The Game Changer

by Louise Phillips

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Over the last few months, his wife says he’s been going to some kind of meetings. He wouldn’t say who he was seeing. He kept it all very secretive. I think she partly blames herself.’

  ‘She wasn’t to know. A person intent on dying by suicide can keep it from those closest to them.’

  ‘Maybe – but there’ll be plenty of digging now, although it will have to be handled sensitively.’

  ‘Sensitively?’

  ‘Being related to the chief super.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, unimpressed.

  ‘It’s not like that, Kate. It’s just that he’ll be closely involved. Everything we find out will have to be run by him.’

  ‘Isn’t that normal?’

  ‘More or less, but we’re talking everything.’ He waited a few moments, then asked, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘About what? The chief super or the investigation?’

  ‘The investigation, of course – the chief super I can handle. Let’s say for a second this wasn’t a suicide. Other than redirecting blame, why would anyone set it up like that?’

  ‘Was there any sign of forced entry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’ve no way of knowing if a second key was used to lock the door on the other side?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘The crime scene always tells you more than you can see.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘The means of killing is certainly important, but if a potential perpetrator got that close without using any force, assuming another party was involved, then more than likely, they meant something to each other. It’s the first marker.’

  ‘Marker for what?’

  ‘The relationship between the killer and their victim.’

  The Game Changer

  AFTER LISA’S APPOINTMENT, HER CHEQUE FOR forty-five thousand euros, donated to help others within the programme, was locked away in the safe. Lisa believed that separating herself from the money had helped her along the path to self-enlightenment and therefore greater happiness. The Game Changer knew she would progress with speed.

  That evening, the only sound in the room was the steady, hypnotic rhythm of tapping on the laptop keyboard as the member/ player records were brought up to date.

  CENTRE OF LIGHTNESS

  20 Steps to Self-enlightenment Programme

  Player: Lisa Redmond – Evaluation 7

  Attributes: Ambitious and attractive

  Career: Webcam sex

  Current Bank Balance: €50,000

  Step 7: Completed

  Money is a form of validation for Lisa. It tells her people will pay for what she is prepared to give them. It also tells her that she is successful and in many ways special. Overall, she doesn’t want to perform webcam sex; neither are her actions solely based on a desire to do things well, she being something of a perfectionist. The money is her gold star. Like the cheap paper gold stars her teachers gave her when she behaved well in school (see earlier notes).

  Lisa maintained composure throughout the camera interview, but alterations in eye movement were indicative of an exaggeration of her disdain regarding her camers/clients. She sat provocatively with her legs crossed, using sex as a tool. Always impeccably dressed, her appearance and sexual appeal are components in her evaluation of self-worth.

  (Page 1 of 2)

  CENTRE OF LIGHTNESS

  20 Steps to Self-enlightenment Programme

  Player: Lisa Redmond – Evaluation 7 continued

  As with earlier interviews, Lisa was forthcoming with information about her life. In part, this is because she spends a large proportion of her time lying to massage the ego of her camers/clients.

  Step 7 has resulted in the realisation that she doesn’t need money to give value to her life, and that, as a person, she is better than the money she possesses.

  She enjoys these confessional-type conversations. She also enjoys the repetition of her name. It brings a form of intimacy with a lock-in effect, making her think she is special, that she is talking to someone close to her, someone who cares about her health and well-being.

  Progression:

  Step 8 – Continuous Self-motivation

  Desired Outcome – Transfer to group location

  Action required Apply continued pressure to the evaluation of self, emphasising a necessity to be away from the familiar, constituting a change of environment.

  (Page 2 of 2)

  Sarah

  SARAH SINCLAIR STARED AT HER REFLECTION IN THE bathroom mirror, waiting for her husband, John, to close the front door behind him. Her long black hair was a tangled mess, with unruly strands covering her face, almost as if she’d put on a wig the wrong way around. Forty wasn’t old, she told herself, but she felt every bit of it.

  Lately she’d made a point of getting out of bed only after John had left for work, but today, standing with bare feet in her powder-pink nightdress and dressing gown, she felt excited about the day’s possibilities. Everything, she thought, was so much easier when she was alone, especially when she needed to read or listen to her material from Saka and the Centre of Lightness. Pulling the tangled strands off her face, she thought of what Saka had told her about the importance of being selfish. Contrary to the term’s negative connotations, being selfish was a good thing: it was part of our human survival mechanism.

  She had been apprehensive about it at first, indoctrinated by Catholicism as a child, and although she was no longer a believer, a part of her still felt bitter about the restrictions within her early beliefs. Self-sacrifice had been rated too highly, putting others before yourself. Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth. Good girls do as they’re told. Never question, keep the faith.

  Saka had explained that being influenced by things we no longer believe in was an element of our mind’s reluctance to take on new ideas. Sarah could see that now, and the words selfish and survival finally made sense. Furiously brushing her teeth, she remembered a time when she hadn’t wanted to survive, and the thought of that still scared her. With the help of the Centre of Lightness, over time, she had come to realise that those thoughts were temporary. Decisions, or entrenched points of view, were of the moment, and not worth risking a whole lifetime for.

