The Therapist

by B. A. Paris

  “Awake, are we? Good!”

  “Stop, John, please!” I recognize Lorna’s voice and open my eyes, moving them in her direction. I can just about see her, crouching down beside Edward, slumped against the wall. “Your father needs an ambulance. It’s his heart.”

  “Be quiet!” Thomas snaps. I’d thought at first that Lorna was speaking to someone else. But of course, Thomas isn’t his real name.

  He tugs my head back further, causing my swollen throat more injury. The pain is excruciating but I refuse to let him see how much it hurts.

  He bends over me, bringing his face close, so that I’m looking right into his eyes, upside down.

  “Guess what’s going to happen now?” he says.

  You’re going to kill me.

  I hear a noise, a noise I recognize as a pair of scissors being sliced open and closed. Lifting his arm, he brings them into view and I remember what happened to Nina.

  “You’re going to cut my hair.” It comes out in a hoarse whisper.

  “That’s right.” He moves his hands to either side of my head and pushes it forward, so that I’m looking straight ahead. At first, I think there’s another woman in the room with us, until I realize it’s my own reflection staring back at me from a gold-framed mirror, speckled with age, set up on a table in front of me.

  I quickly work out that the room I’m in corresponds to my study in our house next door. The two windows have been boarded up; the only light comes from two ornate lamps, placed on either side of the mirror. As I watch, he takes hold of my hair, lifts it high above my head and slowly, gradually, lets it fall around my shoulders. I watch him in the mirror and shudder at what I see. He looks so different to the man I knew—or thought I knew—that it’s like looking at someone else. Somehow, it makes it easier.

  He separates a length of my hair, about an inch thick, from the rest and, like before, holds it high above my head. Opening the blades of the scissors around it, he moves them downward, stopping now and then as if deciding where to cut it.

  “Here, or here?” he muses. Our eyes meet in the mirror. He waits for a reaction so I stare back, not giving him one. With a sudden movement, he moves the scissors down to within an inch of my skull and saws through the length of hair. I don’t move, I don’t flinch, not even when he drops it onto my lap. I’m too worried about Edward to think about what Thomas is doing. I can’t see him at all now, I can only see the top of Lorna’s head as she crouches beside him. It comes back to me then, how Lorna and Edward had wanted to move away after Nina’s murder but Edward had had a heart attack. Was it from the shock of knowing that his son was a murderer? Had Thomas been staying here at the time? Or maybe all the time. Maybe he has been living here, in this house, in secret. It would explain why I hadn’t seen him walking across the square earlier, why nobody has ever seen him walking across the square, not even on his visits to Nina. Because all that time, he had been living right next door.

  “Why did you kill Nina?” I ask.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you think?” he says. “I’d love to hear another of your theories.”

  “You killed her because you were having an affair with her and she wanted to break it off.” He doesn’t say anything. “What about Justine and Marion? Did you have an affair with them too?”

  He grins. “I saw what you did there. But you’re wrong. I didn’t have an affair with them. Or with Nina.”

  “But you killed them.”

  “Correct.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they didn’t know their own minds. Not like you, Alice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He smiles, lifts another length of hair. “Where shall I cut this one?”

  “Wherever you like.” Again, he snips it near my skull and drops it onto my lap. I can’t pretend I’m not distraught at the sight of uneven clumps of hair sprouting from my scalp, but I keep it to myself. “Are you really a therapist?”

  “How can I be a therapist if I’m a private investigator? Oh, wait—maybe I’m not a private investigator.” He waves the scissors around. “The trick is to be who people want me to be. A therapist worked well for the others. For you, I had to think of something else. You needed a savior, a redeemer. Someone you could help, so that you could atone for your sins.” He looks triumphantly at my reflection in the mirror. “I’m right, aren’t I, Alice? You were the one driving the car the night your parents and sister died.”

