Into the Darkest Corner (27 page)
I took Friday afternoon off from work for my first appointment with Alistair. I was expecting to be more nervous than I was. I waited upstairs at Leonie Hobbs House, thinking of Christmas Day.
The clinic was busier, several people waiting to be seen, although hopefully not all of them waiting to see Alistair. There were several clinic rooms and there was a steady traffic of people in and out. No sign of Deb and her lip ring today; behind the clinic reception desk on the first floor was a comfortably built lady in her fifties with battleship-gray hair and an NHS badge attached to her navy cardigan proclaiming her name to be Jean.
She hadn’t spoken to me, other than to ask my name. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone in the waiting room, just kept a close watch on her computer screen and on the pen attached to the desk by a long, thin chain.
“Cathy?”
I jumped to my feet and walked down the corridor to the only open door, through which Alistair must have run before I saw him.
“Come in, come in. How are you, my dear? It’s good to see you again.”
With his effusive welcome I was half expecting him to jump up and kiss my cheek, but fortunately for both of us, he didn’t. He was sitting on a leather armchair next to a second chair and a sofa. He looked well, smiling at me and indicating I should sit down.
I chose the chair. “Hello again,” I said. “Did you make it home okay on Christmas Day?”
“Oh, yes. I managed to get a cab just up the street, I was quite surprised to find one so easily. Marvelous chap. Thank you, I did have the most wonderful time. And it was lovely to meet you after hearing so many good things from Stuart.”
I was starting to feel a bit shaky.
“Now, then,” Alistair began. “I’ve been looking at your assessment. You saw Dr. Parry, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“And he prescribed an SSRI for you?”
“Yes.”
“Good, good. And you’ve been taking that—let’s see—around three weeks?”
“About that.”
“They do take a while to kick in, sometimes. It might be a while before you see any effects.”
“They’ve not made me feel spaced out, anyway. That’s what I was worried about.”
“Hm, no, they’re not at all like the drugs you’ve had before, looking at your notes. Much more appropriate. Do you know, I really do feel you must have had an appalling time of it. The last time you were treated, I mean.”
I didn’t answer.
“I shouldn’t comment, really, but—hm. Anyway. It seems to me, my dear, that you might have two issues here, existing side by side. Your assessment indicates that you’re clearly suffering from OCD, and the level of that is what we would call moderate-to-severe on the Yale-Brown Compulsive Symptoms checklist, the YBOCS list. Now Dr. Parry noted, and I would tend to agree, that you also have plenty of symptoms which more resemble PTSD, that’s post-traumatic stress disorder. The symptoms for this can be similar to OCD in terms of stress, but include things such as flashbacks, nightmares, an exaggerated startle response, and panic attacks.”
He flipped over the pages in his notes. “And I think you’ve been suffering from all of those . . .”
“Yes. I guess so.”
“And would you say they’ve been getting worse?”
“They get worse and better. I mean, I had a bit of a fright at the beginning of December. I had some bad panic attacks and nightmares for a week or two after that. And the OCD was worse, too. Then things got better for a while. Then Christmas Eve something else happened to set me off, and again, everything was a bit grim for a while. At the moment, it’s not too bad.”
Alistair was nodding, patting his expanse of a belly reverently as though it contained a baby rather than merely his dinner. “It’s that pernicious worm of doubt, isn’t it? You know full well that the door is locked, the tap is turned off, the switch is turned off, but still there is that doubt, and you have to go back and check again . . .”
He shuffled his papers and wrote a few lines of scribble on what looked like a dog-eared bit of scrap paper. “The good news is that the therapy we can provide will help you with both OCD and PTSD. You’ll need to be willing to work on this at home, on your own—and the more you’re prepared to work on it, the better the result is likely to be. There will probably be some setbacks along the way, but with a bit of time and effort you will be able to get better. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Let’s start at the beginning. Can you tell me a bit about what you were like as a child?”