  She had never met anyone who could explain things the way Saka could. He allowed her to find her own answers, and it was to him, not John, that she finally admitted her suicidal thoughts. He didn’t judge her, he listened. She didn’t even mind when the camera was on, or that sometimes Saka’s assistant, Jessica, took his place. In some ways the camera helped. It was as if she was talking to herself, clearing the negative thoughts from her mind. Unlike John, Saka wasn’t quick to criticise. He didn’t look at her as if she was a fool, or as if she had somehow disappointed or annoyed him. John got so angry when she ignored him, but the more she tried to explain about the value of the programme, the more hostile he became. Saka had said, ‘Some people will never understand,’ and she certainly wasn’t going to allow John to upset her today.

  When she’d listened to the CD the previous night, it had explained how everyone was on the earth for specific reasons, and that the key to finding out those reasons was inside our minds, waiting to be discovered. She knew she had a lifetime of social conditioning to undo, the kind that made you put other people first. At the last sub-group session, Jessica had explained how we need to seek out the things that others feel are unacceptable. A couple of people had thought this was odd, but Sarah understood what Jessica meant. Plenty of beliefs, Sarah had told them, would have horrified people twenty years ago but were considered perfectly reasonable today. Saka had been there too, and he was proud of her when she’d said that. He didn’t say so, but she knew.

  Tying her hair in a long side plait, she told herself it was time to go downstairs. She was apprehensive, but she knew she had put off the moment for far too long. It was over half an hour since she’d
heard the postman deliver the package. There were no guarantees it was the parcel she was waiting for, but a part of her felt that today would be the day.

  Seeing the cardboard box on the kitchen table, she let out a shriek of excitement noticing the foreign stamps. From the size, it couldn’t be anything else, could it? Would John have noticed the postmark? Would he have wondered about the contents? She didn’t care: she needed to remain focused. Her hands were shaking, a mixture of joy and fear, but she did the breathing exercises Saka had suggested, all the while keeping her eyes on the parcel. ‘I want the moment to be perfect,’ she said out loud, looking around her to see if anyone else was listening.

  For the first time in months, Sarah smiled, thinking about the future. When she lifted the box, it was lighter than she’d imagined, and holding it up to her nose, all she could get was the smell of cardboard. She put it down, took a small knife out of the drawer and used it to rip the adhesive tape, careful not to damage the contents. Folding back all four sides at the top, she paused, wondering if she would be disappointed when she removed the white polystyrene packing beads. She dug her hands in deep, the beads falling like large snowflakes across the kitchen table and spilling on to the floor. She couldn’t wait any longer. It didn’t matter if she wasn’t as Sarah had imagined: once she saw her, she knew she would want to hold her, and love her. She felt a small arm, and again, she let out a tiny cry of joy. She concentrated on the breathing exercises again, telling herself not to rush things. Saka said our minds are amazing receptors of information, yet we miss so many things in our rush to get from point A to point B. She chided herself to take her time, closing her eyes tight as she dug in deeper, reaching for the baby doll, stroking her small arms, then her tiny fingers, touching all ten toes, until finally she lifted Lily out of the box. The baby’s blue eyes blinked at her, and in her heart, Sarah knew she had done the right thing.

  The Babygro was perfect too, soft white cotton, an exact replica of the one her daughter had worn in the hospital. Unable to restrain herself any longer, she pulled the doll close to her chest, snuggling her, stroking her face, her cheeks and her wisps of hair, which were exactly as Sarah remembered them. She was so beautiful, she thought. Lily was everything Sarah had hoped she would be. ‘Forgive Mummy,’ she whispered, ‘for waiting so long to find you.’

  Kate

  IT HAD BEEN MORE THAN A WEEK SINCE MICHAEL O’Neill’s death, and although Kate knew she had nothing to do with the investigation, it had churned up the old memory of Kevin. Her mind kept drifting back to her early adolescence, a particular sentence repeating itself in her head. Walking towards her study, she muttered, ‘The things you can’t remember are the very things your mind wants you to forget.’ She hadn’t been sleeping well either, and her dreams, like that sentence, felt caught in repeat mode, as if trapped.

  The previous night, she’d dreamed her father was standing outside their old house. It was late in the evening. He was facing another man, who had looked familiar but she didn’t know why. Her father wore his hat down low, shadowing his face, but she was sure he was angry. Every now and then, she’d hear a dog barking, loud and threatening, then lowering to a whimpering wail. She had felt cold, and even though it didn’t make any sense, with the streets empty of cars, she kept hearing traffic. There was something about a room, one she couldn’t get out of, and it was when she was in that room that she felt the bitter cold, but then the dream skipped. One minute she was looking at her father, the next she wasn’t at home. She was staring out of another window, but all she could see was darkness. She could hear the dog barking again and traffic zooming in and out. There was something else, but she couldn’t remember what it was. The missing piece of the dream felt close, but beyond her grasp. It was only after she closed the study door that she thought about another afternoon, when her twelve-year-old self was looking out of her bedroom window: she had seen Kevin talking to a girl, and a man she didn’t know. Who were they? She repeated the words again, ‘The things you can’t remember are the very things your mind wants you to forget.’

