DIOMEDES WAS WRONG ABOUT IT SNOWING. It didn’t snow; instead it started raining heavily that afternoon. A storm with an- gry drumbeats of thunder and lightning flashes. I waited for Alicia in the therapy room, watching the rain batter the window. I felt weary and d epressed. The whole thing had been a waste of time. I had lost Alicia before I could help her; now I never would. A knock at the door. Yuri escorted Alicia into the therapy room.
She looked worse than I expected. She was pale, ashen, ghostlike. She moved clumsily, and her right leg trembled nonstop. Fucking Christian, I thought—she was drugged out of her mind. There was a long pause after Yuri left. Alicia didn’t look at me. Eventually I spoke. Loudly and clearly, to make sure she under- stood. “Alicia. 'm sorry you were put in seclusion. I’m sorry you had to go through that.” No reaction. I hesitated. “I’m afraid that because of what you did to Elif, our therapy has been terminated. This wasn’t my decision—far from it—but there’s nothing I can do about it. I'd like to offer you this opportunity to talk about what happened, to explain your attack on Elif. And express the remorse I’m sure you're feeling.” Alicia said nothing. I wasn’t sure my words were penetrating her medicated haze. “Tl tell you how I feel. I feel angry, to be honest. I feel angry that our work is ending before we've even properly begun—and I feel angry that you didn’t try harder.” Alicia’s head moved. Her eyes stared into mine. “You're afraid, I know that. I’ve been trying to help you—but you won't let me. And now I don’t know what to do.” I fell silent, defeated. Then Alicia did something I will never forget. She held out her trembling hand toward me. She was clutching something—a small leatherbound notebook. “What's that?” No r eply. She k ept holding it out. I peered at it, curious. “Do you want me to take it?” No response. I hesitated and gently took the notebook from her fluttering fingers. I opened it and thumbed through the pages. It was a handwritten diary, a journal. Alicia’s journal. Judging by the handwriting, it was written in a chaotic state of mind, particularly the last pages, where the writing was barely legible—arrows connecting different paragraphs written in differ- ent angles across the page, doodles and drawings taking over some pages, flowers growing into vines, covering what had been written and making it almost indecipherable. I looked at Alicia, burning with curiosity. “What do you want me to do with this?” The question was quite unnecessary. It was obvious what Alicia wanted. She wanted me to read it.
Part Three I mustn't put strangeness where there's nothing. I think that is the danger of ke eping a diary: you exaggerate everything, you are on the lookout, and you continually stretch the truth. —JEAN-PAUL SARTRE Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance. —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, The Winter's Tale Chapter 1 AUGUST 8 Something odd happened today. | was in the kitchen, making coffee, looking out the window—looking without seeing—daydreaming—and then | noticed something, or rather someone—outside. A man. | noticed him because he was standing so still—like a statue—and facing the house. He was on the other side of the road, by the entrance to the park. He was standing in the shadow of a tree. He was tall, well built. |couldn’t make out his features, as he was wearing sunglasses and a cap. | couldn't tell if he could see me or not, through the window, but it felt as if he was staring right at me. | thought it was weird—I’m used to people waiting across the street at the bus stop, but he wasn't waiting for a bus. He was staring at the house. | realized that | had been standing there for several minutes, so | made myself leave the window. | went to the studio. | tried to paint but couldn't concentrate. My mind k ept going back to the man. | decided to give myself another twenty minutes, then I'd go back to the kitchen and look. If he was still there, then what? He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He might be a burglar, studying the house—I| suppose that was my first thought—but why just stand there like that, so conspicuously? Maybe he was thinking of moving here? Maybe he’s buying the house for sale at the end of the street? That could explain it. But when | went back to the kitchen and peered out of the window, he had gone. The street was empty. | guess I'll never know what he was doing. How strange. AUGUST 10 | went to the play with Jean-Felix last night. Gabriel didn’t want me to, but | went anyway. | was dreading it, but | thought if | gave Jean-Felix what he wanted and went with him, maybe that would be an end to this. | hoped so, anyway. We arranged to meet early, to have a drink—his idea—and when | got there, it was still light. The sun was low in the sky, coloring the river bloodred. Jean-Felix was waiting for me outside the National. | saw him before he saw me. He was scanning the crowds, scowling. If | had any doubt | was doing the right thing, seeing his angry face dispelled it. | was filled with a horrible kind of dread—and nearly turned and bolted. But he turned and saw me before | could. He waved, and | went over to him. | pretended to smile, and so did he.
