He half-smiles, a resigned sort of gesture because he could have guessed that was coming. But it's OK and he gestures for her to sit, if she'd like. He himself slides down the wall and puts the soles of his feet together, stretching out his quads as he thinks of what to say.

He wants to trust her with this. He thinks she might understand, to a degree.

'You remember when we first met in the bar? I had a gun and told you I was going to kill someone.'

He's glad he didn't. Glad, and still wishes he had. Sometimes.

'His name was Joe Chill. When I was eight years old...'

He blinks, his head jerks and for a second, he's there again, in that alley.

'...we'd been to an opera. I'd got scared and asked my dad if we could go. So we left and Chill...'

He blinks again and looks up at her, back in the room again.

'...he shot them. Robbed them and shot them. And...they died. Right there.'

He swallows and tries to lighten up. But he's still angry. And still guilty. He can't help it.

'The day we met, they let him out of prison. He agreed to give information about a crime boss in the city and they let him go. Someone else killed him before I could and when I went to see that crime boss, he pointed out to me that I knew nothing about the underworld. I knew nothing about crime, or defending people or why criminals did what they did.'

He's suddenly very aware that he's talking a lot and possibly not answering her question. Also aware that this is a date and he shouldn't lay it on so thick.

'So I decided to learn and went away for seven years.'

Simple, right?