White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller

by John Nicholl

  Anthony nodded anxiously.

  Dr Galbraith stood and helped him to his feet. ‘Come on, young man, up you get. Try to stop your damn snivelling. You don't want to upset your mother, do you?’

  ‘No!’

  The doctor steered Anthony in the direction of reception, and met Molly as she hurried into his office without knocking… The bitch was suspicious. She was definitely suspicious. ‘Ah, Molly my dear, I’m delighted that you're back. I’m glad to say that we’ve made some excellent progress. Tony did get a little upset when we talked of your marital difficulties, but that’s to be expected.’

  Anthony pulled away from him, rushed towards his mother, and hugged her tightly without speaking.

  Molly pulled her son closer, and glared at the doctor. ‘Why was the door locked?’

  Focus, man, focus. This had better be good. ‘As I explained at our initial appointment, it is absolutely essential that therapy sessions aren't disturbed. Sharon usually see’s to that for me, of course, but she’s out, as you know.’

  Molly frowned… Was locking the door really necessary? Maybe it was? Someone could conceivably have walked in and disturbed Anthony’s treatment session. Maybe locking the door was the best option in the circumstances?

  She was swallowing it. The bitch was swallowing it. ‘What on earth have you done to your leg, my dear girl? You appear to be bleeding rather badly; let me take a look at that for you.’

  Molly transferred her weight uneasily from one foot to another… What on earth had she been worrying about? What was she going to say now? ‘Oh, I slipped on some ice in the park, Doctor. It's nothing really.’

  Dr Galbraith pointed towards his swivel chair and smiled… The bitch was on the defensive. He was back in control. ‘Please allow me to be the judge of that, young lady. Take a seat, and let me examine that leg of yours.’

  Molly sat as instructed, with Anthony standing close to her with a blank expression on his pallid tear stained face.

  The doctor went down on one knee as if proposing, and gently prized the torn denim from the bloody abrasion… One day the fucking bitch would pay. ‘That’s going to be absolutely fine, my dear. Stay there for a minute or two, and I’ll fetch a little damp cotton wool and a plaster from the first aid box.’

  Anthony shook his mother’s arm repeatedly. ‘Can we go home now, Mummy?’

  ‘There’s no need, Doctor. Honestly, I’m fine.’

  One fine day, bitch. One fine day. Her time would come. ‘You do as you're told, young lady. You don't want it to become infected, do you? It wont take me any time at all.’

  Dr Galbraith quickly reappeared balancing a ball of cotton wool, a half full glass of tepid water, and a large plaster on top of the appointments diary. He knelt again, and placed the items on the floor directly next to his knee… Gullible bitch. ‘You try to relax, my dear girl. This may sting a little.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  He repeatedly dabbed at the wound with the moist cotton wool. ‘Right, that’s nice and clean again. I’ll just dry it quickly and apply the plaster.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There you go, young lady, all done.’ He grinned. ‘I can’t mend your jeans for you, I’m afraid.’

  Molly forced a nervous laugh. ‘Thank you again, Doctor.’

  Dr Galbraith stood, and placed his right hand on Anthony’s shoulder. ‘Let’s sort out this young man’s next appointment. I do have a couple of days off next week, but I think it would be a good idea if I saw Anthony at my home. What do you say, young man?’

  Anthony attempted to climb onto his mother’s lap.

  Molly smiled weakly, and looked at the floor… This was becoming embarrassing. ‘Come on now, cariad. You're far too big for that. When have you got in mind, Doctor?’

  Dr Galbraith pulled up a seat, turned sideways to face her, and began turning the pages of the diary. ‘How about ten-o-clock on Tuesday morning? That will be February the fourth. Doesn't time fly.’

  ‘That soon?’

  ‘I don’t want to worry you, my dear girl. I really don’t. But, Anthony is one of my more urgent cases.’

  ‘Anthony? Really?’

  He took a blank sheet of paper from his desktop and wrote down his home address and telephone number in his usual flamboyant flowing copperplate script. ‘I look forward to seeming you on Tuesday morning, young man. There’s ample room for your mother to park in the street. Just drop him off at my home, Molly, and collect him at the end of his treatment.’

