by Michael Wood
Jonathan had never thought of Stephen as anything other than a boss. If he thought about it, which is what he was being asked to do, he would look upon Stephen as representing something more. Jonathan did like him. He was a good man, a kind man, a generous man, intelligent, funny and warm, with a soft southern Irish accent, deep, dark brown eyes, smooth complexion, full lips…what did this mean? How long had he thought of his boss like this?
‘Do you mind if I sleep on it?’ Jonathan asked.
‘What? No, no, of course not. Take all the time you need.’
‘It’s been a long day. I just want to go home and have a think.’
‘Yes sure. No problem. Do you want me to give you a lift?’
‘No that’s OK. Look, Stephen, thank you for everything today; coming to the hospital and for what you’ve said to me tonight. I really appreciate it, honestly. Can we talk about it tomorrow morning, before work?’
‘Sure. I’ll pick you up if you want?’
‘I’d like that, thank you.’
Jonathan smiled. He didn’t do it very often but when he did, it lit up his face. The smile reached up to his eyes; they sparkled.
‘Well, I’ll see you in the morning then.’
They said their goodbyes and went their separate ways. Jonathan turned away first and headed for the bright lights of Albion Street while Stephen turned and walked up the narrow and dimly lit Oxford Street.
Jonathan had barely walked ten paces when he realized he felt different. He held his head high instead of permanently looking at the ground. His shoulders were no longer hunched and he felt relaxed. Someone in his life cared for him, loved him, and that made him happy.
As his mind raced to tomorrow morning and what he was going to say to Stephen when he called to pick him up, he barely registered the sound of car brakes squealing, but on hearing the angry thud he turned around: Stephen was lying ahead, in a crumpled heap on the cold road.
Jonathan opened his mouth to say something, to scream, to call out, anything, but no sounds came. Not for the first time in his life, he was struck dumb.
Jonathan’s heart stopped. This could not be happening. Not again. Not to Stephen. He was one of the good guys. Jonathan ran to his fallen boss and dropped to his knees. He felt sick as he looked down on another life being snatched from him far too soon.
There wasn’t a single mark on Stephen. His complexion was still smooth, his hair still neat, yet his limbs were in a painful position. His eyes were closed. He looked as if he had just lain down to take a nap in the middle of the road.
Jonathan picked up Stephen’s cold left hand and held it tight. It was unresponsive. The world around him suddenly fell silent and there was just the two of them, alone yet together, for one last time.
‘Stephen,’ Jonathan’s voice was a whimper; the smallest sound left his lips and drifted away on the cold breeze unheard. ‘Stephen…please…’
The rough, angry sound of an engine revving caused Jonathan to look up through tear-stained eyes. The car ahead that had knocked down the only person ever to make him smile and feel a modicum of happiness had its reversing lights on and it was slowly gaining speed.
Chapter 28
To the untrained eye, the unconscious passer-by, the large, double-fronted detached Victorian house on Manchester Road looked like any other family home. It was only when you opened the front door and saw one of the front rooms had been turned into an open-plan waiting room that the true purpose of the building was revealed.
As soon as Matilda looked up at the large imposing façade she felt her heart sink. She had hoped returning to work would signal an end to her biweekly meetings with the patronizing and plain Dr Warminster. When the ACC told her the return to work was on the proviso the meetings continued she could have screamed. Was she ever going to be free of this woman with her ugly floor-length skirts and pastel cardigans?
The petite blonde twenty-something at the reception desk looked up when Matilda entered. Did she wonder about the mental capacity of the people who came here, or was this just a job to her? As she gazed around the room, taking in her fellow patrons with their anxieties on display, she pondered whether the receptionist pigeon-holed her with the man with the facial tics, the woman who gently rocked from side to side, and the elderly gent who looked as if he was about to burst into tears at any moment.
It had been six months since Matilda’s first appointment. Why was she still coming here? Despite Dr Warminster’s diagnosis, she wasn’t depressed. Yes, she missed her husband. Yes, she questioned her ability to perform her duties at work. At a push she would admit to using alcohol to mask the pain of her loss, but depressed? Absolutely not.
Matilda looked at her watch. Her appointment should have begun five minutes ago. She was always late going in; something she believed all therapists did on purpose to render their patients into a sense of anxiety so they could witness them at their worst. Eventually the door opened and she was asked to enter. She took a deep breath and did as she was told.
Dr Sheila Warminster was indeed wearing a pleated floor-length skirt, a cheap white blouse, and a pale blue cardigan. She was a tall and wiry woman with an uncontrollable shock of dyed red hair. Her complexion was rough, as if she’d just had a vigorous wash with a scouring pad. Her perfume was strong and French; her accent south-western and very deep.
Matilda disliked therapists. She considered them to be nosy and expected them to get together once a week and have a good laugh at their patients’ expense. Sometimes, paranoia got the better of Matilda.