I told him, slowly at first, the whole sorry story—leading up to but never seeming to reach the moment when I met Lee, the moment when my precarious life veered off toward that cliff edge. That would come later.
I had an hour and a half for the first session, next week it would be an hour, and so on once a week unless I felt I needed more. I’d agreed to try out some things at home. I was going to do something called “exposure and response prevention.” Sensibly enough, this meant exposing myself to the perceived danger, and then waiting until the anxiety subsided, without performing any of the checks or rituals that would normally help to reduce the anxiety. Theoretically, the anxiety would reduce of its own accord. Rinse, repeat again and again and again.
I remained a little skeptical, but I promised to give it a go.
My phone rang when I was still about a mile away from home. The streets were quiet, just the after-school traffic. I was thinking about going for a run with what was left of the afternoon, although it was getting dark.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me. How did you get on?”
“Okay. It was fine. Is that what you do?”
“Pretty much. Not much to it really, is there?”
“I guess not, if you do it every day. I kept thinking it must be really dull, having to listen to all that.”
“Not at all. Everyone’s different, don’t forget. Everyone travels to that difficult point from a different direction. What are you doing now?”
“I was going to go home and check three times. Why?”
“I’ll call you later, shall I? I’m just going to take Dad out to the garden center. I just wanted to . . . let you know I was thinking of you.”
“I’ll phone you, if you like. When I’ve finished the checks. Would that be okay?”
“That would be great. I’ll keep the phone handy.”
I kept thinking of one of the things I’d talked about with Alistair. Theory A and Theory B—it was something for me to consider. Theory A: that if I somehow fail to check the flat properly, someone will break in. Not just someone. That Lee will break in, and that I will not realize he’s done it. That I am actually in real danger if I fail to check thoroughly. Theory B: that actually checking the door once is enough, and that checking it over and over again does not make it any more secure, and that the reason for checking is simply that I am just extremely worried about being in danger. The two theories are in opposition to each other, and they cannot both be true. The rational theory is, of course, Theory B: that what I am doing by repeatedly checking everything does not make me any safer than checking once.
Even if I accept that Theory B is possible, how can I be sure that it is the truth? The only way, according to Alistair, is to carry out some sort of scientific experiment to see which theory holds water and which one falls apart under scrutiny.
It’s all very obvious where this is going. I check less, nothing bad happens, ergo it’s a complete waste of bloody time checking everything over and over again and I should stop doing it forthwith.
I’m not an idiot—even I know it’s a waste of time. That doesn’t stop me doing it.
And the thing that worries me more than anything is that actually this “scientific testing” fails to take into account that my fears aren’t based on some ridiculous invented danger at all.
They’re based on the fact that Lee is out there somewhere, looking for me.
Assuming he hasn’t found me already.
Lee was here for a few hours on Sunday; before that he was working, or whatever it is he does when he’s not here. When he let himself in on Sunday night I thought he was going to hit me again, but he seemed quite happy, pleased with himself as though he’d been clever.
“Why did you change the locks?” he asked conversationally, as we ate lunch.
I tensed. “Don’t know really,” I said, brightly. “After the burglary, you know. Thought it might be safer.”
“Were you going to give me a new key?”
“Of course.”
He laughed, although I didn’t think it was funny.
When I got to work this morning I sent an e-mail to Jonathan Baldwin asking for more details about the sort of person he was looking for, and later this afternoon I had a reply:
Catherine,
Good to hear back from you. Initially I’m looking for someone to help me get the NY branch established, really—ideally someone with some consultancy experience, although more importantly someone with enthusiasm and commitment who can be flexible enough to spot opportunities when they arise. I remember from years back that you seemed like the sort of person who would end up running some big organization somewhere.
I can sort out an L1 Transfer Visa, and I also have a short lease on an apartment in the Upper East Side (nothing too spectacular, but it has a south-facing balcony which is pretty rare). At some point in the future there may be the potential for a partnership in the company if things go well.