  Molly stood and nodded meekly.

  Dr Galbraith tapped the diary repeatedly with his pen and adopted a contemplative expression… Should he risk it? Yes, why not? The potential payoff was well worth the minimal additional risk. ‘I think we had better allow two-hours next time. There’s still a great deal of work to do if we’re to get Anthony firing on all cylinders again.’

  Molly paused and then said, ‘Okay. If you think that’s really necessary?’

  Oh, it’s certainly necessary, bitch. ‘I’m afraid I do, my dear.’

  Dr Galbraith escorted them both as far as the car park, where Mike was waiting impatiently in the same red Citroen taxi cab. Molly struggled into the car's rear seat with Anthony clamped onto to her arm like a determined limpet. As the driver manoeuvred the vehicle towards the main road they sat hugging each other tightly and silently, with Anthony’s head rested on her shoulder.

  Mike swivelled in his seat, peered accusingly at his wife and son, and sighed. ‘Is everything all right, Mo? Tony seems upset? I can see him shaking from here. He was happy as a sand-boy when he arrived here an hour ago? What’s that about?’

  Molly squeezed Anthony’s knee and smiled half-heartedly… Mike had a point. She needed time to think. Perhaps she'd been wrong, and therapy wasn't such a good idea after all? ‘I don't know what to say to be honest, Mike. Let’s leave it for now and have a chat later when we get back to the cottage.’

  Anthony pressed his head against Molly’s shoulder and began crying again. ‘I w-want to go home.’

  ‘What’s wrong, cariad?’

  ‘I want to go h-home please, Mum. My tummy’s really hurting!’

  ‘Don’t you want to go for a burger?’

  ‘I just want to go home, Mummy.’

  ‘All right, cariad. home it is.’

  Chapter 20

  ‘I need to have a private chat with Dad, cariad. Go and play in your bedroom for a while. I’ll bring you up a nice mug of hot chocolate and some Jammy Dodgers in a couple of minutes. Do you want a hot water bottle for your tummy?’

  Anthony began slowly ascending the stairs. ‘Yes, please, Mum.’

  ‘Get a move on, cariad. I’ll be up before you know it.’

  Anthony checked for potential intruders under his bed and in the wardrobe before eventually taking a football sticker album from his bedside drawer and opening it on top of his quilt. But he just couldn't concentrate despite the collection’s usual fascination… It was good to have Dad home, for sure. But what were they going to talk about?

  He hung his head and salty tears began falling on the open pages… What if they’d found out what he saw? The doctor said Dad would never come home again. What if that happened? It would be his fault.

  Anthony pushed the album to the floor, and curled up on the bed to await his mother.

  Molly appeared at his bedroom door a few minutes later, holding a black and white Swansea City supporters mug full to the brim with hot sweet cocoa and a generous plate of Anthony’s favourite sugary biscuits. She placed them carefully on the bedside cabinet, retrieved the discarded album and several loose stickers from the carpet, and sat on the single bed next to he son. ‘What is it, cariad? You were in such a good mood this morning. Was it something you talked about at the clinic? Did the doctor say something that upset you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What is it then? Something must have upset you?’

  ‘My tummy hurts.’

  She rubbed his shoulder aff
ectionately. ‘Come on, cariad. Into bed with you. Drink your cocoa, and I’ll be back up again with the hot water bottle as soon as I’ve talked to Dad. Now, stop those tears. I’ll get you some extra pillows so you can sit up properly and enjoy your snack.’

  Anthony forced a fleeting smile and nodded his reluctant agreement.

  Molly made a strong coffee for Mike and a peppermint tea for herself, before joining him in the lounge, where he was watching a daytime property programme on an ageing Bush television-set that was well past its best. She handed him his mug, switched the television off pointedly, and sat next to him on the three seater settee.

  ‘How’s he doing up there?’

  ‘Not too great to be honest, Mike. I’m beginning to wonder if Phil was right after all? Perhaps the therapy isn't such a good idea?’

