It’s not me who’s at risk…
‘Perhaps you can begin by telling me what brought you here today, Nikki.’
Her shapely, slim legs are crossed, her knees just showing from under her tasteful skirt. But then I’m imagining those legs wrapped around him, doing all the things to her that he used to do to me. It’s a good thing she can’t see inside my mind.
‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that,’ I say. I’m not going to make it easy for her. She taps her pen on her lip a couple of times.
‘OK, so it sounds like you want me to figure out what’s bothering you, what’s wrong in your life?’ Her tone is way too smug for my liking. ‘A lot of people have misconceptions about what therapy is or isn’t, Nikki,’ she goes on. ‘It’s not about me telling a client how they feel or what they should do—’
‘Money for old rope, then,’ I say. ‘If the client has to do all the work.’
She smiles, looking slightly awkward. ‘Well, that’s exactly right actually – apart from the old rope bit.’ She gives a little laugh. ‘The client does do most of the work, yes. They know more than anyone how they feel, even if they find it hard to express. They know far more about themselves than any therapist. And they also know what they need to do to become happier or more fulfilled… or whatever they want to change. It’s not my job to tell them these things but rather to help them explore and uncover these feelings and needs, to reconnect with themselves in a way they perhaps wouldn’t do otherwise.’
‘I see.’ I take a moment to think about this, hating that it actually makes sense. No one’s ever put it like this before, that I might actually know what’s best for me.
‘So, would you like to tell me about yourself, what brought you here today?’
I think for a moment, trying to find the right words.
‘Even though I don’t know you yet, Nikki, you’re looking quite upset right now, as though something’s really troubling you.’
I shrug, staring at my feet, suddenly feeling like a little kid.
‘I understand how hard it is, taking the first step to come to therapy. And opening up to a stranger can seem very… unnatural,’ she says, her voice oddly soothing. ‘Whether someone’s suffered trauma or abuse of any kind – anxiety, depression, or a general feeling of discontent they can’t actually put a finger on – the hardest step can be getting it out there in words. I just want you to know this is your safe place, Nikki. A place to share what’s on your mind. There’s no judgement here.’
No judgement. She’s already warned me about what will happen if she thinks I’m a risk to myself or anyone else, that she would have to tell her supervisor, the authorities, maybe even the police.
I take a deep breath. It needs to come out. ‘Have you ever done something so… so bad, so against the very essence of the person you believed you were, that it actually felt good?’ It doesn’t sound like me speaking, as if I’m a different person. As if being in this room is changing everything about me. ‘Something so bad it actually felt liberating?’
‘That almost sounds as though…’ Lorna stares at the ceiling a moment, trying to find the right words. She doesn’t seem at all shocked. ‘… as though by doing something so wildly out of character, it’s allowed you to discover a different part of yourself? Perhaps even a part of yourself you like? And had maybe ignored or forgotten?’
‘Yeah, yeah, that’s exactly it. And the part I discovered was a part of me I’d forgotten. A piece of me I’d stopped myself remembering.’
Lorna is nodding, listening intently.
‘Is that possible?’ I ask. ‘To forget stuff?’
‘Absolutely,’ she says.
‘Does your mind do that on purpose, or can you force it to happen?’
‘It’s an automatic response. You can’t really force it. If a person experiences something very disturbing or traumatic, especially in younger years, then the mind will often block out those memories to protect the self. However, it’s not a foolproof mechanism. Things or events later on in life can trigger these unprocessed memories, causing the feelings of the trauma to be re-experienced. Even something as simple as a sound or colour or smell can cause flashbacks. And they can be extremely powerful and frightening.’
She doesn’t look very well as she’s speaking, the colour gradually draining from her face. She touches her temple and I swear she’s got tears in her eyes.
‘What if I’d killed someone?’ I ask. ‘Hypothetically, of course,’ I add with a laugh.
For a second, she looks horrified, but then her face loosens into a small smile. ‘That would certainly be distressing enough to set off post-traumatic stress disorder, yes, though it depends very much on the circumstances – for example, if it was self-defence in a terrifying situation.’ She pauses. ‘What are you telling me here, Nikki? I have to ask.’
I shake my head, keeping a neutral expression. ‘The reason I’m here is because someone died,’ I say. ‘Someone really important to me.’ I think about this and realise it’s actually true twice over – once a long time ago, and once more recently.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ she says. ‘Grief is a complicated emotion.’
‘I was actually responsible for his death.’
‘OK, Nikki, you’re telling me some pretty big stuff here, and I appreciate your honesty. I’m wondering if we can explore a little more about this… this death. Guilt is a weighty—’
‘But what you really, really want to know is if I killed someone, right? So you can call the police, have me arrested?’ I tip back my head, laughing.
‘Is that what you’re saying?’ she asks, swallowing.
I stare at her for what seems like an age before leaning forward, elbows resting on my knees. ‘When I was a little kid,’ I begin, ‘I lost my father.’ She’s about to say how sorry she is, but I put my hands up to silence her. ‘It was my fault he died. It was a hideous and grotesque death. I was the first one to see his body, all limp and lifeless. Imagine that,’ I say. ‘Knowing that it was because of you that your father was dead. I loved him. Loved him dearly. I was his little princess, followed him about everywhere.’ I feel the sting of tears in my eyes.
