by Graham Smith
‘Ah yes… your friend.’
‘No, it’s not like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Let me explain, Doctor, and you’ll see what I mean.’ He waves permission. ‘I trust I’d be insulting you if I asked if this conversation will be kept private?’
‘You would.’ He gives a half shrug accompanied by a small grin. ‘But every new client I’ve taken on for the last thirty years has used the same insult.’
Give Edwards his due, he sits in silence, jotting the odd note as I tell him the basic facts of Kira’s secret life and my occasional times with her.
When I finish speaking he lowers his pen and looks at me. ‘What is it you want to know from me?’
‘I’d like you to make some suggestions as to why she was hooking. What her motivations might have been.’
His lips purse. ‘Are you familiar with the term quid pro quo?’
‘Of course.’ I feel the smile fade from my lips. ‘Are you suggesting you’re Hannibal Lecter?’
‘No. I’m suggesting that before I answer your questions, you must answer some of mine.’
I almost stand to leave but I need his take on Kira. ‘Why do you want to know about me?’
‘To help your mother. I’m not breaking any confidences by telling you she worries about you. That she thinks your lack of a wife and children is due to the fact your father left for work one morning without a goodbye and never returned.’
It was a familiar statement and the cause of many arguments in the Boulder family. Mother always nagged me about finding a wife and giving her some grandchildren to spoil.
When my sister got married I’d thought the pestering would end, but Sharon had been unable to carry a baby to term. After her fourth miscarriage, Sharon and her husband stopped trying and bought a pair of chocolate Labradors.
Bracing myself for his questions, I gesture for him to start.
‘What are your thoughts on your father leaving?’
‘I have very little memory of him. He was this figure who used to come home exhausted every night and climb into the bath after tea. At weekends he would play games with me and Sharon until the pubs opened and then he’d be off.’ I ignore the scratching of his pen and put forward a question of my own. ‘What do you reckon Kira’s motive was?’
‘There are a number of possibilities. The first being she had self-esteem issues and wanted the adulation she’d engender fulfilling men’s basest fantasies. What’s your last memory of your father?’
‘Making sure I was in bed before he came home from the pub. Next possibility?’
‘That Kira resented her father in some way for something and hooked as a way to get back at him.’ He lifts a hand to forestall my interruption. ‘That doesn’t explain why she kept it secret, unless she’d told her family about it and only kept it secret from the rest of the world. What do you remember after your father left?’
I hesitate for a moment as I recall the oceans of tears Mother and Sharon had shed.
When I think about it, I figure he’ll have been told everything by Mother so I give him an honest answer. ‘I was only six, but what I remember is lots of crying and less biscuits. Mother tried to make ends meet on handouts from the government and by taking in ironing, but things were a lot tighter than they were before he left.’
‘I see. And how do you feel looking back on those days?’
‘Proud of Mother for the way she rose to the challenge of raising us by herself. She went without a lot of things so we didn’t have to…’ Realising what he’s done I trail off. ‘That’s two in a row, Doc. You need to give me two more reasons Kira lived the life she did.’
‘She may have resented living off her father’s wealth. Maybe this was her way of building a financially secure future for herself, so she didn’t have to rely on her father’s handouts. Another theory may be that she had a romantic notion that she could fall in love with one of these men. It may seem far-fetched but it’s not unknown for some girls to take up that kind of lifestyle in the hope they’ll snare a husband.’
I shake my head at his suggestions. Kira had no shortage of admirers and was pretty enough to turn the heads of those she was attracted to. There is no way she was lonely enough to use hooking as a way of meeting a husband.
‘What about the bondage dungeon? The submission? That’s a whole different ballgame from plain old streetwalking.’
‘I take it Kira never shared that kind of sexual activity with you?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ I feel uncomfortable telling him this stuff but I’m aware he needs to know so he can properly answer my questions. ‘We had steamy passionate sex, but never once did she suggest anything like that.’
He sits without speaking, his lips pursed and brow furrowed. ‘That intimates that she had unfulfilled desires. The submissive aspect itself suggests feelings of low self-worth and a total lack of self-esteem. Yet you said that she would be the dominant one if that was her client’s preference. What is more indicative is the story you told me about one of her clients.’
I know the one he means. His eyes had widened and his scribbles had stopped as he listened to me relate how Kira had taken a trip with a particular client. That she’d taken a trip wasn’t interesting. The client’s requests and the fact she’d gone along with them had been a different matter.
Kira had agreed to meet her client for a one-week trip to the Caribbean. I’d read the message chain between Kira and the client. They’d discussed how she’d drawn looks from every person they’d met. How her nipples had been exposed by sheer material or the cut of her dresses. Together they’d reminisced over a maître d’ who’d been unable to take his eyes off her the night she’d worn a transparent dress and nothing else.
I’d read back to the start of the conversation and saw Kira agree to meet the client wearing nothing but a dress. The client was to provide all her clothes for the week and she was to wear them without question regardless of how revealing they’d be.