  Mike took a sip of coffee and wiped the milky moustache from his top lip with the back of his hand. ‘What happened to your knee?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject, Mike. I want to know what you really think? None of your usual avoidance bull shit.’

  Mike shifted uneasily in his seat… He couldn't avoid answering, however tempting it was to try.

  ‘I’ve had my doubts from the start, to be candid, Mo. I’m certain Phil’s right. What Anthony needs is for us two to stop arguing and get back together as soon as possible.’

  She glared at him, and said, ‘Really?’

  ‘I know this is all down to me, Mo. Please give me the chance to put it right.’

  ‘Now really isn't the time for this, Mike. When you've actually left that tart instead of just talking about it, we may be able to talk about us getting back together, but not before. Get that into your thick head. Let’s concentrate on Tony’s treatment for now, please. He’s got another appointment in a few days, and we need to make a decision one way or the other. Do you think I should cancel Tuesday’s appointment or not?’

  Mike appeared perplexed. ‘Tuesday? Why so soon?’

  ‘The doctor seems to think it’s urgent.’

  ‘I don't know what to say for the best, Mo. You seemed really keen after the first appointment.’

  ‘Man up, Mike, grow a pair of balls, and say what you really think for once in your life.’

  He averted his eyes and drained his mug, stalling for time… Here goes. ‘I don't think the therapy’s a good idea, Mo. As I said, I’ve thought that from the start. I don’t like psychiatry, you know that. Look at the state the poor boy’s in today. That should tell us something, shouldn't it?’

  ‘We have to be absolutely certain, Mike. Tony seemed so much better after the first appointment. It’s not a decision we can afford to get wrong. I was so sure the therapy was helping him. The doctor’s a nice man, and he means well. I know that. And he did tell us that things may get worse before they get better. You have to admit that.’

  ‘Yeah, he did, but I’m still not convinced, Mo.’

  ‘We could just be at that stage, I guess? But I didn't anticipate him being as upset as he obviously is. Maybe we could cancel and then rearrange another appointment if it proves necessary?’

  ‘I’m sure you're right, Mo. Do you want me to talk to Phil again?’

  ‘No thanks, Mike. What's the point? We already know exactly what he thinks. He made his views perfectly clear to both of us. I’ll give it some more thought over the weekend and ring the clinic on Monday if I decide to cancel.’

  ‘That makes sense, love. I’ll head up and see Tony before getting off, if that’s all right with you?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem, he wouldn't want you to go without saying goodbye.’

  ‘Thanks, Mo. I’ll give you a ring over the weekend to see how things are going.’

  ‘Okay, Mike. Thanks for today. I’ll speak to you soon.’

  As Mike walked away from the cottage he finally decided it was time to stop prevaricating… Molly was right. He had to man up. His relationship with Tina had run its course. It was time to leave her and put his family first for a change. It was what they wanted. It was what he wanted. Why not do something about it? Tina was all looks and little substance. Was he really that stupid? How had a drunken shag in the back of his car ended up as a full blown affair?

  He giggled quietly to himself… What was it that Phil had said on the subject? He’d been thinking with his dick. He’d never said a truer word.

  Mike did his best to avoid Tina when he eventually arrived at work, and left early for a non-existent dental appointment after arranging for a local garage to collect the XR3 and fit four new costly high-performance tyres. By the time his taxi arrived at Highgrove garage the Escort was already on the ramp, and he only had to wait for half-an-hour or so before paying the unwelcome bill and driving off with a heavy heart.

  Mike checked his Seiko… Only about twenty-minutes before Tina arrived back at the flat.

  He dashed from room to room, frantically stuffing his meagre belongings into a red Puma sports bag and two large black plastic bin bags taken from a kitchen drawer. He threw all three bags into the back seat of the convertible and rushed back into the flat to double-check that he had everything, and to write Tina a hurried note of explanation… He was being cowardly, he was taking the easy option yet again, he knew that full well. But there had already been more than enough drama for one day.

  He wrote a short scribbled message to the effect that he missed his children, didn't love her and still loved his wife, and left it in the narrow galley kitchen propped up against the kettle, before making his urgent escape.