  I stare at him, not letting my gaze waver, not letting him know that he’s right. He lifts another length of hair and I focus on the sound of the scissors sawing through it to stop the sounds that have haunted me for almost twenty years, that will haunt me for the rest of my life, the screech of brakes, the tearing of metal, the screams of pain and fear.

  “It’s a shame you decided to leave The Circle so abruptly,” he continues. “It was fun listening to all your different theories about who killed Nina. I could barely keep up with your suspicions. A headless chicken came to mind. You suspected your friends, their husbands, the man you were meant to love, even the estate agent.” The scissors slice through my hair again. “You’re not a very nice person, Alice. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “Compared to you, I’m an angel,” I say scathingly, to hide the shame I feel at his words. “You used your knowledge to manipulate me into thinking everyone had something to hide. I suppose it was you who told Lorna to tell me not to trust anyone.”

  “No, foolishly, she did that of her own accord. But I overheard her and made sure she paid for it.”

  I give him a look of pure disgust. “Were you born evil or did you become evil?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you think?”

  I swivel my eyes to where Lorna is crouching. She looks terrified.

  “I’m guessing a normal family background so it must be rejection by a woman, or women, that made you hate us so much.” I pause. “It was the woman in the photograph you showed me, wasn’t it, the one you told me was Helen? She had long hair—and I think she was blond.” I curl my lips in a pitying smile. “Is that what happened—she rejected you and you couldn’t cope? Are you really that pathetic?”

  He laughs, a harsh, detached laugh. Why had I never heard him laugh like that?

  I’ve needled him. Ramming the scissors into my hair, he begins making furious cuts close to my scalp, nicking my skin so that I can’t help but flinch.

  “Where did you get the key to our French windows?” I ask.

  “It was on the set of keys that Nina and Oliver gave to my parents. I kept them, hoping they would come in useful.” He sighs in pretend despair. “Leo really should have changed all the locks, not just those on the front door.” Then he grins. “I love that you thought I was Nina when I visited you at night.”

  I hate that he heard me talking to her, hate that he has seen me in all my weaknesses.

  “How pathetic of you to hide in the wardrobe,” I sneer.

  “John, I think he’s dead.” Lorna’s trembling voice breaks through Thomas’s amusement. The scissors stop moving. “I think your father’s dead.”

  I watch in the mirror as he walks over to where Lorna is standing. He bends down, then straightens up, a look of confusion on his face, which he quickly hides.

  “I think you might be right,” he says, feigning nonchalance.

  Lorna bursts into tears. “We need an ambulance,” she sobs. “Please, John.”

  “Why, if he’s dead?” His voice is harsh.

  He comes back to where I’m sitting, powerless in the face of his suppressed anger at his father’s death. I want to comfort Lorna, get her away from Thomas. But tied to a chair, I can’t do either of those things. I can’t do anything. For the first time, it hits me. I am going to die.

  “They moved here to get away from me.” He starts to chop at my hair again but his heart has gone out of it. He might have been prepared for my death, but not his father’s. “They didn’t tell me they were leaving Bournemouth. Wh
en I came back from Paris, after I killed Marion, I had to hire a private investigator to track them down—which is where I got my idea for you.” He pauses, drops another length of hair onto my lap. “You came along at just the right time. My sights were set on Tamsin, I had her lined up, ready to go. I knew from Nina that she was looking for a therapist but she didn’t want to share me with anyone.” He laughs again. “I was her little secret, just like I was yours. I knew Tamsin would need a therapist even more once Nina had died, so it was perfect. But then she cut her hair.”

  “You came here, to The Circle, after killing Marion?” I say, backtracking, needing to keep the conversation going, because as long as we’re talking, I’m alive.

  “Yes. It was ironic, really. My parents chose London, thinking it would reduce them to needles in a haystack, plus a gated community, thinking they’d be able to keep me out. But it proved the perfect hiding place for me.”

