Next of Sin: A psychological thriller

by Lisa Gordon

  “How I cen help you?” asked the old man as he sat down on an adjacent beanbag. Gaby was astonished at the ease with which he lowered himself on to the beanbag; he was agile for a man of so many years.

  “I was married in September last year,” she began quickly. “I should be very happy. I am so lucky: I have a great husband, job, no real worries at all and yet I am awfully depressed.” She paused and shrugged with embarrassment, “and I keep having these horrible dreams, nearly every night ...” Mr Goldfarb held up his hand.

  “Wait now,” he said, staring intently into his coffee cup. “My mind is beginning to fill with images.” There was a long pause. Gaby waited patiently, trying to read the expression on the medium’s face. “I see a handsome young man; he is with a blonde woman. I see you; you are behind a glass wall. You try to speak to the woman, but she cennot hear you.”

  “Do you think my husband is in love with another woman?” she blurted out.

  “Wait,” he instructed. “I see an old photograph; it is torn in half. On one half are five members of a family, on za other half is a small girl with dark curly hair.”

  “That sounds like me,“ she interrupted.

  “Are you estranged from your family?” he asked with interest.

  “No, not at all,” she replied indignantly. “What does all this mean?”

  “I see images, symbols, we together hev to decipher,” he explained cryptically.

  “I think the man and blonde woman in your first vision are my brother and his girlfriend. I dislike her intensely, but have kept my feelings hidden,” explained Gaby, reassuring herself at the same time.

  “Thet may be so,” he agreed vaguely. “I continue. Okay.” Gaby fell silent, again reflecting on the torn photograph. After some moments he continued, “I see a diamond bracelet, and also something else. Wait. It is a child, a young child with golden hair; she is calling out to you.”

  Gaby was becoming more and more confused; although the individual elements of his visions rang bells, they painted no cohesive story. Perhaps the bracelet was linked to the wedding and to the loss of her mother, a theme she had been over with the psychologist ad nauseam. Mr Goldfarb rambled on before she could analyse any further.

  “Now I see a seaside holiday town, many big buildings. The sea it is very rough and huge waves crashes into za buildings. I also see you inside a seaside cottage; again za waves are violent and are crashing into za cottage. You sit in za cottage filled with fear, wondering when za sea will swallow you and za cottage.”

  “Yes, yes!” exclaimed Gaby with relief. “Those are exactly the dreams I’ve been having. What do you think it all means?”

  “You are blocking me,” stated Mr Goldfarb as he set his coffee down on the floor.

  “Excuse me?” asked a frowning Gaby with bewilderment.

  “Yes, you are blocking me. You are shutting down. I cannot continue za reading.” He seemed frustrated.

  “I’m not doing anything,’ she protested. “I’m just sitting listening. Please go on. I want you to.” Mr Goldfarb’s expression softened as he began to explain.

  “Gabriella, it is like so: everyone has their past and future written on their foreheads. Me, I have za gift to read zat past and zat future. If someone should desire, zey could look in the mirror and read it for zemselves, but most people do not want to see, do not want to know.” Gaby nodded earnestly, silently imploring him to continue. “But, today it is as if you hold your hand in front of your forehead to stop me reading you. What is zere, you do not want me to see. I began to receive images, but zen zey stopped. I cen, however, explain your dream. Those buildings, zey represent your conscious mind. Za waves and za sea represent your subconscious mind, your memory. Za angriness of the sea show to me that you hev repressed something, controlled something for many years maybe. That something is now trying desperately to break into your conscious mind: za shore and za buildings. Za memory wants to be remembered. Do you always vake up before za waves burst through the window and engulf you?”

  “Yes, always,” she answered quietly.

  “Zat is because your need to suppress this memory is so strong even in za sleep state, your mind will not allow it back. This memory threatens your ego — and by ego, I mean who you think you are.”

  “So the answer is in this dream, I just have to … not wake up basically?” she ventured.

  “I feel zat you are a very controlled person, Gabriella. You are not emotional; you are rational and you analyse everything. You dislike letting go.”

  “Yes, I have heard that Virgos are like that.”