She’d agreed without compromise, her only question being if the client had her measurements.
‘To subjugate yourself in a private one-to-one situation is one thing. To do so for a full week, where you are publicly displayed like a trophy is another. It suggests a worrying level of inverted narcissism.’ He strokes his beard. ‘She’s saying “hey look at me” by wearing revealing clothes, yet by letting a man choose the clothes, she is displaying captive tendencies as the client would be with her, lapping up male envy and female disdain. I could write a whole paper based on that one encounter.’
‘Could this trait be something that would lead her into danger?’
‘Without a doubt. Not knowing how long it had gone on for, I couldn’t say if it was in any way responsible for her getting into a situation where she was killed, but it would lead to her seeking greater levels of subjugation to counterbalance the adulation from the client.’ He lays down his pad and looks at me. ‘I believe it’s my turn to ask you a question or two. Leaving your childhood behind and looking at your present life. Are you happy living the life you do?’
‘Absolutely.’ The answer is out before I’ve given it any consideration.
‘From what your mother has told me, your relationships don’t tend to last more than a few dates. Don’t you find it a lonely way to live?’
‘Not at all. I lived in the family home until I was twenty-two. My family are all close at hand and I see my friend Alfonse almost every day. I enjoy spending time at home by myself.’
‘I note you didn’t mention any female company in your reply despite it being the question. Why do you think that is?’
‘Because it’s not relevant. I’m not looking for a wife and the women I date aren’t looking for a husband. We meet up, have a bit of fun and move on.’
‘You said you enjoy spending time at home by yourself. What do you do to amuse yourself? Watch TV, listen to music, build model railways or something else?’
‘I read.’
&nbs
p; ‘You read?’
‘That’s right, I read. Action thrillers, crime books, classics.’
‘You don’t watch TV?’
‘I don’t own a TV.’
A note goes onto his pad.
‘From what we’ve discussed about Kira, what are your thoughts on her?’
Again his lips purse and brow furrows as he calculates what to say. ‘If she’d been a client of mine, I would have been most concerned about her long-term wellbeing.’
‘Could her family have done anything to stop her pursuing that lifestyle if they’d known about it?’
‘They could have referred her to someone like myself for counselling. Short of holding her captive there isn’t much else they could have done – she was a grown woman making her own decisions. They could have threatened her with calling the police but I’m sure she would be confident enough to call their bluff. Why do you get into so many fights?’
His question throws me for a moment as my thoughts are focused on what he’s saying about Kira.
‘I’m paid to break them up.’ A raised eyebrow invites me to continue. ‘Some of the guys decide they want to fight me when I toss them out or refuse them entry. We fight, they lose. Life goes on.’
‘Your mother worries about the day when you pick a fight with someone you can’t beat.’
‘I don’t pick fights, Doc. I stop them. The last time I started a fight I was still at school.’
He looks at me over his notepad. ‘It’s only a matter of time before you get into a fight you can’t win or go too far.’
I can’t stop the laugh before it bursts free. ‘You make me sound like someone who goes out looking for trouble. I’ve put many a man into the emergency room, but none of them have ended up in the morgue. I put them down and that’s the end of it. If they’re stupid enough to get up and try again, I make sure they don’t get up so easily the next time.’
‘I see a suppressed anger within you, Jake, a rage which will lead you into trouble if you don’t control it. Tell me, has anyone ever attacked you with a weapon?’
‘No.’ I don’t even have to think about the answer.
‘I’m worried that if someone comes at you with a weapon you’ll either get badly hurt or will turn your aggressor’s weapon onto them.’ He pauses. ‘It’s your mother’s worry too.’
That’s a low blow, which hits me twice. The problem is he’s landed the punch on my weak spot. I know that if someone comes at me with a weapon, my blood will boil too hot for containment. It is my biggest worry. Regardless of who comes at me, I make sure that when my hands go up, they stay empty.
I’m not going to admit my fears to him though.
‘You have occasions where you drink yourself into a stupor for days at a time. If someone came at you with a weapon during one of these episodes, do you think you could protect yourself and remain in enough control to not do something stupid?’
I lick my lips to buy a second or two of thinking time. ‘It’s never happened yet. Or at least if it has, I’ve had enough presence of mind to dispose of the body.’
My flippancy sees his top lip curl for a fraction of a second. ‘That’s not exactly a healthy attitude, Jake. You’re more than clever enough to have thought of these scenarios yourself. What do you think would happen?’
I don’t answer him. He has me bang to rights with my deepest fear and there is no way I am prepared to share that with anyone. I haven’t even let Alfonse raise the subject when he gives me one of his lectures.
After every drinking binge I take, Alfonse will regale me with whatever offence I’ve caused or stupid act I’ve committed. Then he’ll lecture me about the consequences of a local hard man being unable to stand when old foes have grudges to settle.
Still, I know leaving this question unanswered will tell the doctor more than anything I do say.