  “He wouldn’t let us go anywhere, he kept us prisoner,” Lorna says, her voice stronger now. She moves nearer, coming into my vision. “He locked us in here during the day, in our bedroom at night. There wasn’t anything we could do, he was too strong for us. We were only allowed to put the bins out, or do a bit of gardening at the front of the house, so that people would see us from time to time and not worry about us. But never together, he always kept one of us hostage. When Edward went to hospital with his heart attack, John told him he would kill me if he said anything to the doctors. He wouldn’t let me visit Edward, I had to pretend to the hospital that I was too frail to make the journey.”

  “But you’re not frail, are you, Lorna?” I say, trying to catch her eye in the mirror, needing her to understand that if we’re going to get out of this, she has to be strong. But she’s too deep in her own story.

  “He made me lie to the police. I had to pretend I’d heard Oliver and Nina arguing, pretend that she’d admitted to me that she was having an affair. I had to say that I’d seen Oliver go straight into the house the night she was murdered.” She clutches her pearls, a lifebuoy in the tumult of her emotions. “He must have seen Oliver go into the square and took his chance to go and kill Nina. I didn’t know, I didn’t know what he’d done, not until he came back and told me exactly what I had to say to the police if they came knocking. He threatened to kill Edward if I didn’t, he was always threatening to kill us.” The tears come back. “Oliver and Nina never argued. They loved each other.”

  Thomas shakes his head angrily. “No. Nina did not love him, she loved me. She couldn’t see it, that’s all. Just like those other two bitches. But you were different, Alice. If only you’d given me a little more time. We were so close.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He stoops, bringing his face up against mine. “Admit it, Alice,” he says softly. “You were beginning to fall in love with me.”

  I look at our reflections in the mirror, captured within its ornate frame. We could be a photograph.

  “Lorna,” I say, my voice firm.

  Her eyes lock with mine and I look toward the scissors, still in Thomas’s hand but within her grasp, hoping she’ll get the message. But Thomas sees and with an almost childish laugh, raises them high above his head.

  “She’s not going to help you, Alice. I’m her son.”

  He’s right, I know that. Lorna is no match for his strength anyway. She wouldn’t be able to wrestle the scissors out of his hand, let alone use them against him.

  “Did she turn me in to the police after I killed Justine, after I killed Marion?” Thomas goes on. “No, she didn’t. Did she cover up for me after I killed Nina? Yes, she did. Blood is thicker than water, Alice. Justine, Marion, and Nina were just that—water.”

  “But Edward wasn’t,” I say. “Edward was blood. And you killed him.”

  I’ve struck a chord. “I didn’t kill him!” he shouts.

  “Well, technically, you did.”

  Lorna screams then, not a scream of fear, or of suffering, but a scream of white-hot anger that goes on and on and on. It comes from deep inside her, canceling out a mother’s innate desire to protect her child, no matter what they do. And Thomas, sensing that something has changed, freezes for a few precious seconds, just enough time for me, still tied to the chair, to spring up and back, smashing into him. He crashes to the floor and I land heavily on top of him. Caught unawares, the scissors fly from his hand.

  “Lorna!” I cry. She stops in mid-scream and stares, seemingly paralyzed, at Thomas and me on the floor. He grapples with the chair, trying to throw the weight of it off him. But I force my body downward, pinning him underneath me.

  “Lorna!” I call again. “Get help!”

  With a roar of anger, Thomas gets his arms around the chair and throws it off him, slamming me to the floor. The air is expelled from my lungs and as I lie helpless, he throws himself across my chest, compressing it. His hands move to my neck, his face contorted with fury. As the pressure builds in my throat, I realize that even if Lorna does get help, it will be too late for me.

  I hear him grunt and the weight of him on my chest increases. But his hands lose some of their grip and I twist my head to the side, gasping desperately for air. His hands slacken more, then fall from my neck and, at the same time as his head crashes onto mine, I become aware of a dull rhythmic thud, repeating itself over and over again.

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  There’s a knock at the door, so timid that it barely registers.