The downside is that I need someone quickly—I’m getting calls from NY all the time with business opportunities that I’m having to turn down because of commitments in the UK, so the sooner I can get someone out there and setting up the office, the better.
Any ideas?
All best
,
Jonathan
I’m wondering if I could do it. If I could deal with it all by phone and e-mail, talk to him while I’m at work and discuss the finer points, this might be my chance to escape. I could be out there and in New York before Lee knew anything about it. If I could go to New York on a short-term contract, even three months, then that might buy me some time to decide what to do next. I might be able to get a sabbatical from work.
I just need enough time to get away from him.
High Street was still busy. Around the last corner, into Talbot Street. I was tired now, I would need to concentrate extra hard on the checking so I didn’t make any mistakes.
Into the alleyway, around to the back of the house. I looked up at the windows, all of them, the balcony with the eight panes of glass showing, the bedroom, curtains shut tight. Stuart’s flat had one light on in the bedroom. I’d put one of my timers up there. It would go off at eleven. Downstairs, Mrs. Mackenzie’s flat was in darkness. It all looked okay. I kept going to the end of the alleyway, around to the front of the house.
When I’d gotten in, shut the front door, it occurred to me that I was the only person in the house. I’d be the only person sleeping in the whole of this great big house tonight. No Mrs. Mackenzie, no Stuart. Just me. Last night I’d ended up talking to Stuart for what amounted to hours, so it felt as if he was here; it didn’t feel as if I was alone. Tonight felt different.
I checked the door, running my fingers along the edge, feeling for anything, any bumps or swells, which might indicate the door had been tampered with. Then the lock. Turn the handle, six times one way, six times the other way. I missed the sound of Mrs. Mackenzie’s television. I missed her coming out to see me.
I paused at the end of the first set of checks. This was normally the point at which she would open her door behind me.
I’m not sure if I felt something, or sensed it: a draft, maybe, a scent of food cooked a long time ago, a breath of cold air. I turned slowly and looked at the door. We’d shut it, and locked it, the night that Mrs. Mackenzie had been taken off in the ambulance. Stuart had phoned the management company that looked after the lease, told them what had happened. They were going to send someone over to collect the key, but so far nobody had turned up.
I frowned, squinted. The door looked odd.
I went a bit closer.
It was slightly open, a tiny sliver of blackness showing beyond the doorframe. I felt the draft again, definite this time, a whisper of cold air coming from inside.
I pulled at the door handle and it swung open. It wasn’t locked. Inside, everything was dark, dark as the grave.
I shut the door again, firmly. The lock caught and when I turned the handle this time it didn’t open. Stuart’s spare set of keys were in my bag. He’d put the key to Mrs. Mackenzie’s flat on the ring along with his other ones.
I found the keys, slotted the right one in the lock and turned it. I rattled the handle. I turned the key in the Yale lock and the mortise lock held the door fast. It was definitely shut and locked. If anyone was inside they would need a key to get out.
I went back to the front door for my second set of checks. It didn’t do the trick, though, because all I could think about was the door to Mrs. Mackenzie’s flat, which I’d turned my back on. What if I hadn’t locked it properly? What if the door had swung open again while my back was turned? What if it opened again by itself when I wasn’t looking?
I checked it again. It was still locked. I tried the Yale lock.
I checked the front door for a third time, to balance it all out again. Finally I felt better. I went up the stairs and let myself into my flat. The dining room light was on, as I’d left it, the rest of the flat dark and chilly. I waited for a moment just inside the door, listening to the sounds of the house, straining to hear anything unusual, out of place. Nothing.
I started checking the flat door, feeling vaguely uneasy but not sure why. I couldn’t get over the thought that I was on my own. Completely on my own.
By the time I finished the checks it was nearly nine. I’d been expecting to find something wrong, but everything was exactly as it should have been. It was just as well.
Finally I sat down to phone Stuart.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“At last, I was about to give up hope!” He sounded tired.
“How’s your dad doing?”