  She thought about the dog barking again, feeling uneasy. What was wrong with her? Maybe she had too much time on her hands. There had been moments lately, especially in the mornings, with Charlie at school and the chores done, that she’d found herself without a task that she had to do. It had never happened when she was working full time. It had been the very opposite, always trying to balance work and personal life, the two overlapping in ways that didn’t do justice to either.

  The one and only appointment she had at Ocean House that day was after she had dropped Charlie off at school, at 10 a.m. It felt good, she thought, being able to maintain a tentative hold on what had been, until recently, her full-time job. The session had been a positive one too, an ex-abuse victim on the mend, with a fuller, happier and better life. She had been surprised when she bumped into Aoife Copland afterwards. For a few moments, she had wondered if Aoife, an ex-patient of hers, was seeing another psychologist at Ocean House. The girl had seemed a little embarrassed too, blurting out that she was attending meditation sessions. There was no need for her to feel awkward, or to appear to be in an almighty rush to get away. Kate already knew Aoife was in a long-term relationship with Adam’s son, Addy. Maybe that was the cause of her awkwardness, but it shouldn’t have been. Their connection went back long before that. Anorexia had been a serious problem for Aoife from early puberty but, thankfully, years of counselling had made a difference. Adam might have had issues with Addy, but it seemed to Kate, from listening to the boy himself talk about Aoife, that he had really stood by the girl, especially when the pressure had intensified during her Leaving Certificate and first-year college exams. It was probably a good thing Aoife was now doing meditation. It all fed into a more holistic and balanced approach to life.

  Once she had finished at Ocean House, driving home across the city, with the sun shining and autumn crispness in the air, Kate had looked at the myriad shades of the leaves and made up her mind to go for a run at some point that day. Now, unable to think clearly, she felt that a run was exactly the right thing to do, and within ten minutes, she had changed into her gear, the town-hall clock striking midday. At that time, it was relatively laidback in Ranelagh. Children were at school, the commuter traffic had eased, but there was still a bustling hub of village life. The cafés seemed endlessly full, and with the Luas stop only metres from the centre, people coming and going gave the impression of a transient, somewhat cosmopolitan community.

  As she headed in the direction of Palmerston Park, the rhythm of her movements got steadier the further up Palmerston Road she went. Part of the footpath was still damp from a shower half an hour earlier and, as if she was a child again, she went out of her way to find pockets of dry leaves that she could crunch – she remembered stomping from one leaf to the next on her way to school.

  Before reaching the park she turned left onto Cowper Road, taking a right at the T-junction at Merton Avenue, then ran on to Springfield Road. Their apartment was only a few minutes from her old home, but it had been a long time since she had passed the house. Perhaps it was because of the dreams that she wanted to see her old home again, or maybe it was connecting with Malcolm after all this time, especially his inclination to talk about things that had happened years before. It was only natural, she supposed, for him to enjoy revisiting old times, like friends who hadn’t seen each other for years reliving events they had shared. However, their last conversation had caused her to reflect. There had been a sharp slant to his words when he spoke about her father that she hadn’t noticed before. She realised that, even though she was a grown woman, she still looked up to him – not, as she had originally thought, like an older brother, but as some kind of surrogate father figure. She found herself unwilling to contradict or challenge him, behaving with a level of shyness, indicative of how she had been as a child. She had always thought that Malcolm and her father were close, but something had been bubbling below the surface, she
was sure of it. She increased her pace: suddenly, getting to the house seemed more important than ever. She was breathless when she arrived, not realising she had pushed herself so hard. She stood on the opposite side of the road, not wanting to encroach on the family living there.

  There were no cars in the drive, and her mind drifted to when she and her friends had played chasing out the front. She had been an only child, which had meant the company of others outside the house was often far more interesting and nicer than that inside. She had hated those afternoons when the atmosphere felt hostile and threatening, and although she had made peace with her father long before his death, there were emotional bonds that could never be rebuilt in adulthood. That was partly why she understood how hard it was for Addy to accept Adam. These things took time, but time couldn’t cure everything.

  Leaning back against the railings, she stared at the stone walls of her old home, thinking about her father, what an angry man he could be. Her mother hadn’t encouraged his behaviour, or in the early years tried to avert it. At some point, though, during Kate’s late teens, her father had withdrawn into himself, and the angry outbursts had subsided. She had asked her mother about it, but all she ever said was that people could change once they had the right motivation. Kate used to wonder about his name too. Valentine, symbolising love, although at times he was certainly a far cry from that.