  I place my book on the scrubbed pine table, and wipe suddenly clammy hands on my jeans. Even though I’ve been expecting Eve, I’m still horribly nervous about seeing her. What if she knows?

  It’s all right, I remind myself, as I walk to the door. She doesn’t know. Thanks to Lorna, nobody will never know.

  * * *

  I thought I would die that day, crushed by the weight of Thomas’s body across my chest. Although I’d managed to twist my head to the side, I couldn’t get air into my lungs. Lorna had gone into shock, paralyzed by what she had done. My strangled gasp pulled her back. She tried to lift Thomas off me but he was too heavy for her.

  “Pull me out!”

  Understanding, she got her hands under my arms and freed me just enough to release the pressure on my chest. The rest is a blur; the police arriving, the gentle questions, the walk to the ambulance, the shocked faces of the people huddled outside, brought by the sight of an ambulance and a police car screeching into The Circle. And Eve and Tamsin, staring at me in stunned disbelief as I followed Lorna to the ambulance, realizing there was more to what they were witnessing than Edward having died.

  It dawned on me then, how everyone—not only the police but also Leo, Ginny, Debbie, and all who lived in The Circle—would know how I’d been taken in by the stranger who had come to our house six weeks before.

  “They’ll all know,” I wept in anguish to Lorna as we sat in the ambulance, waiting for it to leave. “They will know how stupid I’ve been. I can’t bear it.”

  And Lorna had reached for my hand under the blankets that had been wrapped tight around us. “All anyone needs to know is that you came to see me and Edward to say goodbye, and were taken captive by a man, who you recognized as the man who turned up at your drinks evening,” she whispered. “When the police ask, that’s what you tell them. They don’t need to know anything else, nobody does.” I stared at her, not daring to believe it could be so simple. “It will be all right,” she promised, giving my hand a squeeze.

  I took it, this lifeline she had thrown me, and clung on to it. I made the end of my story the beginning, and never mentioned the name Thomas Grainger. He had existed only for me; nobody needed to know how stupidly gullible I’d been. As far as the police and everyone else was concerned, it was as Lorna had said; I had gone round to say goodbye to her and Edward, and had found a man there, who I recognized as the man who had gate-crashed our drinks evening. He had Edward by the throat and before I could react, he attacked me. When I regained consciousness, I found myself tied
to a chair and while he hacked at my hair, he told me that he was Edward and Lorna’s son, that he had killed Nina Maxwell and that I would suffer the same fate. And I’d thought I would die, until Lorna saved me.

  This small part of the truth is all anyone knows.

  * * *

  Eve looks different. The pink tips have gone from her hair and her face is fuller.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she says awkwardly.

  We stare at each other for a moment. Then my emotions take over and I pull her into a hug.

  “It’s so good to see you,” I say, and she sinks against me.

  “Really?” There’s a catch in her voice.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too.” She moves back, searches my face. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” I say. “Getting there.”

  She nods, then grasps my hand. “I need so much to apologize,” she says, her voice anguished.

  I frown. “Apologize?”

  “Yes. I feel awful about everything. We all do.” She gives an awkward smile. “I don’t suppose I could sit down, could I? I’m pregnant and it’s been a long drive.”

  “Oh, Eve, that’s wonderful, congratulations!” Spurred into action by her lovely news, I lead her to the kitchen and pull out a chair. “Here, have a rest while I make some tea.”

  She looks around, captivated.

  “This is lovely, Alice. I love that plate rack, and your amazing Aga—and is that a bread oven?”

  I can’t help laughing at her enthusiasm. “Yes,” I say, turning to fill the kettle.

  “Your cottage is gorgeous, I’m not surprised you found leaving it hard. When did you move back in?”

  “Two months ago. I stayed with Debbie at first.”

  “You must be happy to be back.”

  “I am. I feel safe here.”

  She tips her head to one side, observing me. “Your hair. It suits you.”