‘Sounds like you’ve been carrying a lot of guilt about this, Nikki—’
‘Sounds like? Sounds like? Is that all you can say?’ I cup my hand to my ear, tilting my head around, making my eyes go wide. I must look demented.
‘And anger, perhaps?’ she says, looking more and more nervous. I stand up and walk to the window, staring out at the little park opposite where I’ve sat and watched her countless times. I pull back the blinds, revealing Cigarette Man on the bench, rolling a joint. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be homeless now too. I can hardly go back to my lodgings. Not after what’s happened. Not after what I’ve done.
‘Of course I’m fucking angry,’ I say, swinging round. ‘Wouldn’t you be?’
‘Anger needs to be worked through, but can also be a place of stuckness, Nikki. If thoughts and feelings aren’t processed, then—’
‘You go on about all this processing stuff but what does it really mean?’ I walk across to her, looming over her. ‘I lost the man I loved.’ I take a deep breath. ‘To another woman.’ I spit the last bit out.
Lorna makes a sympathetic face, her eyes fixed on me, but I can tell she’s nervous. Her voice remains calm and soothing, but I still hear the quiver in it. She’s probably got a panic button somewhere in the room. ‘Why don’t you sit down, Nikki. Have some water.’
‘Water?’ I say, spinning round on my heels, reluctantly sitting down. I hate that she has this effect on me, seems able to placate me, get through to me, even though she knows nothing about me. ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I’ll have some water.’ I reach across and pour a glass from the decanter. ‘Would you like some?’
‘Thank you,’ she says, relieved I seem to have calmed down.
But, instead of pouring another glass, I take mine and stand up again, chucking the lot in her fac
e. Then, while she’s gasping, shocked, wondering how to react, I reach into my bag and pull out the kitchen knife I brought with me, hurling myself at her, plunging the blade into her heart, her throat, her eyes, over and over again until we’re both covered in blood. She stares at me, coughing up red spit, her grip on my arms getting weaker and weaker until she’s finally dead.
But then I realise I didn’t do any of that. That it was all in my imagination and I’m still sitting on the sofa. I pour a second glass and pass it over to her, giving her a little smile.
‘Thank you,’ she says, taking a sip. ‘Now, why don’t you tell me about the man you loved, and, of course, this other woman?’
Chapter Forty-Four
Lorna
When I get home, Mark is already in the kitchen. He texted me several hours ago to say he’d finished work early.
‘Hey,’ I say, giving him a kiss. I feel drained. ‘Thanks for picking up Freya from the childminder. What’s all this, then?’ I smile as best I can, holding him round the waist from behind, resting my head on his broad back. He smells good – familiar, comforting, safe.
I feel the lump in my throat. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the evening without breaking down.
‘Thought I’d give you a night off from cooking,’ he says, turning and reciprocating the kiss. ‘You look worn out, Lorn. Bad day?’
‘You could say that.’ I pull away as the tears well up. It’s been happening about every two minutes or so, the longest I can manage without thinking about him. I catch sight of myself in the mirror by the back door. The grief in my eyes is deep and dark. ‘God, I need a drink.’
‘Do you think you should?’ Mark says while throwing some red peppers in with the chicken he’s frying. ‘You know, in case…’ He glances down at my stomach.
I stop, my hand on the fridge door, bottle in hand, closing my eyes for a second. I put the wine back in the fridge. ‘You’re right,’ I say, smiling. ‘That smells so good.’
‘Fajitas,’ he says proudly. ‘Freya’s idea. We picked up ingredients on the way home.’
‘I’m starving,’ I say, wondering how I’m going to force anything down. ‘And thanks for cooking.’ In reality, it makes me feel even more wretched, even more guilty that Mark is so good to me. If he knew the truth, he’d be chucking my stuff out on the street, changing the locks, filing for divorce.
I still feel numb from the news.
But then something hits me. Fuck. I should have thought of it before.
‘So, you going to tell me all about it, then?’ Mark says, moving quickly between the cooker and the worktop, chopping garlic and chillies, tossing them in the pan. I stare at him, squinting, my mind elsewhere. ‘About your bad day?’
I run my hand through my hair, closing my eyes briefly.
‘Sorry, what?’ I stare at him, distracted. ‘It was just one of those days. You know. Full on.’ I try to make it sound like no big deal when, in reality, it’s been the worst day of my life.
Nearly the worst day of my life.
I choke back the tears as another wave hits me.
‘Talking about stuff helps, you know,’ Mark says with a wink.
‘Funny,’ I reply. ‘I’m going up to change. Is Freya in her room?’
‘Hanging up her uniform, I hope,’ he says, and I feel the burn of his puzzled stare on my back as I leave.
On the landing, I stop and smile, hearing Freya singing to herself. But instead of going in, instead of seeing my little girl, asking about her day, pressing my face against her sweet-smelling hair, I creep past and go up the second flight of stairs to the study. I’ll see her properly on my way down, spend some quality time with her.