‘I’ve cut right back on my drinking and it’s over a year since I had one of those episodes as you call them.’ I give a self-deprecating shrug. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be. The hangovers aren’t worth the high I get from the first few drinks.’
‘You do know your kind of addictive personality will only drive you on to greater episodes the longer you deny yourself?’
‘That’s why I’ve not had a drink for so long.’ My honesty surprises me. I hadn’t intended opening myself quite so wide.
He looks over his pad into my eyes. ‘Either never drink again, or learn to have one or two drinks once a week. These infrequent binges and the rage inside you will get you into trouble you can’t escape if you don’t.’
18
She’s using the treadmill as the Watcher lifts weights. From his position he can see the beads of sweat beginning to form on her exposed shoulders and the nicotine patch on her upper arm.
In a strange kind of synchronicity, he feels a trickle of sweat run from his forehead into his left eye. A blink clears it and he glances around the room so as not to be so obvious in his observation of his target.
Around the room are the usual suspects found in all public gyms. The elderly battling the effects of time twenty-five years too late, young bucks and does pushing themselves to the limit, as they hone their bodies into whatever sculpture fits their idea of perfection. A pair of morbidly obese guys are huffing and puffing their way towards heart failure or fitness.
One of the sculpted gym bunnies comes over to him and makes a comment or two about his physique.
He smiles, acknowledging her compliments and returns them with praise for her toned body. He can tell she’s into him and plays along a little for appearances’ sake, letting the handles of the weight machine rest against their stops and lowering sweaty hands onto his knees.
Her eyes drift to his left hand. They neither widen nor narrow when they land on the ring Melanie gave him. She talks some more and then departs towards the bank of rowing machines with a wave.
He watches her go, then scans the room for the target, finding her by the wall getting water from the cooler.
She mops her forehead with a towel and totters in the direction of an exercise bike.
While she’s making adjustments to the seat and fiddling with the resistance setting, he switches to a different position and resumes his workout. He feels a sense of gratitude towards her for using the gym he frequents every day.
There’s anything but pleasure on her face as she nestles onto the seat and begins the cyclic thrusts.
The untoned muscle on her legs is flapping as he observes her in more detail. Her face is lined with age and cigarettes. Despite the pumping music and sounds of people working out, he can hear the hungry rasp of her breathing.
Given the choice at her age, he’d forget about exercise and enjoy what little time is left before infirmity takes over.
Tonight will be her last on earth, her efforts at buying more time futile in the face of a scalpel in the wrong hands. His hands.
His plans were prepared long ago for whichever victims fell into the pattern; the method chosen at random from a number of available options.
Once identified, he couldn’t help but select the grandmother who lived alone. It is too easy an opportunity to pass up and he is ready to escalate and gauge the police response. Three murders in four days will give them something to think about.
Her walking into the gym as he worked out was unexpected but not a problem. He’d had no contact with her and his face is here more often than hers.
A yawn climbs his throat and he realises he hasn’t slept for almost thirty-six hours. Knowing he needs to be fresh for tonight, he leaves the others to their workouts and heads for the locker room. A high protein meal, a handful of prescribed drugs and an empty bed seem more attractive than ever.
19
After hearing the growl from my stomach, I delay meeting with Alfonse long enough to catch a burger and fries at Sherri’s Diner.
Tourists visiting the town marvel at its fifties charm and memorabilia. Locals hear their comments about how good a job the
designer has done recreating the décor and smile to themselves. Sherri’s hasn’t been refurbished since 1954 and owes its well-preserved state to Sherri’s maxim: ‘It ain’t clean until you can see the face of the person stood behind you’.
Her daughter Terri took over in the mid-seventies and runs the diner with an iron fist wrapped around a gentle heart. Slacking employees and obtuse customers are evicted with a broom print on their ass, while a sob story will always see her reaching for the cash register.
The food is legendary in these parts and many of the higher-class restaurants have tried to lure her cooks away without success. The one time a cook accepted another position, Terri marched into the restaurant and berated the owners in front of a packed dining room.
I welcome the time alone with my thoughts, as I chew through the meat and starch from both my plate and the meeting with Dr Edwards.
His final comments are too informed for my liking, causing me to suspect Mother’s interference. Calling her on it will do nothing more than fuel her concerns. What I want is to quell both her worries and meddling.
There is another suspicion which has plagued me for a while. Perhaps no one has lifted a weapon against me because they can all see I have the capability to take the weapon off them and use it myself.
Am I the only one blind to the dangers of the MacDonald blood?
There are also his suppositions about Kira to consider. The way he’s offered an opinion without questioning me about her family life makes me wonder if one of them is a client of his.
There are few psychologists in Casperton and if Mother is right and Dr Edwards is the best, it isn’t beyond the realms of possibility Kira’s mother or another family member is one of his patients. If she is, he’d have a window into Kira’s family dynamics showing him all the grievances and underlying issues. That would explain why he’d spoken with such confidence when offered so little information.
Eating with one hand, I use the other to switch my cell back on and check for messages.