“I’m so glad you came,” Jean-Felix said. “| was worried you wouldn't show up. Shall we go in and have a drink?” We had a drink in the foyer. It was awkward, to say the least. Neither of us mentioned the other day. We talked a lot about nothing, or rather Jean-Felix talked and | listened. We ended up having a couple of drinks. | hadn't eaten and | felt a bit drunk; | think that was probably Jean-Felix's intention. He was trying his best to engage me, but the conversation was stilted—it was orchestrated, stage-managed. Everything that came out of his mouth seemed to start with “Wasn't it fun when” or “Do you remember that time we”—as if he’d rehearsed little reminiscences in the hope that they’d weaken my resolve and remind me how much history we had, how close we were. What he doesn't seem to realize is I’ve made my decision, And nothing he can say now will change that. In the end, I’m glad | went. Not because | saw Jean-Felix—because | saw the play. A/cestis isn’t a tragedy I've heard of—I suppose it’s obscure because it’s a smaller kind of domestic story, which is why | liked it so much. It was staged in the present day, in a small suburban house in Athens. | liked the scale of it. An intimate kitchen-sink tragedy. A man is condemned to die, and his wife, Alcestis, wants to save him. The actress playing Alcestis looked like a Greek statue, she had a wonderful face—I k ept thinking about painting her. | thought about getting her details and contacting her agent. | nearly mentioned it to Jean-Felix, but | stopped myself. | don't want to in volve him in my life anymore, on any level. | had tears in my eyes at the end—Alcestis dies and is reborn. She literally comes back from the dead. There’s something there that | need to think about. I’m not sure exactly what yet. Of course, Jean-Felix had all kinds of reactions to the play, but none of them resonated with me, so | tuned him out and stopped listening. | couldn't get Alcestis’s death and resurrection out of my mind—| k ept thinking about it as we walked back across the bridge to the station. Jean-Felix asked if | wanted to have another drink, but | said | was tired. There was another awkward pause. We stood outside the entrance to the station. | thanked him for the evening and said it had been fun. “Just have one more drink,” Jean-Felix said. “One more. For old times’ sake?” “No, | should go.” | tried to leave—and he grabbed my hand. “Alicia,” he said. “Listen to me. | need to tell you something.” “No, please don't, there’s nothing to say, really—” “Just listen. It’s not what you think.” And he was right, it wasn’t. |was expecting Jean-Felix to plead for our friendship, or try to make me feel guilty for leaving the gallery. But what he said took me totally by surprise. “You need to be careful,” he said. “You're way too trusting. The people around you... you trust them. Don’t. Don’t trust them.” | stared at him blankly. It took me a second to speak. “What are you talking about? Who do you mean?” Jean-Felix just shook his head and didn’t say anything. He let go of my hand and walked off. | called after him but he didn’t stop.
“Jean-Felix. Stop.” He didn’t look back. | watched him disappear around the corner. | stood there, rooted to the spot. | didn't know what to think. What was he doing making a mysterious warning and then walking off like that? | guess he wanted to get the upper hand and leave me feeling unsure and wrong-footed. And he succeeded. He also left me feeling angry. Now, in a way, he’s made it easy for me. Now I’m determined to cut him out of my life. What did he mean about “people around me”—presumably that means Gabriel? But why? No. I’m not doing this. This is exactly what Jean-Felix wanted—to fuck with my head. Get me obsessing about him. Come between me and Gabriel. | won't fall for it. |won't give it another thought. | went back home, and Gabriel was in bed, asle ep. He had a five a. m. call for a shoot. But | woke him up, and we had sex. | couldn’t get close enough to him or feel him de eply enough in me. | wanted to be fused with him. | wanted to climb inside him and disappear. AUGUST 11 | saw that man again. He was a bit farther away this time—he was sitting on a bench farther into the park. But it was him, | could tell—most people are wearing shorts and T-shirts and light colors in this weather, and he was wearing a dark shirt and trousers, black sunglasses, and cap. His head was angled toward the house, looking at it. | had a funny thought—maybe he’s not a burglar, perhaps he’s a painter. Perhaps he’s a painter like me and he’s thinking about painting the street—or the house. But as soon as | thought this, | knew it wasn’t true. If he were really going to paint the house, he wouldn't just be sitting there—he'd be making sketches. | got myself into a state about it and | phoned Gabriel. That was a mistake. | could tell he was busy—the last thing he needed was me calling, freaking out because | think someone is watching the house. Of course, I’m only assuming the man is watching the house. He could be watching me. AUGUST 13 He was there again. It was soon after Gabriel left this morning. | had a shower and saw him out the bathroom window. He was closer this time. He was standing outside the bus stop. Like he was casually waiting for the bus. | don't know who he thinks he’s fooling. | got dressed quickly and went into the kitchen to have a better look. But he was gone. | decided to tell Gabriel about it when he got home. | thought he’d brush it off, but he took it seriously. He seemed quite worried. “Is it Jean-Felix?” he said straightaway. “No, of course not. How can you even think that?”
