Page 53 of The Therapist
I wake on Wednesday morning more exhausted than I was before I went to sleep.
‘I want Nutella toast for breakfast,’ Iggy calls. ‘I can make it myself.’
‘And what are the rules?’
‘Be careful and no metal near the toaster,’ he shouts and then I hear him going downstairs.
I wish I didn’t have to go into work but I have a full list of patients today so I get out of bed and into a shower, standing under the hot water for longer than I should and having to go without breakfast as a result.
By the time I get to work, I am in a horrible mood, with a lack-of-caffeine headache brewing.
‘Morning,’ chirps Kirsty and I dredge up a smile for her. Sandy’s message from last night circles in my head.
‘Is Ben in?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘No, he called to say that he had to be on the phone all night again with doctors in the UK, but he did tell me to let you know that he will be meeting with you tonight.’Kirsty raises her eyebrows as she says the words and I know she wants to ask exactly why Ben and I are meeting tonight.
‘Thanks.’ I make myself a quick instant coffee before going to my office.
I have fifteen minutes before my first patient so I sit down at my desk and sip my coffee while I stare down at Sandy’s message.He’s going to kill me.Is it genuine? Should I have called the police last night, and what are Ben and I going to find out when we go over to her house tonight?
I could call Mike, I suppose, and ask him outright if this is some kind of game he and his wife are playing. But maybe it would be better to catch them at it. I can imagine going to the house tonight and having her open the door and everything between them being just fine. And I will be glad to have Ben along so that I have someone else to be a witness to their gaslighting.
I look up Mike’s number on Sandy’s patient records and add it to my phone, not giving the contact a name. I don’t want his name in my phone, and the moment this, whatever this is, is over, I’ll delete it.
I really hope Ben was telling the truth about meeting me tonight. I can’t go over there alone although I know that if he doesn’t make it, something is obviously very wrong with his father. I feel selfish for only thinking about my own needs right now when he is dealing with an ailing parent but I need him with me.
I pick up my bag to put it in the filing cabinet, taking the gun out to hide in the drawer in case Mike turns up again. He wouldn’t do that, would he?
Holding the gun, I lift it up and down, feeling its weight. I have no idea how to use it. I don’t even know how to check that there’s a bullet in the chamber. They’re only blanks but if I want the gun to make a noise, I need to know it will do that.
Glancing at the time, I take a quick picture of the gun and then google how to open it and check. I will never need to use it, I’m sure, but I want to know.
There are an amazing number of videos on using guns, cleaning guns, checking for bullets and everything else to do with guns. Most of them are from the US, and I click on one that looks like it will give me a good overview.
I’m clumsy as I try to manipulate the gun as the man on the screen is instructing me, but finally, I get it open and manage to get the bullets out, studying them one by one.
I take an image of the bullets and google them, staring at the screen on my phone.
And then I delete everything, wiping my search history and putting the gun away. My heart is racing and my hands are sweaty. I’m sure I have no idea what I’ve been looking at or what I’m doing.
I get through two patient sessions, paying only minimal attention but somehow managing to make each one think I am listening, before I have an hour-long break.
With my phone in my hand, I get up and stand by the window, feeling the sun that’s coming through warm my body. The days will gradually get longer and brighter and summer will be here soon. But where will I be? Will this all be far in the past?
Everything I read about the gun only hours ago circles through my mind.
And then I open my phone and call the private detective who helped me catch Oliver cheating.
I have no idea if he’s even still in business or what he will make of my request but I am tired of feeling like I am being dragged along by an out-of-control car. I need to be the one driving this now.
‘William?’ I ask when a man answers.
‘Yes,’ he replies and I take a deep, relieved breath.
‘It’s Lana Stanton. You did some work for me four years ago – you caught my husband, Oliver…well, you caught him and I’m not sure if you remember me…’
‘Lana Stanton,’ he says and I can hear the tapping of a keyboard as he looks up my name. ‘Oh yes, yes, I remember. How can I help?’