Upon meeting Dr Warminster, Matilda had tried, literally forced herself, to like her, but it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t the woman she took a dislike to, it was her profession. If Sheila had been a shop assistant or a bank clerk she could have been lovely to chat to. Once the sessions began, Matilda realized Sheila wasn’t as bad as she first thought, but the shocking dress sense and sickly smile were difficult to warm to. She was tolerable, but for a whole hour?
Matilda sat down on the leather sofa while Sheila took her usual place in a large leather office chair. Between them was a low coffee table, which had the obligatory box of tissues, and a small digital clock facing Sheila.
‘So, you’ve been back at work a few days now. How are things?’ Sheila crossed her legs and balanced an A4 pad on her knee. With a silver ballpoint pen in her right hand she was poised for Matilda to pour her heart out. She would have a long wait.
‘Very well thanks,’ Matilda said. She smiled. Her reply came out louder than expected. Who was she trying to convince; Sheila or herself? It had been her plan to come across as happy and cheerful; she was back at work and loving it and had no reason to come here any more. Unfortunately it wasn’t coming across that way.
‘And the four o’clock finishing time; are you OK with that?’
‘Not really, but those are the conditions I must abide by. Besides, it won’t be for long.’ Now Matilda was the one sporting a fake sickly smile.
‘How have your colleagues taken to your return?’
‘Very well.’
‘Good. So, no animosity?’
‘Of course not. Why would there be?’ she asked with a frown. She had promised herself to just answer Sheila’s questions with ease and the most basic of information and not ask any in return. She had barely been in the room five minutes and she had broken her promise to herself.
‘You have been away for a very long time; things change, people change, attitudes change.’
‘I have a very loyal team.’ She tilted her head and smiled.
‘So they’ve all welcomed you back with open arms?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good then.’
Matilda looked around the room, which was decorated in soothing tones. It was supposed to resemble a living room and have a relaxed atmosphere, but she wasn’t convinced. The smell from the air fresheners was overpowering, the soft furnishings were trying too hard to be comforting, and the framed prints on the walls were lifel
ess and boring.
‘How are you coping with the job?’
‘Very well.’
‘Not getting tired or too bogged down with things?’
‘Of course not. I’ve been doing this job for years.’
‘But you’ve been through a great trauma, it takes time to readjust.’
‘A trauma? You make it sound like I’m the only survivor in a plane crash.’
‘Your career is very important to you Matilda. Your position is something you have been working towards your whole life. Almost a year ago something happened to destroy that. That is a trauma. Your husband, the man you loved more than anything in the world was cruelly snatched from you in the most horrific of ways. That is a trauma.’
Would smashing you in the face be a trauma?
‘It’s life.’ She shrugged, trying to hold back the tears. ‘These things happen to people all over the world every single day. We get knocked down but we get back up again and move on. It’s all manageable.’
‘Has Carl Meagan been mentioned at work?’
Matilda’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Yes.’
‘Who brought it up?’
‘I did.’ You big fat liar, Matilda.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ For a brief second she wondered if the ACC would hear about this conversation and confront her with her lies. She shrugged the thought away. She didn’t care.
‘And how were you?’
‘I didn’t break down in a flood of tears if that’s what you’re hoping.’
‘You don’t like coming here do you?’ Like a dog pining for a treat, Sheila tilted her head to one side. The raising of an eyebrow indicated she expected an answer. If one didn’t come, she’d tilt her head to the other side.
Give me a paw and I’ll answer your questions.
‘No.’ The pretence was too much for Matilda to keep up. Despite what she told herself she couldn’t fake in front of Dr Warminster and her smug self-righteousness. She could feel the pretend cheerfulness slipping away.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I think it’s a waste of time. I’ll admit I had difficulty when James first died and when the Carl Meagan case collapsed, but I’ve managed to work my way through it all and out the other side. I’m fine now.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’ She honestly meant it this time too. Well, until the next breakdown.
‘How is the work/home-life balance?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve said in previous sessions that you don’t allow your colleagues into your private life. I was just wondering how you’re able to keep your work and home life completely separate.’
‘My colleagues are my colleagues. I work with them. I see the grim side of society with them, the evils people do to each other. I don’t want to be reminded of that in my social life.’
‘What about your best friend, Adele Kean?’
Matilda adjusted herself on the sofa. She was uncomfortable, or was it irritability? ‘What about her?’
‘Would you describe her as a colleague?’
‘Yes I would. She is a very good colleague. She is also a very loyal friend.’
‘What is so special about Adele that has allowed her to cross the divide between colleague and friend?’
‘Adele is a warm and caring person. I have known her for many years and I know that whatever I tell her will not go any further. She’s been through her share of heartache too. She knows what it’s like to have to bring yourself back from the brink and start again.’
‘So she’s been using her life experiences to help you through yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re very lucky to have Adele in your life.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s important not to rely on just one person though. You need to open yourself up to allow other people into your circle. Would you allow any of your other colleagues in?’