| tried to sound surprised and indignant. But in truth | had wondered that too. The man and Jean-Felix are the same build. It could be Jean- Felix, but even so—I just don’t want to believe it. He wouldn't try to frighten me like that. Would he? “What's Jean-Felix’s number?” Gabriel said. “I’m calling him right now.” “Darling, don’t, please. I’m sure it’s not him.” “Positive?” “Absolutely. Nothing happened. | don’t know why I’m making such a big deal out of it. It’s nothing.” “How long was he there for?” “Not long—an hour or so—and then he vanished.” “What do you mean, vanished?” “He just disappeared.” “Uh-huh. Is there any chance you could be imagining this?” Something about the way he said that annoyed me. “I’m not imagining it. |need you to believe me.” “| do believe you.” But | could tell he didn’t totally believe me. He only partly believed me. Part of him was just humoring me. Which makes me angry, if I’m honest. So angry | have to stop here—or | might write something I'll regret. AUGUST 14 | jumped out of bed as soon as | woke up. | checked the window, hoping the man would be there again—so Gabriel could see him too—but there was no sign of him. So | felt even more stupid. This afternoon | decided to go for a walk, despite the heat. |wanted to be in the park, away from the buildings and roads and other people— and be alone with my thoughts. | walked up to Parliament Hill, passing the bodies of sunbathers strewn around on either side of the path. | found a bench that was unoccupied, and | sat down. | stared out at London glinting in the distance. While | was there, | was conscious the whole time of something. | k ept looking over my shoulder—but couldn't see anyone. But someone was there, the whole time. | could feel it. |was being watched. On my way back, | walked past the pond. | happened to look up—and there he was, the man. He was standing across the water on the other side, too far away to see clearly, but it was him. | knew it was him. He was standing perfectly still, motionless, staring right at me. | felt an icy shiver of fear. | acted out of instinct: “Jean-Felix?” | shouted. “Is that you? Stop it. Stop following me!” He didn’t move. | acted as fast as | could. | reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and took a photo of him. What good it will do, | have no idea. Then | turned and started walking quickly to the end of the pond, not letting myself look back until | reached the main path. | was scared he was going to be right behind me. | turned around—and he was gone.
| hope it’s not Jean-Felix. | really do. When | got home, | was feeling on edge. | drew the blinds and turned off the lights. | peered out the window—and there he was: The man was standing on the street, staring up at me. | froze—I didn't know what to do. | nearly jumped out of my skin when someone called my name: “Alicia? Alicia, are you there?” It was that awful woman from next door. Barbie Hellmann. | left the window and went to the back door and opened it. Barbie had let herself in the side gate and was in the garden, clutching a bottle of wine. “Hi, honey. | saw you weren't in your studio. |wondered where you were.” “| was out, | just got back.” “Time for a drink?” She said this in a baby voice she sometimes uses and that | find irritating. “Actually, |should get back to work.” “Just a quick one. And then | have to go. I’ve got my Italian class tonight. Okay?” Without waiting for a r eply, she came in. She said something about how dark it was in the kitchen and started opening the blinds without asking me. | was about to stop her, but when | looked outside, no one was on the street. The man had gone. | don’t know why | told Barbie about it. | don’t like her or trust her—but | was scared, | suppose, and | needed someone to talk to, and she happened to be there. We had a drink, which was unlike me, and | burst into tears. Barbie stared at me wide-eyed, silent for once. After | finished, she put down her bottle of wine and said, “This calls for something stronger.” She poured us a couple of whiskeys. “Here.” She gave it to me. “You need this.” She was right—I needed it. | knocked it back and felt a kick from it. Now it was my turn to listen, while Barbie talked. She didn't want to scare me, she said, but it didn’t sound good. “I've seen this on like a million TV shows. He's studying your house, okay? Before he makes his move.” “You think he’s a burglar?” Barbie shrugged. “Or a rapist. Does that matter? It’s bad news, what- ever it is.” | laughed. | felt relieved and grateful that someone was taking me seriously—even if it was just Barbie. | showed her the photo on my phone, but she wasn’t impressed. “Text it to me so | can look at it with my glasses on. It looks like a blurry smudge to me. Tell me. Have you mentioned this to your husband yet?” | decided to lie. “No. Not yet.” Barbie gave me a funny look. “Why not?” “| don’t know, | suppose | worry Gabriel might think I’m exaggerating— or imagining it.” “Are you imagining it?”
