Next of Sin: A psychological thriller

by Lisa Gordon

Gaby approached the entrance of the filing room clasping her mug of coffee. She could see Debbie busily scanning and collating disks and data. In years gone by, Debbie’s title had been Filing Clerk, but in the age of paperless office environments, she was now entrusted with scanning every item of mail and document and saving them to disk before categorising, labelling and filing the disks and sending off the mailed items as e-mail attachments.

  Gaby gave Debs the once-over: the girl’s personal style perpetually threatened to break every one of BarkerWhittakerHowell’s dress codes. Although she wore a pair of conservative grey, brushed-cotton trousers and a smart white blouse, she had been unable to resist livening them up with the addition of fluorescent-green trainers and a garish, technicoloured zip jacket. Gaby admired her audacity. Although the dress code was business smart, it may as well have been: black trouser suit with sensible shoes and school-uniform-style white blouse, as that was invariably what the women at work wore. Gaby boycotted black and experimented with all shades of blue, caramel and aubergine, favouring white linen in summer.

  Debs was apparently thirty-seven, but it was hard to tell her age. Her short curly hair was bleached and unruly and at Christmas and before long weekends, it was dyed pink. She wore tasteful make-up and yet the holes where her nose and lip rings went on the weekend were still apparent.

  “You alright, Gabs?” asked Debs as she finally looked up from her scanner to see Gaby.

  “Yes, fine thanks and you, Debs?” asked Gaby politely as she strolled into the room.

  “Crackin’. Anyfing I can help you with?” enquired Debs.

  “No, actually I just came to say Hi. I’ve been back from honeymoon for over a week and you were the one person in the building I had not seen yet.”

  “I was on holiday, me. Hear the weddin’ was crackin’.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Gaby modestly. “I was sorry you couldn’t come.” Gaby’s tone was sincere, yet questioning.

  “Not really my thing, them posh weddins,” responded Debs. “Had nuffin to wear.”

  “Oh, you should’ve said,” began Gaby sympathetically. “I’m sure my stepmum would have had something to lend you.” Debs immediately looked Gaby’s way with a crooked grin and an ironic frown creasing her brow. “Not that I mean to imply you have the same taste as my stepmum,” stammered Gaby, “it’s just she has so many clothes. You know what I mean?” Gaby hoped that she had righted any gaff she may have made.

  “No, it’s sweet. I really appreciate you invitin’ me anyways. Most of ’em ’round here look down on me.” Debs looked down at the scanner as she talked.

  “Oh, don’t let that worry you. Jenson Whittaker looks down on everyone who isn’t a partner,” Gaby reassured her. “Didn’t even lighten up after a few drinks at my wedding.”

  “He’s a sketchy geezer,” murmured Debs, continuing her work.

  Gaby was immediately curious. “Why?”

  “Asks me to shred papers. Trusts me, thinks I’m too dumb to suss it, but it’s hardcore. Really.”

  Gaby was immediately eager for more details, although she anticipated that Debs would say no more. Debs had worked at the firm for almost twenty years and was the repository for many secrets, but she rarely talked and would stonewall any questions with her personal vocabulary of catch phrases. Gaby changed the subject. “I’m sorry to hear about your divorce, Debs.” Gaby immediately regretted introducing a personal subject and hoped that she had not been insensitive.

  “I’m not,” answered Debs blandly.

  “What happened?”

  “He wan’ed kids. I ’ave no time for that, I wanna get out there and do it.”

  “That reminds me, Debs, how did the X Factor audition go … or was it Big Brother?”

  “Big Bruver, and I’m through to the final fifty. I may not be ’ere much longer. Mind, if I had any ambition, I would resign and reapply for the cleaner’s job. She’s on ten quid an hour.”

  “Really, that’s more than the graduates earn,” laughed Gaby.

  “That coffee you drinkin’, Gabs? Though’ you only drank ’erbal,” queried Debs, surprised.

  “No, I’ve converted, discovered the joys of being a caffeine junkie,” quipped Gaby before becoming serious again. “Actually, it’s getting me through. At first I thought it was the jet lag, but I still can’t get to sleep. I dream these horrible dreams all night, wake at four and can’t get back to sleep. I just can’t seem to get back into work either; I wish I could hide out here for the rest of today. Everything is really getting to me.”