  “You hev to let go mentally, give in to this emotional force. It will not be easy for you, but perhaps I cen help. I give to you two books: one on meditation and one on Ashtanga Yoga. You keep trying. In time it may be revealed.”

  Gaby felt strangely satisfied with the reading despite its inconclusiveness. She now had a meaning for the dreams which had dogmatically persisted through the antidepressants and tranquillisers. She now knew that no amount of time with Mr Thompson would ever have revealed anything, as the key was something she did not even remember. Back at home, Gaby wrote down everything Mr Goldfarb had said in as much detail as she could remember. The details were not easy to recall despite her efforts to concentrate, and she hoped that she had not missed anything. The images he had seen related to family, which made Gaby wonder why Chantelle (of all people) should show up. Before going to bed, Gaby e-mailed Louise to thank her and tell her that the session had gone well, then she folded up her notes and hid them away in her pink linen lingerie bag.

  Staines

  Jo giggled as Robbie grabbed on to her bum and followed her into her apartment. “That drive home was excruciating,” she said, smiling seductively.

  “So you think my driving stinks?” asked Robbie, only half in jest.

  “I wouldn’t even have noticed if you had mounted a pavement, Hun, I was desperately trying to control the urge to rip your clothes off.” Jo began to unzip Robbie’s trousers and immediately slid her hands under his shirt, pulling it over his head. Robbie wasted no time in repaying the favour. “I always tell my mates that no man gets a bra off as fast as Robbie Baggio.” She giggled again as they made their way, body sandwiched against body, to the bedroom.

  Robbie could not help but notice the shiny blue-and-metallic-coloured patchwork quilt on Jo’s bed. “New bedspread?” he asked.

  “Bedspread!” she exclaimed with disdain. “It’s a satin comforter, Robbie.” With that, she flung the comforter off the bed, kicked off her shoes and lay seductively against the pillows. “Let’s stop this idle chatter and fuck.” Within moments Robbie was on top of her. “C’mon, ride me from behind, Robbie.”

  Robbie obliged as he held on to her enormous breasts from behind. “You are blessed with the most amazing tits, Jo. Can’t beat the real thing.” Jo let out a purr of delight. Robbie was sure that her breasts were not real; they were too round, too turgid and felt like two large grapefruits. He was also sure that hormones, beer or a medical condition could not make breasts go up four cup sizes in five months. Nevertheless, women loved to think men thought they were real. “You have an amazing fucking infrastructure, Jo.”

  “And you, Rob,” she squealed. “I hope nothing will change when I’m married, don’t want you going all moral on me,” she whispered breathlessly as if she were whispering sweet nothings.

  Robbie suddenly lost his drive and gasped. “You what?”

  “Yeah, Carlos and I are getting married. He’s a nice guy and being a pilot is the most secure job you can have. But that won’t affect my feelings for you, Robbie,” she added with emphasis.

  It’s already affected mine though, thought Robbie.

  Out in his car, Robbie flicked on his driving sunglasses, mentally bemoaning his luck: first the news from his accountant and now his most valuable informant was getting hitched. Screw this, he thought as he reached for some Camels and lit up.

  Chapter Four

&nbs
p; May, and it was still sleeting. Gaby held her hood down with one hand and clutched her Oyster Card in the other. She was glad to reach the warmth of the Bank tube station even if it was grossly overcrowded. Like the other rain-soaked zombies, she filed down the escalators, sought her place on the platform and waited until her chance came to squeeze into what tiny space opportunity would provide on the tube that day. Gaby hated crowds and confined spaces, and tube travel violated nearly all her instincts for safety, comfort and hygiene. Rush-hour tube travel in London necessitated pushing one’s body up against strangers, with legs often entwined, engaging in quasi-intimate human contact in a manner which would be totally unacceptable in any other walk of civilised life. Gaby wagered there were men who would travel on the tube at rush hour for the hell of it.

  The sleet and rain had eased by the time she began her ten-minute walk to their apartment. Her hands were numb from the cold and her heart felt numb as well. She was unhappy. She was accustomed to the unhappiness and it had become a routine; within that routine was stability and out of that stability grew contentment. Likewise, from the contentment emerged a measure of happiness; in a bizarre way unhappiness had been converted to happiness.

