Winter inched forward in his chair—his usual stance when he was expecting a fight. “No one’s talking about a ‘spirit journey,’ Morg—”
“Sheppard. Sheppard. Sheppard. My name is Sheppard,” he shouted, and got up. He went toward the door. This is over. He reached for the door handle.
“You never talk about it anymore,” Winter said, behind him. He willed his hand to clasp the handle, for his legs to carry him out the room, for his mind to give over to the pills and the drink so he couldn’t go back. Back to that time.
For all Sheppard’s willing, he found himself turning around and looking toward Winter, still sitting in his chair. “It?”
“You know what I mean,” Winter said softly. Sheppard ran a hand down his face—sleek with sweat.
“What more do you want from me, old man? You want me to cry again? You want me to scream again? You want me to recount every detail of the nightmare again? I am not some broken machine to fix, some puzzle to solve. It happened—Mr. Jefferies happened. Not everything has to have some cosmic significance. Maybe I did what I did purely because I did what I did. Maybe all your psychology crap isn’t worth a damn because humans are simply spontaneous. I did what I did and now I live with that. Chisel it on some stupid stone somewhere because it’s never going to change. I am the person I made myself. And the world carries on. Just like it always does—always will.” For some reason, his eyes were welling up with tears. He choked, cleared his throat and repeated finally, “I did what I did because I did what I did.”
Winter got up at this. “You solved a murder. You caught a killer.”
“Yes,” Sheppard said, “and wasn’t it amazing? But that doesn’t mean I want to microanalyze it with you every week.”
“I still feel we haven’t fully explored...” Winter stepped toward him. Sheppard stepped back.
“You know what? I’ll see you next week,” Sheppard said, turning and opening the door.
“We have ten more minutes,” Winter said.
“Take that ten minutes to think up a few more original questions for next time, yeah?” And Sheppard slammed the door behind him.
In Winter’s front hall, he breathed. He didn’t like to argue with Winter, but the drugs had made him impatient, and he needed to be out of this house. But that didn’t excuse Winter’s behavior. Talking about something, yet again, which he would never truly understand. Sheppard was trying to bury it down deep—forget all about it. The drink and drugs were helping with that—as if every night he was shoveling one more mound of dirt into the grave of his memory. Soon it would be all gone and he would be free of it. But for now, all he wanted to do was have some fun.
A quick thundering down the stairs surprised him and Abby Winter appeared in front of him. Sheppard had first met her after his first session with Winter; they were both children then. Now she was grown and beautiful. She blushed when she saw him. “Sheppard, sorry, I heard the door and I thought you would have gone by now.”
He didn’t know if it was his lingering resentment of what had just happened with Winter or the fact he just wanted to forget everything but he found himself saying, “Do you like cocktails? I know a good place not far from here that does amazing cocktails. Wanna go?”
“I...” Abby laughed uncomfortably, squirming slightly, “uh...yes of course. Of course, I’d love to.”
Of course. Well of course of course. “Great.”
“I should just tell...” Abby gestured toward Winter’s office.
“Ah, don’t bother him. He’s busy doing paperwork anyway.”
Abby looked unconvinced, but equally didn’t seem to care. “Okay. I’ll just go get ready.” And Abby retraced her steps up the stairs.
Sheppard smiled to himself and took a pill. He sat down on the stairs and waited. This was going to be good—there was no way that this could be a bad idea. Sheppard didn’t really care even if it was. Abby was beautiful and fun and he wouldn’t sleep with her. He just needed a companion. Drinking alone was never fun in public, even for him. He tapped on the steps while he waited, making up a rhythm. And then for good measure, he took another pill.
Another shovelful of earth fell into the abyss.
Five weeks later...
It had been five weeks since he first asked Abby out. They had been out nearly every night since. He had no doubt Winter knew, but he didn’t really care. Abby was worth it—she was a lot more fun than he thought a daughter of a stuffy psychologist could ever be. She fit in well on his arm as he showed her the best clubs in London. She could hold her drink, and she even tried some pills. She was great, charging forward with a youthful energy that sometimes made it hard to keep up with her. It was almost like she was trying to rebel against something—maybe a strict, rigid, old stickinthemud of a father (just a guess). He put his shaky arm around her and pulled her in for a kiss. She wrapped her arms around him, while also managing to rummage in her bag for her keys.
How long had they been standing here? He didn’t know. It felt like forever and no time at all.
“I can’t find them,” she said, slurring slightly. She couldn’t handle it as well as him. And, as if to prove the point, the bag sprang out of her hands and hit the floor, the contents spilling out over the welcome mat.
They both erupted into laughter. Until he realized they were being way too loud for this time of night. He held a finger to her lips, barely able to stifle his own laughs, let alone hers.
She bent down and picked up the keys, which had miraculously revealed themselves. She held them up in triumph, smiling that smile—the smile that made him forget about all the badness in the world, all the badness inside everyone. There was only her. And he wanted to be with her always.
She lurched forward, searching for the lock on the door. A fumbling as she failed to find it, scraping the door, leaving fresh scars on the metal, and then success.