  “Sounds like depression, Gabs,” said Debs seriously, pausing in her work.

  “Why would I be depressed though?”

  “Funny thing depression is; you wanna get down the doctors, get it sorted.”

  “You may just be right, thanks Debs.”

  “Tough thing to get through this life,” said Debs as she walked out from her filing room towards the main offices.

  Gaby decided that the best course of action would be to visit her trusted family doctor, Dr Humphreys, up in Solihull. She had not been to the doctor for many years and she was proud of that record; in fact, she had never even bothered to register at a doctor’s surgery since she had moved to London. After doing some reading on depression, she had decided that Debs was right; for whatever reason, she was suffering from depression. The nightmares had persisted and every night, Gaby was tormented by dreams of tsunami, floods or drowning; she woke each morning depleted and anxious.

  Sitting in the surgery, Gaby waited patiently for her appointment, unlike the other patients who sighed and regarded their watches with frustration. Gaby was in no real hurry to broach the matter of her depression. She watched the children playing in the kiddies’ corner, which was populated with a tremendous array of dolls, cars, toy kitchenettes and toy vacuum cleaners.

  Twelve-fifteen and Gaby finally stepped into Dr Humphreys’s room. He greeted her in his convivial manner. “Gaby, what a surprise and a pleasure! How are you?” Dr Humphreys’s gentle grey eyes were alive and smiling, his thinning grey hair combed over and his rosy face warm and open. He never changed.

  “I’m fine,” responded Gaby automatically, feeling sure that this particular How are you? was rhetorical.

  “How are the newlyweds? What a magnificent wedding, Gaby. My wife and I are still talking about it; best fun we’ve had in ages. What a fantastic start to married life. Is Piers well?” Gaby nodded as she sat down and Dr Humphreys continued, “Your father is so proud of you. He says you”ll be a partner at BWH before too long.” Dr Humphreys plonked himself down on to his secretary’s chair and rolled towards his desk, reaching for his fountain pen. He turned to look at Gaby with a twinkle in his eye. “So … what can I do for you today? Will we perhaps be celebrating again in eight months?”

  Gaby cringed. What was she supposed to say? No, I’m unhappy, depressed, I hate my job, my marriage is a big disappointment and my whole life is in disarray. She wanted to grab her handbag and race for the door. She had thought that divulging her innermost feelings to someone familiar, someone as understanding as Dr Humphreys would be easy, but she couldn’t do it. He was too close to the family; he had seen her extravagant wedding — what would he think of her? She knew that he was old-fashioned; perhaps he would classify her as a spoilt whinger and tell her to get on with it as she was extremely privileged and should be grateful. The seconds were ticking by and Gaby needed to come up with a reason she had travelled all the way to Solihull to see her family doctor. Reddening with embarrassment, Gaby stuttered out some questions about long-term contraception options. Although it was rather ludicrous for a married woman of twenty-six to be asking these questions, Dr Humphreys was not surprised but delighted to give her a detailed rundown of what was on the market.

  The following week, Gaby decided to make use of a drop-in surgery in London which, unlike the warm and cosy atmosphere of the Solihull surgery, was bleak and depressing. On the positive side though, it was impersonal and anonymo
us. The doctor wrote out a prescription for antidepressants in a perfunctory manner and suggested Gaby see a psychologist. Gaby felt that he had treated her problem more like tonsillitis than something psychological, but she gratefully accepted his list of recommended psychologists.

  Paul Thompson BSc Maths and Psychology M.A. PhD (Durham)

  Gabriella stared at the certificates on the wall as she waited in the smart, modern offices of Mr Thompson. Two brown leather sofas were pushed against opposing windowless walls and the pale winter light streamed through the skylight. A sisal carpet covered the floor and a large potted palm stood proudly in one corner, completing the earthy feel. Gaby noted with interest the box of tissues on a wooden side table. Hideously out of place in another corner was a cheap and nasty portable plastic fountain, obviously there to create soothing ‘trickling’ sounds. It was plugged into the wall, which Gaby found added to its absurdity.