“No.” Barbie looked pleased. “If Gabriel doesn’t take you seriously, we'll go to the police together. You and me. | can be very persuasive, believe me.” “Thanks, but I’m sure that won't be necessary.” “It’s already necessary. Take this seriously, honey. Promise me you'll tell Gabriel when he gets home?” | nodded. But | had already decided not to say anything further to Gabriel. There was nothing to tell. |have no proof the man was following me or watching me. Barbie was right, the photo proves nothing. It was all in my imagination—that’s what Gabriel will say. Best not to say anything to him at all and risk upsetting him again. | don’t want to bother him. I'm going to forget all about it. 4:00 A. M. It’s been a bad night. Gabriel came home, exhausted, at about ten. He’d had a long day and wanted to go to bed early. | tried to sle ep too, but | couldn't. Then a couple of hours ago, | heard a noise. It was coming from the garden. | got up and went to the back window. | looked out—! couldn't see anyone, but | felt someone’s eyes on me. Someone was watching me from the shadows. | managed to pull myself away from the window and ran to the bedroom. | shook Gabriel awake. “The man is outside,” | said, “he’s outside the house.” Gabriel didn’t know what | was talking about. When he understood, he started to get angry. “For Christ’s sake. Give it a rest. I’ve got to be at work in three hours. | don’t want to play this fucking game.” “It's not a game. Come and look. Please.” So we went to the window— And of course, the man wasn’t there. There was no one there. | wanted Gabriel to go outside, to check, but he wouldn’t. He went back upstairs, annoyed. | tried reasoning with him, but he said he wasn't talking to me and went to sle ep in the spare room. | didn’t go back to bed. I’ve been sitting here since then, waiting, listening, alert to any sound, checking the windows. No sign of him so far. Only a couple more hours to go. It will be light soon. AUGUST 15 Gabriel came downstairs ready to go to the shoot. When he saw me by the window and realized I’d been up all night, he went quiet and started acting strange. “Alicia, sit down. We need to talk.” “Yes. We do need to talk. About the fact that you don’t believe me.” “| believe that you believe it.” “That's not the same thing. I’m not a fucking idiot.”
“| never said you were an idiot.” “Then what are you saying?” | thought we were about to get into a fight, so | was taken aback by what Gabriel said. He spoke in a whisper. | could barely hear him. He said: “| want you to talk to someone. Please.” “What do you mean? A policeman?” “No,” Gabriel said, looking angry again. “Not a policeman.” | understood what he meant, what he was saying. But | needed to hear him say it. |wanted him to spell it out. “Then who?” “A doctor.” “I’m not seeing a doctor, Gabriel—” “| need you to do this for me. You need to meet me halfway.” He said it again: “I need you to meet me halfway.” “| don’t understand what you mean. Halfway where? I’m right here.” “No, you're not. You’re not here!” He looked so tired, so upset. | wanted to protect him. | wanted to comfort him. “It’s okay, darling,” | said. “It’s going to be okay, you'll see.” Gabriel shook his head, like he didn’t believe me. “I’m going to make an appointment with Dr. West. As soon as he can see you. Today if possible.” He hesitated and looked at me. “Okay?” Gabriel held out his hand for mine—I wanted to slap it away or scratch it. |wanted to bite him or hit him, or throw him over the table and scream, “You think I’m fucking crazy but I’m not crazy! I’m not, I’m not, I’m not!” But | didn’t do any of those things. Instead | nodded and took Gabriel's hand, and held it. “Okay, darling,” | said. “Whatever you want.” AUGUST 16 | went to see Dr. West today. Unwillingly, but | went. | hate him, I've decided. | hate him and his narrow house, and sitting in that weird, small room upstairs, hearing his dog barking in the living room. It never stopped barking, the whole time | was there. | wanted to shout at it to shut up, and | k ept thinking Dr. West would say something about It, but he acted like he couldn’t hear it. Maybe he couldn't. He didn’t seem to hear anything | was saying either. | told him what happened. | told him about the man watching the house, and how | had seen him following me into the park. | said all of this, but he didn’t respond. He just sat there with that thin smile of his. He looked at me like |was an insect or something. | know he’s supposedly a friend of Gabriel's, but | don’t see how they ever could have been friends. Gabriel is so warm, and Dr. West is the opposite of warm. It’s a strange thing to say about a doctor, but he has no kindness. After | finished telling him about the man, he didn’t speak for ages. The silence seemed to last forever. The only sound was that dog downstairs. | started to mentally tune in to the barking and go into a kind of trance. It took me by surprise when Dr. West actually spoke.
“We've been here before, Alicia, haven’t we?” | looked at him blankly. | wasn’t sure what he meant. “Have we?” He nodded. “Yes. We have.” “| know you think I’m imagining this. I’m not imagining it. It’s real.” “That’s what you said last time. Remember last time? Do you remember what happened?” | didn’t r eply. | didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. | just sat there, glaring at him, like a disobedient child. Dr. West didn’t wait for an answer. He k ept talking, reminding me what happened after my father died, about the breakdown | suffered, the paranoid accusations that | made—the belief |was being watched, being followed, and spied upon. “So, you see, we've been here before, haven't we?” “But that was different. It was just a feeling. | never actually saw someone. This time | saw someone.” “And who did you see?” “| already told you. A man.” “Describe him to me.” | hesitated. “Il can’t.” “Why not?” “I couldn't see him clearly. | told you—he was too far away.” “| see.” “And—he was in disguise. He was wearing a cap. And sunglasses.” “A lot of people are wearing sunglasses in this weather. And hats. Are they all in disguise?” | was starting to lose my temper. “I know what you're trying to do.” “And what is that?” “You're trying to get me to admit I’m going crazy again—like after Dad died.” “Is that what you think is happening?” “No. That time | was sick. This time I’m not sick. Nothing's the matter with me—apart from the fact that someone is spying on me and you won't believe me!” Dr. West nodded but didn’t say anything. He wrote a couple of things down in his notebook. “I'm going to put you back on medication. As a precaution. We don’t want to let this get out hand, do we?” | shook my head. “I’m not taking any pills.” “l L see. Well, if you refuse the medication, it's important to be aware of the consequences.” “What consequences? Are you threatening me?” “It’s nothing to do with me.1’m talking about your husband. How do you think Gabriel feels about what he went through, last time you were unwell?”