  Weekdays began with the adrenalin-inducing shriek of the radio alarm clock or, if Piers had his way, with a blast from Radio One. The couple would stumble out of bed and prosaic conversation about the impending day at work would punctuate showering and dressing: Busy day today Gabs? You working late again tonight, Piers? May pop past the gym after work today, Gabs. Chicken risotto okay for you, Piers? Would you get a takeaway tonight, Piers, I have an all-nighter. Piers would eat his toast while perusing the sports pages of The Times and Gaby would munch her cornflakes while scanning through her e-mails. He would come home late most nights as he had college and was reluctant to sacrifice the gym. Gaby would come home, climb into her pyjamas and start the food. She had developed an interest in Chinese food and would chop veggies for stir fry while she allowed whatever was on television to sweep her mind away from her reality. The humdrum was alleviated by a weekly spot of Thursday late-night shopping when she would meet up with Louise and Emma. Friday night was drinks with Piers’s friends, Saturday was grocery shopping and a meal out with mutual friends, and Sunday was reserved for family visits to Solihull and St Albans. The full itinerary left little time for Gaby to have any meaningful conversation with Piers at all, let alone address the emptiness she felt with him. Plus, Piers was in the middle of important exams and she did not want to upset him. The perfectly balanced life of the professional couple, a routine designed for success and pleasure, a routine practised by millions. Gaby hated everything about it.

  Gaby knew that Mr Goldfarb had been on to something about her dreams as, ever since her visit, the dreams had been less frequent and less frightening. She would still wake up before the waves crashed in on her, however, and she was still none the wiser about the memory her subconscious had unearthed. There had been no time to take up yoga given her work commitments, which ate into any spare time she had. She had read the book on meditation and was trying to master it, although trying to ‘do it at all’ was a more accurate description. Gaby found it impossible to shut off her mind and eliminate all thoughts for more than one minute; she had concluded that it was not in her nature to sit and think of nothing.

  She slipped her key in the door at eight thirty. It had been another long day and she wondered how much more she could stand. Piers was already home; he was cooking or rather ‘warming up’ some pre-prepared effort. Gaby draped her coat over the couch lazily and went into the kitchen. “Home at last, Piers. Hope you had a better day than me.”

  “Don’t ask. I’d sooner forget about it. I poured you a glass of Pinot Grigio.’ Piers sounded rather chipper.

  “Now I feel better,” said Gaby, smiling.

  “Before I forget, Emma called to remind you about your school reunion on Friday night. Wasn’t sure you got the text. And Clint wants you to call him back.”

  Gaby glowed at the thought that Clint had phoned: someone who cared. Growing up, Clinton had been Gaby’s hero, the golden boy who could boast of both sporting and academic prowess. His thick, curly blond hair, height and physical perfection had made him something of a ‘babe magnet’, and as a gawky, spotty teenager, Gaby had secretly envied the endless stream of glamorous girls who vied for his attention — and the many who got it; however, even though she had felt awkward and unattractive in her youth, she had always commanded a special place in Clinton’s heart. He was protective of her and had always been there when she had needed him. She made a beeline for the phone and speed-dialled his mobile.

  “Hello there Gabriella Angelina!” The sound of Clint’s ever-cheerful voice lifted her. Clint was quick to get to the point. “You didn’t hand in your notice did you?”

  “As if ...” grunted Gaby. “Why do you ask?” Gaby gratefully accepted the wine Piers handed to her.

  “Funny thing happened today. I was at John Lewis, Oxford Street, picking up my new laptop. Went up to the Creperie for a coffee and a crepe and who should be sitting at ‘The Place to Eat’ but Dad and your boss, Jenson what’s-his-name. Made me wonder. Anyway, thought they might be discussing you. Perhaps I was adding two and two and getting seven.”

  “Dad and Whittaker at John Lewis …” repeated Gaby perplexed. “What did they say?”

  “They didn’t see me and I left it at that.”

  “I had no idea they knew each other. Of course they were introduced at my wedding, but I’m as surprised as you that they were lunching together. Dad certainly never mentioned it to me, which is odd. Since when does Dad go up the West End anyway?”

