by A J Waines
‘Maybe this woman just happened to buy several garments that you took in…maybe they were all on the same rail.’
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit unlikely? The entire outfit she was wearing, down to the boots, belonged to me.’
‘It’s sick.’ She wiped her greasy hands down the front of her cardigan. Perhaps she wasn’t going out after all. ‘Together with the text message, don’t you think it’s all a bit suspicious?’
‘The police told me to keep an eye open for anything unusual. That’s all. I’ve got the number of the officer I’m supposed to contact…’ I pulled out my purse and read from a small card. ‘DCI Madison. I’ve got to ask for him directly if anything else happens. I should get my phone back in a day or so; they’re still checking the SIM card.’
‘Can they track down the person who sent you the text?’
‘I think so. The number was withheld, but they have amazing forensic technology these days.’
Jackie turned to face me. ‘This isn’t connected with that burglar we had, is it?’
‘I don’t know.’ I hadn’t thought of that.
There was a hiatus as I pursued my own internal chilling fantasy. The look on her face suggested she was doing the same.
‘Are you still seeing that bloke?’ she said, unexpectedly. ‘The blonde guy?’
I wondered why she’d changed the subject. Perhaps she was checking I had others to offload to, so I wouldn’t be tapping on their door every five minutes.
‘No.’ I got up to go.
‘Shame,’ she said. ‘He seemed a nice guy.’
I gave her a noncommittal look. I’d never told anyone that there had been three in our relationship: Andrew, me and Johnnie Walker.
I was too early to get an evening meal ready. I was tempted to have a nap on the sofa, when my landline phone rang. I checked the caller-display and saw that it was Andrew. Even though my hand was already on the receiver, I decided on the fourth ring to let the answer-machine take the call. I turned the volume down. I wasn’t ready to hear his voice. Everything had been clear when I’d ended the relationship two months ago; I knew I couldn’t cope with his drinking anymore and that was that. Now I’d gone and muddied everything up again. Why had I called him when I’d seen the body at the bridge? Why hadn’t I considered the consequences?
I made a cup of tea and curled up on the sofa. I started a crossword, but got stuck on ‘three across’. I found myself drifting back to the day I’d met him. I was in an art shop in Notting Hill, looking for a stylish notebook to use as a journal and Andrew was in front of me in the queue, buying charcoal. I noticed the way his blonde hair curled inside the collar of his t-shirt.
As I left the shop, he was pinning a flyer on the notice-board. It was for an exhibition of his paintings and when he noticed me glance at it, he invited me to the opening.
‘You don’t look the kind of person who would turn down a free glass of champagne,’ he said. He was dressed as though he’d come straight from his studio, wearing crumpled shorts, with a purple t-shirt covered in streaks of paint. I knew enough about art to know that his trainers were spattered like a Pollock painting and told him so.
‘Do your pictures look anything like this?’ I’d asked him, waving vaguely at his clothes.
He’d pulled at the front of his t-shirt as he replied. ‘Actually, this is better. This is what should be pinned up in the gallery.’
I let him see me smirk and stopped to read the description of the exhibition on the flyer, realising I didn’t want our brief encounter to end:
Andrew Wishbourne is a colourist of the highest calibre, whose instinct for whimsy and subtlety echoes the reverberating palettes of the Abstract Expressionists.
High-powered stuff.
‘You’re good then?’ I said.
He turned his nose up and put his hands in his pockets, swinging his hips slightly like a small child.
‘Will you come?’ He’d won me over already, but I didn’t want him to know it was so easy.
‘I’ll check my diary,’ I said, as he held the door open for me.
‘Actually, it’s a glass of Cava,’ he said, ‘but it is free - and there might be crisps, if you get there early enough.’
Ironic that his opening gambit should involve an attempt to lure me with the promise of alcohol.