| pictured Gabriel downstairs, waiting in the living room with the barking dog. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?” “Do you want him to have to go through it all again? Do you perhaps think there’s a limit to how much he can take?” “What are you saying? I'll lose Gabriel? That’s what you think?” Even saying it made me feel sick. The thought of losing him, | couldn't bear it. I'd do anything to ke ep him—even pretend I’m crazy when | know I’m not. So | gave in. | agreed to be “honest” with Dr. West about what | was thinking and feeling and tell him if | heard any voices. | promised to take the pills he gave me, and to come back in two weeks, for a checkup. Dr. West looked pleased. He said we could go downstairs now and rejoin Gabriel. As he went downstairs in front of me, | thought about reaching forward and shoving him down the stairs. | wish | had. Gabriel seemed much happier on the way home. He k ept glancing at me as he was driving and smiling. “Well done. I’m proud of you. We're going to get through this, you'll see.” | nodded but didn’t say anything. Because of course it’s bullshit—“we” aren't going to get through this. I’m going to have to deal with it alone. It was a mistake telling anyone. Tomorrow I’m going to tell Barbie to forget all about it—I'll say I’ve put it behind me and | don’t want to talk about it again. She'll think I’m odd and she'll be annoyed because I'll be denying her the drama, but if |act normally, she'll soon forget all about it. As for Gabriel, I’m going to put his mind at rest. I’m going to act like everything is back to normal. I'll give a brilliant performance. | won't let my guard slip for a second. We went to the pharmacy on the way back, and Gabriel got my prescription. Once we were home again, we went into the kitchen. He gave me the yellow pills with a glass of water. “Take them.” “I’m not a child. You don’t need to hand them to me.” “I know you're not a child. | just want to make sure you'll take them—and not throw them away.” “I'll take them.” “Go on, then.” Gabriel watched me put the pills in my mouth and sip some water. “Good girl,” he said, and kissed my cheek. He left the room. The moment Gabriel's back was turned, | spat out the pills. | spat them into the sink and washed them down the drain. I’m not taking any medication. The drugs Dr. West gave me last time nearly drove me crazy. And I’m not going to risk that again. | need my wits about me now. | need to be pr epared. AUGUST 17 I’ve started hiding this diary. There’s a loose floorboard in the spare bedroom. I’m ke eping it there, out of sight in the space underneath the floorboards. Why? Well, I’m being too honest here in these pages. It’s not safe to leave it lying around. | ke ep imagining Gabriel stumbling across the notebook and fighting his curiosity but then opening it
and starting to read. If he found out I’m not taking the medication, he’d feel so betrayed, so hurt—I couldn't bear that. Thank God | have this diary to write in. It’s ke eping me sane. There’s no one else | can talk to. No one | can trust. AUGUST 21 I've not been outside for three days. I’ve been pretending to Gabriel that I’m going for walks in the afternoons when he’s out, but it’s not true. It makes me fearful, the thought of going outside. I'll be too exposed. At least here, in the house, | know I'm safe. | can sit by the window and monitor the passersby. I’m scanning each face that passes for that man’s face—but | don’t know what he looks like, that's the problem. He could have removed his disguise and be moving about in front of me, completely unnoticed. That’s an alarming thought. AUGUST 22 Still no sign of him. But | mustn't lose focus. It’s just a matter of time. Sooner or later he'll be back. | need to be ready. | need to take st eps. | woke up this morning and remembered Gabriel’s gun. I’m going to move it from the spare room. I'll ke ep it downstairs where | can get to it easily. I’ll put it in the kitchen cupboard, by the window. That way it will be there if | need it. | know all this sounds crazy. | hope nothing comes of it. |hope | never see the man again. But | have a horrible feeling | will. Where is he? Why hasn't he been here? Is he trying to get me to lower my guard? | mustn't do that. | must continue my vigil by the window. Ke ep waiting. Ke ep watching. AUGUST 23 I’m starting to think |imagined the whole thing. Maybe | did. Gabriel ke eps asking me how I’m doing—if I’m okay. | can tell he’s worried, despite me insisting I’m fine. My acting doesn’t seem to be convincing him anymore. | need to try harder. | pretend to be focused on work all day, whereas in fact work couldn't be further from my mind. I’ve lost any connection with it, any impetus to finish the paintings. As | write this, | can’t honestly say | think I'll paint again. Not until all this is behind me, anyway. I've been making excuses about why | don’t want to go out, but Gabriel told me tonight | had no choice. Max has asked us out to dinner. | can’t think of anything worse than seeing Max. | pleaded with Gabriel to cancel, saying | needed to work, but he told me it would do me good to go. He insisted and | could tell he meant it, so | had no choice. | gave in and said yes. I've been worrying all day, about tonight. Because as soon as my mind started turning on it, everything seemed to fall into place. Everything made sense. | don't know why | didn't think of it before, it’s so obvious.