I flick on the light and stare at my laptop on the desk, dragging my hands down my face. I can’t risk letting it all out. If I did, I don’t think I’d ever stop crying. For now, numbness will have to suffice, at least until I’ve done what I have to do.
I open up my computer and go straight to various news websites, scrolling through dozens of local reports. It doesn’t take me long to find it. Local Artist Found Dead in Bed one report claims.
Sex Game Tragedy: Up-and-Coming Artist Dies in Suspicious Circumstances
I put my hand over my mouth.
Extreme Art – Bondage Horror as Nude Artist Found Murdered
I can hardly stand to read – Bondage Horror? – but click on one of the stories anyway, my eyes flashing across the words. There’s a picture of his house – a red-brick villa with a flash of yellow crime scene tape across the front gate. An officer stands guard at the door. Bile rises up my throat from my empty stomach, burning into my mouth.
Detectives were called out to a house just off Lavender Hill, Battersea in the early hours of Easter Monday where the body of a 45-year-old man was discovered. Not yet officially identified, he is believed to be a well-known artist with works regularly displayed in prestigious Chelsea galleries. His pieces are mainly of nude women in erotic poses and have recently fetched upwards of £10,000 each.
Detective Inspector Peter Carney from Scotland Yard said: ‘It was a particularly gruesome attack on a well-respected local man. We’re treating the death as suspicious. The deceased was found naked, bound to his bed, and asphyxiated with cling film. If anyone has any information about this horrific crime, please call the police hotline.’
I can hardly breathe myself as my eyes flash over the words, all the horrific detail. I read another report, this time the words electrical cable and strangulation making me want to throw up. My hand goes to my throat.
Oh dear God… Andrew… Please, no…
And then the tears come. Hot and forceful from the very core of me as my heart aches. I can’t stand it. I really can’t stand the thought of him dead. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye, to tell him that I loved him. There were so many things I wanted to say but couldn’t. And now it’s too late.
I bang my fist on the desk, making my laptop jump. My head drops down onto the wood but whips back up again as I remember what occurred to me in the kitchen. If the police are all over Andrew’s house, then they’ll be all over his phone and computer too. Which means they’ll see he’s registered on Double Take and no doubt be able to get the details of the people he’s been in contact with. If they follow up, if they find Abbi74, then Mark will know about everything. And perhaps Cath will be involved too, seeing as she also sent him a message.
‘Oh God, and all the texts between us on his phone. What if he didn’t delete them?’
Shit, shit, shit…
Quickly, I log into Double Take. There’s a fresh batch of messages since last time I logged in, so I quickly delete them all, making sure to keep the string of messages Abbi exchanged with Andrew. I want to give them one last read before I block him and delete the lot – delete the fake photos and then delete the account as if it never existed. I can’t risk the police finding it. I have no idea if it will erase the messages in Andrew’s account too, but it’s worth a shot. More tears come, blurring my vision, as I read through our exchange one last time, saying my goodbye.
Then an alert flashes up in the corner of my screen.
You’re proving popular today! You have a new message from Andy_jag.
Chapter Forty-Five
Lorna
At first, it doesn’t register who it is or what it means. In fact, I barely glimpse it, ignoring it until it slides off my screen, along with a couple of other alerts: so-and-so has viewed your profile… liked your photo… sent you a wink…
Tiresome, especially as I was only ever on the site to talk to Andrew to find out about her and to test his love for me. I didn’t achieve either.
But something snags in my mind about that last pop-up. Something that doesn’t seem right, making me click back on my list of alerts, showing me everything in one go.
And there it is: You have a new message from Andy_jag.
‘Fuck, what?’ I whisper, covering my mouth. ‘Andrew? But… but that’s not possib
le,’ I say under my breath as my heart catches up with my brain. For a second, I almost feel hope – pathetic hope that he’s still alive or that there was a terrible mistake and the police identified the wrong person. But then the realisation sinks in and my skin begins to crawl, the hairs on my arms standing on end.
Andrew is dead. It was in the newspapers. The police confirmed it to Sandy. So who the hell just sent me that message?
‘Shit,’ I whisper, standing up, then sitting down again. I tear my fingers through my hair, not knowing what to do with myself. With a shaking hand, I open it up, hardly daring to read it. Whoever sent it is still online.
Andy_jag: Let’s play another game.
‘Game?’ I whisper. What the hell is going on? My hands are sweating as I type a reply.
Abbi74: What kind of game?
I wait anxiously for a message back, keeping one ear on the landing in case Freya or Mark comes up.
Andy_jag: Last time, I asked you ‘What’s the worst lie you’ve ever told?’ but you evaded the question. So this time, I want you to…
Oh God. What if it’s the police toying with me, trying to catch me out in case they think Andrew met his killer online? I heard about a case like that once, an online dating hook-up gone wrong, ending in tragedy. It’s what we’ve all warned Cath about.
I lunge for the waste bin under the desk, retching into the plastic liner. Nothing much comes up because I haven’t eaten all day, but the spasms still grip my middle, squeezing the life out of me. I wipe my mouth as another message comes in.
Andy_jag: … this time I want you to tell me a secret.
Tell Me A Secret Page 22
