I always thought he was a cruel man.
He took advantage of people, you know.
He had a nose for weakness.
It could be drink or sexual habits;
gambling, addictions, things of that ilk.
He could smell unhappiness, he said so once,
like damp in a house, he told me,
as if I should applaud him for his talent.
My wife was utterly taken in by him,
she was a fool, I told her so.
She gave him money whenever he asked
and even when he didn't. Bought a flat
in the country and let him live there
though he rarely paid. With money he squeezed
from her, of course, or from some other
stupid woman. She was no good, I know that now.
It all came out in the course of the divorce.
He was seeing these other women in the flat and once
rented it out to some criminal types.
Why did they always feel sorry for him?
He played the little boy lost
and they fell for it. Then he stole
their money, their trust, anything
he could get his bony fingers on.
He was a cruel man, you know.
He stole a shirt from my bedroom
and an expensive pair of trousers.