| understand now. The man—the man who's watching—it isn’t Jean- Felix. Jean-Felix isn't dark or devious enough to do this kind of thing. Who else would want to torment me, scare me, punish me? Max. Of course it’s Max. It has to be Max. He’s trying to drive me crazy. I’m dreading it, but |must work up the courage somehow. I’m going to do it tonight. I’m going to confront him. AUGUST 24 It felt strange and a little frightening to go out last night, after so long inside the house. The outside world felt huge—an empty space around me, the big sky above. | felt very small and held on to Gabriel’s arm for support. Even though we went to our old favorite, Augusto’s, | didn’t feel safe. It didn’t feel comforting or familiar like it used to. The restaurant seemed different somehow. And it smelled different—it smelled of something burning. | asked Gabriel if something was on fire in the kitchen, but he said he couldn't smell anything, that | was imagining it. “Everything's fine,” he said. “Just calm down.” “Lam calm. Don’t |seem calm?” Gabriel didn’t respond. He just clenched his jaw, the way he does when he's annoyed. We sat down and waited for Max in silence. Max brought his rec eptionist to dinner. Tanya, she’s called. Apparently they’ve started dating. Max was acting like he was smitten with her, his hands all over her, touching her, kissing her—and all the time he k ept staring at me. Did he think he was going to make me jealous? He’s horrible. He makes me sick. Tanya noticed something was up—she caught Max staring at me a couple of times. | should warn her about him really. Tell her what she’s getting into. Maybe | will, but not right now. I’ve got other priorities at the moment. Max said he was going to the bathroom. | waited a moment and then | seized my chance. | said | needed the bathroom too. | left the table and followed him. | caught up with Max around the corner and grabbed hold of his arm. | gripped it hard. “Stop it,” | said. “Stop it!” Max looked bemused. “Stop what?” “You're spying on me, Max. You’re watching me. | know you are.” “What? | have no idea what you are talking about, Alicia.” “Don't lie to me.” | was finding it hard to control my voice. | wanted to scream. “I’ve seen you, okay? | took a photo. | took a picture of you!”
Max laughed. “What are you talking about? Let go of me, you crazy bitch.” | slapped his face. Hard. And then | turned and saw Tanya standing there. She looked like she was the one who'd been slapped. Tanya looked from Max to me but didn’t say anything. She walked out of the restaurant. Max glared at me, and before he followed her, he hissed, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not fucking watching you. Now, get out of my way.” The way he said it, with such anger, such contempt, | could tell Max was speaking the truth. | believed him. | didn’t want to believe him—but | did. But if it’s not Max... who is it? AUGUST 25 | just heard something. A noise outside. | checked the window. And | saw someone, moving in the shadows— It’s the man. He's outside. | phoned Gabriel but he didn’t pick up. Should | call the police? | don't know what to do. My hand is shaking so much | can barely— | can hear him—downstairs—he’s trying the windows, and the doors. He's trying to get in. | need to get out of here. | need to es cape. Oh my God—I can hear him— He’s inside. He's inside the house.
