Bill didn't talk about his past. Bill didn't talk much about anything, truth be told, but he didn't talk about his past to anybody. Because when he talked about it, when he thought about it, it became apparent just how little of it there was.
He wasn't sure what had happened to him. Couldn't account for the blank spaces in his memory; couldn't explain why even contemplating them broke him out in a cold sweat of terror. His past was a gaping black chasm, and if he stared into it too long it would swallow him whole.
So he kept himself facing forward. Kept his eyes on the next job, then the next, and on. It was all he could do.
But now this mad fucking cop was staring him down, peppering him with questions he barely understood, and Bill could feel his feet on the precipice of the canyon. A ghost of that familiar old fear raised goose flesh along his arms.
"Do I know you, pal?"
He kept his expression bland, but his natural midwestern accent slipped, as it was prone to when he was particularly frustrated or tired. It meant nothing to Bill, just another obscure marker of a past that had abandoned him, but Guy would instantly recognise the tones of an East Midlands English accent.