But before she could turn the key, the door seemed to open of its own accord. He was amazed...until he saw the old man stood there in his dressing gown, with eyes like thunder, arms folded and a frown on his face that could sour wine. He looked at her and then at him.
“Go upstairs, Abby,” he said.
She pouted. “But...”
“Go upstairs.”
Abby took one long look at Sheppard, and went to hug him.
“Don’t you touch him. Just go upstairs.”
Abby passed her father and disappeared into the house without another word. Sheppard heard her taking the stairs two at a time, then slamming her bedroom door.
He looked at Winter and wondered how long he had stayed up just to make this little show. He wondered if it would be worth it.
“Simon,” he started, after a long silence.
“Don’t Simon me, son. Do you even care what I have been through tonight, waiting for my little girl to come home. You took her after our session didn’t you? This afternoon. Where the bloody hell have you been for fourteen hours?”
Fourteen—So that meant the time was...? Wait, so the session this afternoon was... Nope he lost it. Instead he decided on, “Here and there. She came because she wanted to.”
“She is too young for whatever you have on your mind.”
“Last I checked, she was plenty old enough,” he said, realizing when it was out there that he’d meant to keep that bit in his head.
Winter was silent. In response, he reached into his dressing gown pocket and brought out two little tubs. He held them up to the light, in his open palm. “You know what this is?”
Sheppard looked at them, really trying to concentrate. One looked like a capsule of some kind and the other looked like a pill bottle. That was all he could manage. “Should I know?”
“This is ketamine. Found in Abby’s room, son.”
“The horse tranquilizer?” he said, suddenly proud of himself for knowing that.
“
No,” Winter said, “a common misconception. Ketamine can be used to sedate animals but it is mainly used on humans.” Sheppard turned a sudden laugh into a hiccup. Even in blind rage, Winter couldn’t turn the doctor in him off. “What’s important is Abby has been taking this.”
“I don’t do ketamine,” Sheppard slurred.
“No, but you’ve taken and drunk everything else under the sun. And you introduced my daughter to the prospect, so you’ll be okay if I go and blame you anyway. This life you’re leading? It’s not for my girl, son. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, so not my little girl.”
Sheppard snorted. “I get it.”
“Good.”
“No, not that,” he said, holding the doorframe for support. “I get IT. You get to sit in your chair all day and lord yourself over other people’s lives. Well, here’s my turn. You love your daughter. You love her so much you want to wrap her up in cotton wool and keep her indoors away from the baddies, and the criminals, and the Disney villains. She’s all you’ve got. Because your wife went to that hospital, all fat and busting, and only little Abby came back.” Somewhere in his brain he knew the line was being crossed.
Winter let out a small wheezing sound, but was silent for a long time. Sheppard’s eyes swam. A gust of wind threatened to upend Sheppard and he tried to grab the doorframe again. Winter smacked his hand away.
“I don’t think I can treat you anymore, Morgan.”
“What?” It caught him off guard. Punched him in the stomach. But what had he expected? Winter was the only constant in his life, and he had done nothing but abuse that fact. How could he say things like he did and expect Winter to take it? It wasn’t the old man’s fault.
That’s how he felt the next morning when he found the fragmented memories of the night nestled in amongst the empties around his bed. At the time, however, he found Winter nothing but a selfish old coot.
“Oh shut up. Really?” Sheppard said, shouting a little too loud. “Because of Abby? You understand how stupid that sounds? You’re going to stop seeing me, just because you’re so anal about your daughter? You’re supposed to be helping me.”
“No, son, you’re meant to be helping yourself. But you won’t. You’re simply refusing to change. You’re the most stubborn boy I’ve ever met.”
“I’m not a boy.”
“I should have stopped this long ago. Our relationship has become volatile, and yes, part of it is your fraternizing with my girl. If we continue, my personal feelings will affect my job.”
“And what are your personal feelings?”
“I’ve known you since you were eleven, Morgan. I’ve known you since before you knew yourself. That scared little boy sitting in my waiting room. I was always able to look past what you’ve become and see that little boy. But now—”
“Say what you have to say,” Sheppard spat.
“You disgust me.”
Sheppard didn’t know what he had expected. He was suddenly frozen, an uncontrollable shivering taking over his whole body. Winter meant more to him than he had ever known, meant more to him than his own father. And now—he was disgusted by him?
“Wait,” Sheppard said, wanting to rewind the last ten minutes and go about everything differently—the drunk version of him finally realizing the significance of what was happening. “I need you.”
“I’m sorry, Morgan. But you can’t be here anymore.” Winter went to shut the door, but Sheppard slammed his palm against it.
“This...can’t...” He couldn’t even think.
“You know,” Winter said, relenting the door, “a third party came to me, purely by coincidence. That was the final nail in the coffin for us. Just another patient, telling tales of what a man called Morgan Sheppard had done. I didn’t believe it at first—part of me simply couldn’t believe it. But over time—well—it all makes such perfect sense.”
“Who came to you?”