Andrew claimed later that I was never his type; not being blonde, buxom or leggy. I wasn’t exactly the opposite either. One cup-size or two short of buxom perhaps, but I was slim and despite being five-feet-four, my leg-to-body ratio was higher than most women’s. Besides, brunettes get their fair share of attention, especially if their hair is sleek and glossy like mine.
At his private viewing, he’d made a point of breaking away from other people to come and talk to me. He invited me to a firework display on Primrose Hill. And that was that. From the start, he was romantic and spontaneous. He showed me sunsets and bought me flowers and I was in awe of his unstructured life-style that included modelling and being a film extra, as well as work on his own canvases. I couldn’t believe how someone so good-looking and fun to be with wasn’t already hooked up with someone. Then, with time, the reason began to bleed through to the surface.
You’d think, as a psychotherapist, I, of all people would have been able to reach him. But nothing worked. ‘I’m not an alcoholic, Jules - I can go for days without a drink,’ he always claimed.
I looked at the phone. I couldn’t deny it; I missed him. But, I knew nothing would have changed. The bottle of amber-coloured liquid would still be in arm’s reach. It had been unfair of me to turn to him in my hour. I couldn’t pick him up and then put him down again, whenever I felt like it. I owed him more than that.
I pulled the throw around me, but I didn’t feel any warmer. I couldn’t get the image of the body in the water, dressed in my own clothes, out of my head.
Did she get hold of the clothes, herself, before she died or did someone dress her in them after her death? Either way, it left me drowning in my own feeling of bewilderment and dread.
Chapter Five
It wasn’t until I’d washed up after an early tea that I realised a text message had come through earlier that afternoon. I glanced at the screen and saw that the number was withheld. A hot flush crossed over my chest as the words came up:
Eleven feet and three inches were added before 1940.
That was all there was. Just over two weeks after the first message.
Eleven feet and three inches were added to what? And what did 1940 have to do with me? I tried Mack, my best friend from Norwich, but reached her voicemail. Kelly wasn’t answering her phone either. I didn’t want to worry my parents. When you’re a million miles away living in Spain, you don’t want to hear that your daughter’s in a panic. Support suddenly felt like it was thin on the ground. I was beginning to feel like a dandelion clock where all the fluffy seeds have been blown away. Within the last year, Robbie, one of my best friends had emigrated to New Zealand, Pete was studying in America, Kelly had just had a baby and Laura had been swept off her feet by a new boyfriend and had disappeared into the ether. Who else was there?
I glanced at my watch. I didn’t have time to try anyone else, anyway. I was running late and at fifty pounds an hour, I didn’t want to waste any more time getting to Chelsea. I jumped on a bus, rather than risk pumping up my blood-pressure trying to get the car started. Every set of traffic lights was against us as the double-decker stuttered along Fulham Palace Road. I was out of breath when Miriam opened the door. Without a word, she invited me to a small room on the first floor.
There was a glass of water on a table by my chair and the ubiquitous box of tissues within reach. I knew the rules. Knew how it went: identical chairs, at a slight angle to each other; nothing personal in the room such as photographs or soft toys. Silence. Just like the set-up at my flat. In the eight months that I had been coming here, I’d never glimpsed any other family member and I wondered if this room had once been a bedroom f
or a daughter or son who had long since flown the nest.
Miriam had shoulder-length grey hair, clipped with diamante grips at the sides. It was the hairstyle of a teenager in the 1970’s and it didn’t look right on a woman in her fifties. I put my judgement down to not being sure whether I liked her or not. Or, perhaps it was the reluctance to sit in the client’s chair, when most of the time, I’m far more comfortable sitting in the other one.
The relationship with a therapist is a peculiar one: it’s not a friendship, and yet Miriam gets to know my darkest secrets; it’s not equal, because I pay her and she doesn’t talk about herself. All sorts of inner struggles came to the surface during my weekly sessions: struggles about power, honesty, trust. A therapist is only ever on your side as long as you’re paying them, then you never see them again. It made the whole set-up feel fake. Did my clients think in such a complicated way about me?