  It was two weeks before Christmas and the streets outside were filled with people enthusiastically shopping for presents and festive food, or trying on stunning outfits for their parties. It seemed everyone was happily anticipating the holidays, which made Gaby wonder what her life had come to; why was she sitting waiting with dread in a suburban shrink’s office?

  For Gaby, it was not a case of not knowing where to begin; she knew precisely where and when it had all begun: on her honeymoon. But why? She could think no further. The oak door to her left suddenly opened and a slim, middle-aged woman with close-cropped copper hair and a smart brown suit scurried out, clutching her ostentatious handbag tensely. Mr Thompson, a short, rotund man with receding hair and Harry Potter glasses, then appeared in the doorway. “Mrs Gabriella Harvey?”

  It was three weeks after Christmas: Gaby’s fourth appointment. She was regretting turning down an invitation from her friends Emma and Louise to go to the Harrods’ Sale. Gaby had been determined to continue with Mr Thompson; she wanted to plough on and find answers. After two months on antidepressants and over three hours of trawling through her past, Gaby was no closer to those answers.

  She and Piers had spent Christmas in Solihull with her family and New Year with Piers’s in St Albans. It had been perfectly lovely and yet no happiness had stirred within Gaby’s heart. She had taken the opportunity over Christmas to chat to Clint about her depression; he had been far more supportive than Piers and had suggested that a new career was probably the answer, which had filled Gaby with a surge of optimism. She had mentioned nothing to her father. She had followed her father into law and he was extremely proud that at twenty-six, she was the youngest senior associate at BWH. She had a deep respect for Michael Butler. An eminent barrister, he had recently been selected to head a prestigious think tank assembled to devise new laws to protect children from abuse.

  Gaby’s mind drifted back to the earth-toned reception room and the sound of trickling water, which chilled her on what was a sleety, raw January day. Was she making any progress with Mr Thompson? He seemed so sure that the root of her depression lay in her childhood, a by-product of the repressed pain and grief over the loss of her mother and sister.

  “The wedding may have triggered the depression,” he had surmised. Gaby was unconvinced. She was sure there was something else and had tried to explain to Mr Thompson that since her parents had worked, she had not been particularly close to either. Thinking back, she had been closer to Clint and her Polish au pair, Sylwia. Although Alison’s death and the demise of her mother had created the most horrendous emotional turmoil for everyone in the family, Gaby had been a little too young to understand it all fully. After her mother’s death, Gaby, Clint and Meagan were sent to boarding school. Aunt Pen had always been there: when Gaby needed her first bra; when she had to buy a confirmation dress; when she needed pimple remedies. Gaby felt sure that her psychologist was missing something. She looked at her watch. It was ten twenty-three; still not too late to meet Emma and Louise. She grabbed a pad and pen from her bag, scribbled a note to Mr Thompson and darted out the room before his oak door opened.

  “You made the right decision, Gaby,” Emma assured her as she plunged another chunk of vanilla slice into her mouth. “Retail therapy is what you need, no better cure believe me. The High Street is the biggest threat to the psychology profession,” she laughed.

  “Well, I honestly wonder what he would have said today anyway. We were wasting each other’s time.”

  “You still having those dreams?” piped up Louise, who had been engrossed with a pair of black patent peep-toe shoes with four-inch heels. Gaby nodded. “My mum knows this guy who does dream interpretation; I think he’s also a medium or something. I don’t believe in all that, but my mum says he was good with her dreams. I’d forgotten about it, but Mum was saying the other day that she’s thinking of going again.”

  “Didn’t your mum go because she had dreams of your dad having an affair?” asked Emma tactlessly.

  Louise looked at Emma in astonishment. “I never realised I told you that. But yes, you’re right and he was.”

  It was rather an awkward moment and Gaby decided to intervene. “I’ve never had any faith in that stuff; I don’t even like it,” she declared emphatically.

  “But Gaby, four months ago you never believed in antidepressants or black coffee,” Emma pointed out bluntly. Emma was not one to tread lightly, often sacrificing diplomacy for honesty. Gaby had known Emma and Louise since their days at boarding school and, like so many young people, they had gravitated to London where it was perceived the doors of opportunity were plentiful. Emma was tall and buxom with a broad rosy face and curly auburn hair; she was the type of person in whose company anything felt possible — she always seemed to land on her feet and it felt good to be on her team.