“I’m a psychologist, Morgan. I know how people work. And I’ve always thought there was something deep down in the heart of you. And now I know. And I can’t un-know. And that is why I can’t possibly treat you anymore.”
Winter tried to close the door again, but this time Sheppard thumped the wood with his fist. “No,” he choked. Even drunk-Sheppard understood that when the door closed, it wasn’t going to open again.
Winter stepped forward and wrenched Sheppard’s fist off the door with a surprising amount of force and Sheppard toppled back. “You know the worst part?” Winter said, hissing. “You don’t even remember, do you? All the substance abuse has just turned you rotten. You can’t even remember who you really are. It’s a coping mechanism, you know—you don’t have to be a doctor to see that. You drink and take all that rubbish because you’re running away from yourself. From what you did.”
“And you’re going to turn your back on me?” Sheppard said. He felt like crumpling to the floor.
Winter’s face flamed, and he lunged at him. Sheppard dodged back, managing to keep his balance by stumbling down the porch steps.
“Get out of here,” Winter said, almost sadly. “Before I call the police.” And he shut the door.
The walk from the door to the gate seemed to stretch on. Sheppard’s feet felt heavier with every step. This was it. He knew he would never come here again, forgetting Abby at that moment. Because Winter had been important to him. And for some reason, he had forgotten that. But now he had pushed him away. Just like everyone else.
He didn’t want to look back, but as he opened the gate, he couldn’t stop himself. The house was quiet and dark, as though nothing had ever happened. He knew every detail of this house. He could almost see the eleven-year-old Morgan standing there on the doorstep, shuffling his feet nervously. He had been coming to this house forever. But he couldn’t quite remember why.
Forever and no time at all.
34
What was happening to him? Time was fluctuating all around him—rocking the bathroom back and forth. Things went in and out of focus at random. His mind dashed from thought to thought. The spiders had him now.
One thought—how long had he been here? Had he ever been anywhere else?
Another thought—the doctor said not to exceed the recommended dose. Unless you were awesome.
Another—he couldn’t remember her name, the one from Paris. She was so pretty. He didn’t even get her number. How would he find her again? After...
This brought on a bout of uncontrollable laughter. Going crazy, or maybe coming down from it. Something a little appropriate medication would fix. Nice and easy. One little pill. Or maybe two.
Treat yourself.
Did he say it or did he think it or both?
He wanted to laugh again, but stopped himself. Instead he straightened up, trying to stretch his arms behind him. They had cramped up.
Just like before. Just like when it began.
He’d never been one for talking to himself. Whenever he had tried, he felt like one of those idiots talking to themselves in movies. The kind that only talked to themselves to make sure the audience knew what they were doing. The kind of bad writing Sheppard could not advocate even when he was alone.
“Sheppard is thinking of dying now,” he said aloud.
And cackled.
Things were happening outside. In the room. Echoes. He couldn’t focus on them enough to hear what they were saying. It was as if out there didn’t exist—at least not in the same way as in here. Two separate realities connected by the greatest invention of mankind: the humble door.
He suppressed another laugh. Until he heard something. Shouting. His ears perked up slightly, like a lethargic meerkat. Someone was shouting really loudly, almost loud enough to penetrate the fog that had settled around him.
It was Alan, or at least he thought it was. Still couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Something was
wrong.
A sound. A horrible sound. How to even think of it? It was a grunt, but louder and more urgent, halfway between an acknowledgement and a scream. And then there was a scream. Not just one but two women’s screams.
The sound startled him so much that he jammed his shoulder against the toilet trying to get up.
This game is not over.
No, no, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t carry on. This was it. Had to be.
But Mandy and Headphones were in there.
He pushed on his palms until he was as high as he could go and then tried to leverage himself up the toilet. Surprisingly, he managed it and before the screamers had even drawn breath, he was sitting on the toilet lid. He got up, feeling his head loll on his shoulders. He thought he would never get up again, but it hadn’t been too hard, right?
His need for the things he desired had to be filed away.
The spiders had to go away. Come again another day.
NO. No laughing.
Another scream. By the same person. One of them at least. There was a commotion. Raised voices cursing and shouting.
He staggered around his small space. What was happening out there? Why were they shouting? His cuffed hands got caught around the towel rail and he face-planted the wall, his forehead erupting into pain.
He recovered. And looked at the bathroom door. He had to get out. He had to know what was happening. He stumbled forward and turned around, feeling with his hands for the door handle. Grasping it, he pushed it down.
Nothing. It didn’t open. Even though the lock was on this side, they’d found a way to keep it shut.
“Hey,” he tried to shout, but his throat was so dry it wasn’t louder than a whisper. He forcefully cleared his throat and tried again. “Hey.” Better this time. But the voices outside kept screaming and shouting.
“Hey. What’s going on?” he said, slamming his shoulder into the door. He backed up and kicked the door repeatedly with an unsteady foot. “Hey. What’s happening?” Bang. Bang. Bang.
The sick sense of humor that resided in his head punctuated these three bangs with three rings of a phone. Press 6 for early checkout...
Guess Who Page 15