Miriam rested her hands in her lap and in line with every other session, waited for me to speak.
‘Sorry, I’m late,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t about a reluctance to come.’
I knew that having been trained in the Freudian school of psychotherapy, Miriam would be ready to pounce on my lateness and interpret it as some sort of subconscious resistance. I didn’t want to waste time on that. ‘Something delayed me. Upset me.’
‘Go on,’ said Miriam, her face impassive.
‘I had another message on my phone. I don’t know what it means and I’m really scared someone else is going to get killed.’
‘Okay, slow down. What did the message say?’
I explained. Miriam seemed to consider the obscure words. ‘And this is from the same person?’
‘I don’t know. The police may be able to check that out - they checked it before, but didn’t tell me anything. I need to call them after this.’
‘You feel responsible?’
‘I don’t want there to be another death like last time.’
‘You think someone is playing games with you?’
‘It’s starting to look that way.’
‘What have you been dreaming about lately, Juliet?’
The question seemed ludicrous. Why do Freudians have to pay so much attention to the hours we know so little about? Wasn’t there enough to go on, drawing on the sixteen hours a day we are awake?
‘I can’t remember.’
‘And when you say that to me, who are you really angry with?’
Miriam was on form, tonight. Nothing was getting past her.
‘I don’t know. Me, perhaps. I contacted Andrew and I shouldn’t have.’
‘You still love him?’
‘Yes - terribly - the sober Andrew. But, I can’t live with the person he becomes when he’s…’ I could feel tears making their way towards my cheek and reached for the cardboard box. ‘He won’t do anything about it. He won’t acknowledge that he’s got a problem.’
‘We’re talking about him now, not you. Let’s come back to you.’
‘Okay,’ I said, louder than I meant to. ‘I’m upset, lonely and frightened.’
‘And how old do you feel, right now, with those feelings you’ve described?’
‘How old?’ I was thrown for a moment. ‘I don’t know. A child. Eleven, twelve years old maybe.’
‘And what was it that happened to you - when you were eleven or twelve?’
Not that old chestnut again. ‘Luke, you mean?’
Miriam tilted her hands up, as if to say: you tell me.
‘You know I was twelve when Luke died in the fire. But this isn’t about that, about him.’ Suddenly the words Cheryl had said in the wine bar flashed through my mind. When she’d given me her impromptu reading, she’d sounded convinced that the fire hadn’t been an accident. Maybe Miriam and I could explore that sometime. But not now. Now, there were more urgent things going on. ‘I’m not sure how talking about what happened to Luke can help with what’s happening right now.’
‘Most of my clients say that. They can’t see patterns replaying themselves from the past into the present. I’m wondering why you’re blocking this.’
‘I’m not. I just don’t want to talk about it today, that’s all.’ I pulled at a loose thread on the cuff of my cardigan. ‘I’m confused and upset by another text message and I’d like your support.’
‘And what it is you think I can do to help?’
‘Take it seriously for a start.’
‘Go on…’
‘I’m frightened about what might happen to another victim. I’m concerned that this text is like the last one - a kind of warning or clue to another death.’ I gave in to sobbing. ‘I don’t know why it has anything to do with me.’
‘What do you think you should do?’
‘Curl into a ball and hope it will all go away.’
I caught the beginning of Miriam’s smile. Perhaps she was human after all.
‘Do you need a break from seeing clients for a while? Are you feeling too responsible for other people?’
I thought about it. ‘I don’t think so. I’m usually good at making a professional separation from my clients. I’m not burnt out. I think the best thing is to tell the police, like I did after the first message. Pass the responsibility on to them. It might be nothing, but…’ My words fizzled out. I barely seemed to have the energy to finish my sentences. ‘I’m powerless to do anything.’
