) nor a serial killer (what kind of trophy would he take if he were? A snip of hair maybe, or a button off a shirt? That was much more like him). So anyway, the reality was still a bit of a shock, especially with the way he’d been acting lately, but nothing compared to what it could have been. The choice now was between owning up, or feigning ignorance, should George ever get around to sharing. It was a tough call. Josh parked up, turned off the engine and readied his door key in his hand, preparing himself for another evening of awkward pretence.
    It was bound to be a bit of a challenge, sharing a house after living alone for so long, Josh reasoned, as he noted the sound of the running shower and observed the laptop strewn across the sofa, stupid little email icon blinking in the corner of the screen. He took a deep breath and continued through to the kitchen to make coffee, trying to reason away his annoyance.