Part Four The aim of therapy is not to correct the past, but to enable the patient to confront his own history, and to grieve over it. —ALICE MILLER Chapter 1 I CLOSED ALICIA’S DIARY and placed it on my desk. I sat there, not moving, listening to the rain pelting outside the window. I tried to make sense of what I had just read. There was obviously a great deal more to Alicia Berenson than I had supposed. She had been like a closed book to me; now that book was open and its contents had taken me altogether by surprise. I had a lot of questions. Alicia suspected she was being watched. Did she ever discover the man’s identity? Did she tell anyone? I needed to find out. As far as I knew, she only confided in three people—Gabriel, Barbie, and this mysterious Dr. West. Did she stop there, or did she tell anyone else? Another question. Why did the diary end so abruptly? Was there more, written elsewhere? Another notebook, which she didn’t give to me? And I wondered about Alicia’s purpose in giving me the journal to read. She was commu- nicating something, certainly—and it was a communication of almost shocking intimacy. Was it a gesture of good faith—showing how much she trusted me? Or something more sinister? There was something else; something I needed to check. Dr. West—the doctor who had treated Alicia. An important char- acter witness, with vital information on her state of mind at the time of the murder. Yet Dr. West hadn't testified at Alicia's trial. Why not? No mention was made of him at all. Until I saw his name in her diary, it was as if he didn’t exist. How much did he know? Why had he not come forward? Dr. West. It couldn't be the same man. It had to be a coincidence, surely. I needed to find out. I put the diary in my desk drawer, locking it. Then, almost imme- diately, I changed my mind. I unlocked the drawer and took out the diary. Better ke ep it on me—safer not to let it out of my sight. I slipped it into the pocket of my coat. I left my office. I went downstairs and walked along the corridor until I reached a door at the end. I stood there for a moment, looking at it. A name was inscribed on a small sign on the door: DR. C. WEST. I didn’t bother to knock. I opened the door and went inside. Chapter 2
CHRISTIAN WAS SITTING BEHIND HIS DESK, eating takeaway sushi with chopsticks. He looked up and frowned. “Don’t you know how to knock?” “I need a word.” “Not now, I’m in the middle of lunch.” “This won't take long. Just a quick question. Did you ever treat Alicia Berenson?” Christian swallowed a mouthful of rice and gave me a blank look. “What do you mean? You know I do. I’m in charge of her care team.” “I don’t mean here—I mean before she was admitted to the Grove.” I watched Christian closely. His expression told me all I needed to know. His face went red and he lowered the chopsticks. “What are you talking about?” I took out Alicia’s diary from my pocket and held it up. “You might be interested in this. It’s Alicia’s journal. It was writ- ten in the months leading up to the murder.” Christian looked surprised and a little alarmed. “Where the hell did you get that?” “Alicia gave it to me. I’ve read it.” “What’s it got to do with me?” “She mentions you in it.” “Me?” “Apparently you were seeing her privately before she was admit- ted to the Grove. I wasn’t aware of that.” “I—don’t understand. There must be some mistake.” “T don’t think so. You saw her as a private patient over several years. And yet you didn’t come forward to testify at the trial— despite the importance of your evidence. Nor did you admit you already knew Alicia when you started working here. Presumably she recognized you straightaway—it’s lucky for you she’s silent.” I said this drily, but I was intensely angry. Now I understood why Christian was so against my trying to get Alicia to talk. It was in his every interest to ke ep her quiet. “Youre a selfish son of a bitch, Christian, you know that?” Christian stared at me with an increasing look of dismay. “Fuck,” he said under his breath. “Fuck. Theo. Listen—it’s not what it looks like.” “Isn't it?” “What else does it say in the diary?” “What else is there to say?” Christian didn’t answer the question. He held out his hand. “Can I have a look at it?” “Sorry.” I shook my head. “TI don’t think that’s appropriate.”
Christian played with his chopsticks as he spoke. “I shouldn’t have done it. But it was entirely innocent. You've got to believe me.” “Tm afraid I don't. If it were innocent, why didn’t you come for- ward after the murder?” “Because I wasn’t really Alicia’s doctor—I mean, not officially. I only did it as a favor to Gabriel. We were friends. We were at uni- versity together. I was at their wedding. I hadn't seen him for years— until he called me, looking for a psychiatrist for his wife. She’d become unwell following her father’s death.” “And you volunteered your services?” “No, not at all. Quite the reverse. I wanted to refer him to a col- league, but he insisted I see her. Gabriel said Alicia was extremely resistant to the whole idea, and the fact I was a friend of his made it much more likely she’d cooperate. I was reluctant, obviously.” “I'm sure you were.” Christian shot me a hurt look. “There’s no need to be sarcastic.” “Where did you treat her?” He hesitated. “My girlfriend’s house. But as I told you,” he said quickly, “it was unofficial—I wasn’t really her doctor. I rarely saw her. Every now and then, that’s all.” “And on those rare occasions, did you charge a fee?” Christian blinked and avoided my gaze. “Well, Gabriel insisted on paying, so I had no choice—” “Cash, I presume?” “Theo—” “Was it cash?” “Yes, but—” “And did you declare it?” Christian bit his lip and didn’t r eply. So the answer was no. That was why he hadn’t come forward at Alicia’s trial. 1 wondered how many other patients he was seeing “unofficially” and not declaring the income from them. “Look. If Diomedes finds out, I—I could lose my job. You know that, don’t you?” His voice had a pleading note, appealing to my sympathy. But I had no sympathy for Christian. Only contempt. “Never mind the professor. What about the Medical Council? You'll lose your license.” “Only if you say something. You don’t need to tell anyone. It’s all water under the bridge at this point, isn’t it? I mean, it’s my career were talking about, for fuck’s sake.” “You should have thought of that before, shouldn't you?” “Theo, please . . .” Christian must have hated having to crawl to me like this, but watching him squirm provided me with no satisfaction, only irri- tation. I had no intention of betraying him to Diomedes—not yet anyway. He’d be much more use to me if I k ept him dangling. “It’s okay,” I said. “No one else needs to know. For the moment.” “Thank you. Seriously, I mean it. I owe you one.” “Yes, you do. Go on.”