Why do you want me to be best friends with my colleagues?
‘I’m not sure. It’s difficult. I work with them every day. They chat, things get passed around and, like Chinese whispers, they get altered.’
‘Is that what you think; that they’ll gossip about you and talk about you when you’re not there?’
‘Just because we’re detectives it doesn’t mean the usual laws of an open-plan office don’t apply. People gossip; they slag each other off, make fun of a new haircut. It’s what people do to get through the day. I don’t want to be a part of that.’
‘But you’ve just described your team as being loyal. Surely they wouldn’t do that to you?’
Matilda took a deep breath. She could feel her hackles rising. Everything she said was being twisted, misinterpreted. She loathed coming here so much.
‘I’m their DCI,’ Matilda said with a forced calm tone. ‘Their boss. It wouldn’t be good for a boss to socialize with their employees. I don’t socialize with the ACC so why should I with my DS and DCs?’
‘But you do go to the pub with them at times?’
‘Yes of course. After a hard day or in celebration at solving a case, I like to share a congratulatory drink with them; a thank you for their hard work. I’m not a complete robot. I wouldn’t expect you to invite me round to your house for a meal. Professional relationships are completely different things.’
Again Sheila paused and did the head-tilting thing. ‘Are you still taking your medication Matilda?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you missed a dose?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘You seem a tad irritable. You’re jittery.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m getting the impression you’re not telling me the whole truth. You’re placating me aren’t you? You’re giving me the answers I want to hear so you can go.’
‘I am very busy and have a twenty-year-old murder case to solve.’
‘But it’s after four o’clock. You wouldn’t be working now even if you weren’t here with me.’
It was Matilda’s turn to pause the conversation. She took another deep breath, crossed her legs the other way and tried, but failed, to relax. Her shoulders were aching with all the tension she was holding on to. ‘Just because I’m not in the office it doesn’t stop me thinking about the case.’
‘Do you have difficulty turning your mind off at the end of the day?’
‘You’re reading far too much into this. If you have a client who talks about how they were abused as a child do you stop thinking about it when you leave the office?’
‘Of course not.’
‘There you go then. I’m trying to solve the double murder of a married couple who were stabbed to death in front of their eleven-year-old child. That kind of case stays with you.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No.’
‘Can it be solved?’
‘Every case can be solved.’ No it can’t.
‘Will you solve it?’
‘Yes,’ Matilda said doubtfully. Your pants should be on fire right now.
Sheila turned a page in her notepad. It was the first time Matilda had noticed she had filled a whole side of A4 with notes. She wondered what she had been writing and whether she would be able to read her own file at some point.
‘I’d like to see you again. Maybe next week rather than in a fortnight.’
‘Why?’
‘Your return to work and its progress needs to be closely monitored.’
‘ACC Masterson is monitoring me very closely. I am having regular meetings with her.’
‘I need to assess your mental well-being.’
‘There is nothing wrong with my mental health,’ she almost shouted. ‘I’m fine. I just want to return to doing my job. Why won’t people allow me to get on with it?’
‘Because you’ve been through…’
‘A great trauma, I know,’ she interrupted. She needed to g
et out of this room. The overbearing heat from the single radiator was causing her to feel sick. She could feel beads of sweat running down her back. She also needed a drink. ‘How’s next Wednesday for you?’ Matilda asked standing up, ready to make a mad dash for the door.
‘That’s fine. Same time?’
‘I have nothing else to do with my evenings.’
Usually when a client leaves a therapist’s office they feel lighter; as if a great weight has been lifted from their shoulders. They have shared their deepest, darkest thoughts and talked through what problems and obstacles they are having difficulty overcoming. Solutions may have been offered, talked through, and the client would be able to see the world not as a place to fear, but as a manageable place to live.
When Matilda left Dr Warminster’s office she was a seething mass of pent-up frustration. She didn’t like therapy. She didn’t like talking about herself, and she hated going over old ground every single session.
As she climbed into her car behind the wheel she wondered if she had any vodka left at home. Surely a visit to a therapist shouldn’t leave you aching for alcohol?
Chapter 29
By the time the ambulance had arrived at the scene of the hit-and-run, Jonathan was sitting at the edge of the road hugging his knees. His eyes were staring and he was visibly shaking. He was cold and his chattering teeth echoed along the silent highway. His vision was fixed firmly on the still, broken body of Stephen Egan not three feet away, yet his mind had placed him back in time to the night his parents were murdered.
He was sitting at the top of the stairs, his thin pale arms wrapped tightly around the bannister. He was cold, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. His white shirt was forever stained with the flecks of drying blood from his mother and father in the next room. He felt sick but he couldn’t move; he was frozen to the spot. The rest of the house was silent. He could hear the distant ticking of a carriage clock in the living room; the whirring of the fridge from the kitchen, and the rasping painful breaths as his mother died.