Stuart sighed and dropped his voice a little. I could hear a television faintly in the background. “He’s all right, really. He’s a lot frailer than the last time I saw him. I don’t think Rach really notices it, she sees him every day.”
“Did you get to the garden center?”
“Yeah, but it’s raining. Ended up looking around the greenhouses mostly. You wouldn’t believe how many different plants that man can look at and not get bored. And it’s cold up here, too. I really miss you, Cathy.”
“Do you?” I felt my cheeks flush, realizing at the same time that I was missing him, too. Even if we hardly saw each other during the week, with him being away I felt the absence of him like an ache.
“Yes. I wish you were here.”
“You’ll be back Sunday night. It’ll go fast.”
“It won’t. Not for me, anyway. What are you going to do with your Saturday?”
“I don’t know. Go to the Laundromat. Go for a run, maybe. I haven’t been for a while.”
There was a pause. “So it went well? Your session with Alistair?”
“It was fine. I’ve got homework to do—scoring everything. You know.”
“And you’re feeling all right now?”
I knew what he was getting at. He was trying to gauge the likelihood of my discussing my symptoms leading to a panic attack later on. “I feel fine about all that. I’m feeling more nervous about being here on my own. I mean, no Mrs. Mackenzie downstairs, no you upstairs. Just me and the ghosts.”
“Peaceful, you mean.”
“Yes. Oh, but there is one thing. We did lock her door, didn’t we? I mean, we locked it with the key?”
“We did. Why?”
“The door was open when I got home. Mrs. Mackenzie’s door, I mean. It was actually slightly open.”
“The management company must have been in, then. They said they were going to, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but surely they were supposed to lock it up, not leave it open.”
“Maybe they just weren’t as careful. Anyway, I’m betting it’s well locked up now!”
“I hope so.”
“Cathy, you locked it. It’s fine.”
I didn’t answer.
“When I first met you, you did all this alone. You locked yourself in every night, checked the doors were secure, and you were fine. You’re fine now, it’s no different.”
I tried to sound cheerful. “Yes, I know. I’m okay, really I am.”
“Will you come with me to Aberdeen next time?”
“Maybe. If you give me a bit more notice.”
“Rachel’s dying to meet you.”
“Stuart, honestly. Did you tell her about the OCD?”
“No. Why, should I?”
“I just want to make sure she has a full and accurate picture.”
“The OCD isn’t part of you, is it? It’s just a symptom. Like snot is part of a cold.”
“Lovely. What have you been telling them, then?”
“I’ve told them I’ve met this girl with silver hair and dark eyes, who is funny and clever and charming and occasionally spectacularly bad-tempered. She can put away fifty cups of tea a day and outstare someone with glass eyeballs.”
“Now I see why they’re dying to meet me.” I tried to fight back the yawn but it was impossible.
“Am I keeping you up?”
“I’m really tired. Sorry. I didn’t sleep last night, and I walked back from that place today, the buses were all jammed in traffic.”
“You walked back from Leonie Hobbs House?”
“Give over, it’s not that far. I like walking.”
I yawned again.
“Take the phone with you when you go to bed, okay?” he said.
“Why?”
“If you wake up in the night, call me. Will you?”
“I don’t want to wake you up, that’s not fair.”
“I don’t mind. If you’re awake, I want to be awake with you.”
“Stuart. This is all really weird.”
“What do you mean, weird?”
“When you come back on Sunday, it’s not going to be the same, is it? It’s all changed. Since the other day.”
“Since I kissed you, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“It has changed, you’re right. I was determined to keep my distance so you could concentrate on getting better. I don’t think I can do that anymore. Does that worry you?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
“My flight gets in at nine-something on Sunday night. Can I come and see you when I get back home? It’ll be late.”
It was that moment, that turning point.
I hesitated before answering, knowing what it would mean if I said yes, and what it might mean if I said no.
“Cathy?”
“Yes. Come and see me. I don’t care how late it is.”