‘Perhaps that’s what this is really about, Juliet. You are such a competent and practical person, who always knows what to do. Maybe you’re feeling particularly vulnerable and confused about this, because for once, things are outside your control and you can’t see what you’re supposed to do. And that’s a very uncomfortable position for you to be in.’
Sounded about right. I couldn’t speak for a moment. When I did, I could feel my chin wobbling. ‘People seem to think that because I’m a therapist I’m immune to feelings - they think I sail along in life unaffected by the calamities and ordeals that knock other people for six.’
She folded her arms. ‘Perhaps that’s because you don’t reveal your real self to many people…they assume you’re coping just fine.’
‘So, it’s my fault?’ I stared down at my nails.
‘You might just want to think about it, that’s all. If you don’t let people in, they can’t see you, can’t reach you.’
‘It’s hard. After what happened to Luke, I had to build a brick wall around me. My father turned into this solitary and distant person I couldn’t talk to anymore and Mum just seemed to be crying all the time. I didn’t want to burden her. I felt completely alone. I couldn’t trust people to be there for me. To make everything alright.’
‘And you daren’t take the risk with the people in your life, now?’
‘It’s hard,’ I said again, burying my nose in a tissue.
‘Well - you’re doing it now. How does it feel?’
I looked up and let out a brief sputter of laughter. ‘Good. Perhaps I should think about making a few more friends and start letting those people I’m already fond of get closer.’
Normally, I left Miriam’s sessions in a mist of confusion and frustration. It made a refreshing change to come away feeling lighter than an hour earlier, knowing I’d made progress. Miriam had helped me see that the text messages and whatever followed were neither my fault nor my responsibility. With that in the forefront of my mind, I pulled out the scrap of paper with DCI Madison’s number on it and made the call.
It was 9pm by the time I got off the bus at the stop opposite my flat. I was pulling out my keys by the front gate, when I realised I’d forgotten to pick up a pint of milk. I was about to backtrack to the local Deli, when I remembered it was closed for refurbishment. As it was a mild October evening, I headed for Putney Bridge; there were plenty of late-night grocers on the high street and I fancied some fresh air.
As I rounded the edge of the park, I had a flashback to the day I decided to become a psychotherapist. It was six years ago and was one of those instant decisions tha
t come out of the blue, but change your life forever. Frank, my boss at Capricorn Healthcare, had queried my sales figures and, for the fourth month in a row, told me I was under-performing. I’d returned to my desk, bewildered. What was I doing wrong?
Surely, my personality was perfect for selling insurance - I had flair, creativity, I was outgoing and good with people. ‘You know what your problem is, don’t you?’ said Laura, who occupied the booth next to me and was always handing out good advice and stale digestives. Laura had the knack of getting straight to the point. She’d also had the highest sales figures in our team for the past nine months. ‘You’re too good at listening,’ she said. ‘If you’re listening, you’re not selling.’ She gave me a pained smile and went back to her buzzing headset.
In that moment, it was as if a silent tornado had swept through the room. I was in the wrong job. It was as simple as that. I couldn’t believe how I’d missed the obvious for so long. I resigned the same day and had enrolled on a course in psychotherapy by the end of the week. It was the best thing I’d ever done.
Counselling had been waiting in the wings for years. I simply hadn’t spotted it. Ever since I realised that after eight years I still wasn’t coping with Luke’s death. I’d struggled since he’d gone, with periods of sombre questioning and existential loneliness. Where was he? Was he living some parallel life somewhere without us? Why had he been taken away? My sorry state had culminated in a nasty accident on the High Street where I’d collided with a bus, because my eyes were flooded with tears for the third time that morning. The months of counselling that followed had probably prevented a more serious crash, as well as saving my sanity.
Twenty-eight was fairly young for that profession, but I took to it immediately. Psychotherapy was like being a detective and I’d always loved mysteries. I regarded myself as the most ‘private’ of Private Detectives; drawing out hidden meanings and subconscious motives that could shock even the clients themselves. It was all about noticing, listening and finding clues.