  “Just what I thought. Mystery unsolved then. So how are things with you?” asked Clinton, changing the subject. Gaby felt awkward answering that question in front of Piers; she had not told him about Mr Goldfarb and had stopped bringing up the subject of her depression. Clinton was the only person who took it seriously.

  “I’m fine,” she answered tensely before steering the conversation in another direction; Clint would get the hint.

  “I really don’t know why anyone bothered to come to this reunion,” commented Gaby, “we’ve all separated into the same mutually exclusive groups we were in at school.” Gaby gestured around the banqueting hall at the disparate clumps of women with her glass of wine as if to make her point clear. Gaby had chosen an elegant, sleeveless black dress with a square neck and wide straps fashioned into bows and high black patent-leather heels. Emma and Louise had chosen to wear cocktail-shift dresses with copious numbers of sequins — no one would miss them, thought Gaby. Julia, another of their ‘gang’, had come straight from work and was wearing black pants with a red fur bolero to liven her work attire.

  “And miss seeing Andrea again?” mocked Emma.

  “Introducing Andrea, the girl who used to be the next Miss Universe,” joked Gaby.

  “The only title she is likely to win now is Mrs Slimfast 2008,” said Emma, laughing raucously; she was on her third sherry. “Seeing this lot is better than retail therapy.”

  “We are bitches, aren’t we,” murmured Gaby.

  “Speaking of which,” butted in Julia, “have you noticed Kara’s husband? Now if he isn’t a mail-order effort, then no one is!” The group laughed and Emma swept the hall with a very indiscreet glance in order to find the couple in question.

  “Jenny shocks me. I see she has embraced Goth culture. At school she was so …” Gaby paused trying to think of the right word, “strait-laced?”

  “Tell it like it is, Gaby, she was a real ‘God-botherer’ type. She obviously came to her senses and realised what garbage that all was,” stated Emma bluntly.

  “Emma,” reprimanded Louise, “you shouldn’t talk like that.”

  “Louise, Darling, I’m not expecting to get into heaven, which is just as well as there’s no way they’ll let my husband in.”

  “I worry for you Don’.” Louise shook her head before continu
ing. “Did any of you guys hear the rumour that Georgina’s marriage is on the rocks?”

  “It’s not George’s marriage, it’s Gaby’s!” The words were out before Julia could stop them. Her hand raced up to her mouth in vain. She looked at Gaby briefly, sheepishly, before looking down at her glass of sherry. “Sorry Gaby.”

  “Don’t worry, Julia. At least we know the gossip’s accurate,” retorted Gaby.

  It was Louise who broke the ensuing silence. “On a sadder note, does anybody remember Sally Corbett?” The other girls looked at one another blankly. “Yes,” insisted Louise, “you must. She had big, curly hair, like a blonde Diana Ross.”

  Emma nodded vaguely. “Yeah, I think she was captain of Phelps House.”

  “You should remember her, Gaby, she went out with Clint.”

  “Keeping track of Clint’s girlfriends is like watching people as they leave King’s Cross at rush hour — after a while they merge into a blur,” sighed Gaby.

  “Well? What happened to her?” asked Julia impatiently.

  “Andrea says she died while on holiday in Acapulco, or was it Cancun? Drowned while she was swimming.”

  Gaby still could not quite remember the unfortunate Sally, but she was saddened to hear the news; it always seemed to Gaby a huge loss when someone so young died. Emma did not want to linger on anything negative though, and Gaby heard her saying:

  “Now I have just the thing we all need to mellow out. Mike and I have one occasionally to relax; nothing else like it.”

  “What are you on about Don’?” questioned Julia. Emma reached into her duffel-sized black Prada handbag, which Gaby remembered had been of her prize finds at Harrods that January, and produced some bullet-shaped objects wrapped in tissue.

  “Some joints. I brought one each. I’ll tell you a secret: as you know, we were all in the nerd division at school, but I always kinda envied those kids who smoked in the toilet. I’ve had this fantasy for years about sneaking into the lav with my mates and lighting a spliffie. Tonight seemed like a good time to act it out.”