  As he drove away with the accelerator pressed to the floor, the convertible’s tyres screeched loudly, leaving black rubber fragments on the dark tarmac. He sped down two fast darkening streets lined with modest terraced houses, and turned off into a quiet side street that he knew Tina was unlikely to visit on her journey home. He pulled the car up next to a faded red phone box, and tried to ignore the stench of stale urine permeating the air as he dialled Molly's number. She answered within seconds, but before she could even say hello, Mike was shouting into the receiver, ‘I’ve done it, Mo. I’ve left her. Can I come home, love?’

  Molly punched the air in silent triumph, but immediately cautioned herself and actively adopted a sombre tone. ‘Do you really think it’s going to be that easy, Mike? Have you really thought about what you've put me and the kids through? Do I need to jog your memory for you? You shat on us from a great height. There were times I would have been quite happy never to see your ugly face again. I need you to understand that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mo. Really I am, but where do you expect me to go.’

  ‘That’s not my problem, Mike, but if you ever go near that tart again, that’s the end for us. No more chances. If you can get that into your thick skull, come over tomorrow evening and we can talk about the future’

  ‘That’s great, Mo, what time?’

  ‘About sevenish, we need to set some ground rules if there’s any chance of this working.’

  ‘Thanks, Mo, it’s appreciated. See you tomorrow. I love you, Mo. Give my best to the kids.’

  She wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘If you so much as look at another women again, I’ll take a Stanley knife and slice your balls off.’

  Chapter 21

  Mike arrived at his mother’s semi-detached 1950s council house just as the temperature was dropping to freezing point. The old lady shook her head repeatedly when she met him at the door holding his paltry possessions, but she chose to hold her counsel… He knew her well enough to know she disapproved. Why bother with words? There would be plenty of time for talking.

  Mike carried his things up to the small box-room that had once been his childhood bedroom, and sat on the single divan bed… Life really had gone full circle.

  He decided not to bother unpacking, and went straight back downstairs to have a cup of tea, and to let his mother have her inevitable say… It was best to get it over with.

  They sat in her dated cheaply furnished but immaculate sitting room for about ten-
minutes before June Mailer finally looked away from the television, and gave him a look of utter exasperation. ‘Sort it out with Molly, Mikey, for the kids sake, if nothing else.’

  ‘I am doing, Mum.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, son. Put the kettle on. A nice cup of Rosie will cheer us both up a bit.’

  For the next twenty-minutes or so they sat in virtual silence, drinking tea from porcelain cups and watching a familiar, engaging, but ultimately pointless game show on HTV. Mike rose to his feet as soon as the early evening news started, and turned to face his mother. ‘Is it all right if I use the phone, Mum? It’s after six and it’s a local call.’

  June checked her aged gold-plated Rotary dress watch and relaxed. ‘Of course you can, Mikey. There’s no need to ask.’

  Phillip Beringer answered after about thirty-seconds. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Phil, it’s Mike. Fancy a couple of pints?’

  ‘Yeah, why not? Rugby club, eight-o-clock? Should be relatively quiet tonight, there’s an away game in the morning.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. I’ll give you another hammering at darts, if you think you're up to it?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, in your dreams. I’ll see you there.’

  Beringer was standing at the bar engaged in animated conversation with an overweight but shapely, heavily made up middle aged bottle-blond barmaid, when Mike entered the unusually quiet rugby club bar. He ordered two pints: one Buckleys Bitter and one Guinness, and asked for the house darts, before finally bothering to say a belated, ‘Hello.’ Beringer reciprocated, accepted his pint gratefully, and took a seat in a quiet spot at the far side of the room behind the worn out pool table. Mike placed the three tungsten darts on a sodden Babysham beer-mat and proactively chose a seat with a good view of the barmaid and her overflowing low cut blouse.

  Beringer stared at his friend and snorted. ‘For fucks sake, Mike. You don't change do you. Do you think you can actually concentrate on something else for a few minutes and tell me how Anthony’s doing?’ His expression became more serious. ‘What did Molly decide about the clinic?’