  “I’ll get his e-mail from my mum. He’s quite eccentric apparently, only makes appointments by e-mail as he doesn’t believe in phones. You can always think about it Gaby,” suggested Louise sympathetically.

  “What’s his name?” enquired Gaby with a flicker of interest in her eyes.

  “Mr Goldfarb.”

  Gaby exited the Pudding Mill Lane tube station in East London. She reached into the pocket of her black military-style coat and pulled out the directions which Mr Goldfarb had e-mailed her. The piece of A4 paper flickered in the brusque afternoon wind, and after a brief recap of the directions, she shoved the paper back into her pocket, pulled on her red gloves, tightened her matching scarf and walked on with resolve.

  Ten minutes later she turned into a narrow lane; there was a disused warehouse to the right and a terrace of dilapidated triple-storey Victorian houses to the left. She walked gingerly up the moss-covered steps of No. 7, taking care to avoid contact with the rotting wooden handrail. In stark contrast to the decay and neglect exhibited by every inch of the terrace, the front door boasted a modern stainless-steel lock with a keypad. With her gloves still on, she punched in the key code the medium had given her and pushed open the paint-thirsty door. Inside, it was dingy and had the musty smell of decades’ worth of old dust and damp. The narrow staircase creaked as she made her way up to Flat E. Mounting the stairs to the second floor, she was horrified by the intense stench of urine. Gaby covered her face with her scarf and stood still for a few moments; she was appalled by the place and had never in her life been somewhere so utterly desperate. What was she doing here? What had she resorted to? Did the answers really lie here and not in the smart, respectable offices of Mr Thompson? Something propelled her forwards, however, and soon she was knocking on Mr Goldfarb’s door.

  The door swung open soundlessly and Gaby was immediately taken aback by the sight of the flat, which looked more like a storage-room-cum-dollar-store. It was crammed to capacity with a variety of stuff: against one wall she could make out a single bed on which colourful blankets were haphazardly heaped; there were bookshelves on the walls; bean bags, cushions and more books littered the floor; candle stands and burners were everywhere; and myriad objects ranging from crystals and prisms to the indescr
ibable hung from the ceiling. She noticed two large Siamese cats, but that was only because they were moving; otherwise, she would not have been able to distinguish them from the chaos. She was totally silent as she took a step in, now noticing that there was an old television set and a transistor radio in another corner. Mr Goldfarb himself was overshadowed by the eyesore that was his apartment. He was a diminutive old man with fine white hair and a thin face and was wearing a pair of creased, navy pinstriped pyjamas.

  “Gabriella?” he asked. She nodded, still speechless. “You hev a seat, okay. You would like some coffee?” Gaby gathered from his emphasis on h’s and s’s that he was Russian, a modern-day Rasputin, she thought to herself. She noticed a shiny stainless-steel coffee maker standing proudly on a shelf near the window. Coffee was obviously something he thought worthy of spending money on and she decided that she would risk some.

  “Yes, please. Black with sugar if that’s okay?” Mr Goldfarb got to work on the coffee and Gaby slipped off her coat and gloves. He immediately relieved her of her outerwear and hung it on one of many over-door hooks, which were already inundated with clothes. Although a multitude of criticisms and Oh my Gods were racing through Gaby’s mind, she tried to silence her thoughts — What if Mr Goldfarb could read her thoughts? — although if he could, he surely was used to his clients’ shock at his living conditions.

  “You sit,” he said, pointing to a beanbag. Gaby sat down and tried to make herself comfortable. The two cats immediately came over to suss out the visitor, and Gaby tickled and stroked them playfully. As she sat there waiting for her coffee, Gaby realised that she had indeed changed as a person: months ago she would not have dreamed of visiting someone like Mr Goldfarb and, even less, subjecting herself to coffee in such squalid surroundings; but one effect of her inner turmoil had been to made her less judgmental, more tolerant of other people’s failings and quirks. Life was not quite as cut and dried as she had previously believed, and she was no longer as arrogant in her attitudes.