pol “What do you want?” “I want you to talk. I want you to tell me about Alici a.” “What do you want to know?” “Everything.” Chapter 3 CHRISTIAN STARED AT ME, playing with his chopsticks. He de- liberated for a few seconds before he spoke. “There’s not much to tell. I don’t know what you want to hear— or where you want me to start.” “Start at the beginning. You saw her over a number of years?” “No—I mean, yes—but I told you, not as frequently as you make it sound. I saw her two or three times after her father died.” “When was the last time?” “About a week before the murder.” “And how would you describe her mental state?” “Oh...” Christian leaned back in his chair, relaxing now that he was on safer ground. “She was highly paranoid, delusional—psychotic, even. But she’d been like this before. She had a long-standing pattern of mood swings. She was always up and down—typical borderline.” “Spare me the fucking diagnosis. Just give me the facts.” Christian gave me a wounded look but decided not to argue. “What do you want to know?” “Alicia confided in you she was being watched, correct?” Christian gave me a blank look. “Watched?” “Someone was spying on her. I thought she told you about it?” Christian looked at me strangely. Then, to my surprise, he laughed. “What’s so funny?” “You don’t really believe that, do you? The Pe eping Tom spying through the windows?” “You don’t think it’s true?” “Pure fantasy. I should have thought that was obvious.” I nodded at the diary. “She writes about it pretty convincingly. I believed her.” “Well, of course she sounded convincing. I'd have believed her too if I hadn’t known better. She was having a psychotic episode.” “So you ke ep saying. She doesn’t sound psychotic in the diary.
Just scared.” “She had a history—the same thing happened at the place they lived before Hampstead. That’s why they had to move. She accused an elderly man across the street of spying on her. Made a huge fuss. Turned out the old guy was blind—couldn’t even see her, let alone spy on her. She was always highly unstable, but it was her father’s suicide that did it. She never recovered.” “Did she talk about him with you at all? Her father?” Christian shrugged. “Not really. She would always insist that she loved him and they had a very normal relationship—as normal as it could be, considering her mother killed herself. To be honest, I was lucky to get anything out of Alicia at all. She was pretty un- cooperative. She was—well, you know what she’s like.” “Not as well as you, apparently.” I went on before he could inter- rupt, “She attempted suicide after her father’s death?” Christian shrugged. “If you like. That’s not what I would call it.” “What would you call it?” “It was suicidal behavior, but I don’t believe she intended to die. She was too narcissistic to ever really want to hurt herself. She took an overdose, more for show than anything else. She was ‘communi- cating’ her distress to Gabriel—she was always trying to get his attention, poor bastard. If I hadn't had to respect her confidential- ity, I'd have warned him to get the hell out.” “How unfortunate for him that youre such an ethical man.” Christian winced. “Theo, I know youre a very empathetic man— that’s what makes you such a good therapist—but you're wasting your time with Alicia Berenson. Even before the murder, she had precious little capacity for introspection or mentalizing or whatever you want to call it. She was entirely consumed with herself and her art. All the empathy you have for her, all the kindness—she isn’t capable of giving it back. She’s a lost cause. A total bitch.” Christian said this scornfully—and with absolutely no detectable empathy for such a damaged woman. For a second, I wondered if perhaps Christian was borderline, not Alicia. That would make a lot more sense. I stood up. “I’m going to see Alicia. I need some answers.” “From Alicia?” Christian looked startled. “And how do you in- tend to get them?” “By asking her.” I walked out. ee ae HAY: Chapter 4 I WAITED UNTIL AFTER DIOMEDES DISAPPEARED into his office and St ephanie was in a meeting with the Trust. Then I slipped into the goldfish bowl and found Yuri. “I need to see Alicia.” “Oh, yes?” Yuri gave me an odd look. “But—I thought the therapy was discontinued?”
“It was. I need to have a private conversation with her, that’s all.” “Right, I see.” Yuri looked doubtful. “Well, the therapy room is occupied—Indira is seeing patients there for the rest of the after- noon.” He thought for a second. “The art room is free, if you don't mind meeting there? It’ll have to be quick, though.” He didn’t elaborate but I knew what he meant—we had to be fast, s O no one noticed and r eported us to St ephanie. I was grateful Yuri was on my side; he was obviously a good man. I felt guilty for hav- ing misjudged him when we first met. “Thanks. I appreciate this.” Yuri grinned at me. “T'll have her there in ten minutes.” Yuri was as good as his word. Ten minutes later, Alicia and I were in the art room, sitting opposite each other, across the paint- splattered work surface. I perched on a rickety stool, feeling precarious. Alicia looked gon] perfectly poised as she sat down—as if she were posing for a por- trait, or about to paint one. “Thank you for this.” I took out her diary and placed it in front of me. “For allowing me to read it. It means a great deal to me that you entrusted me with something so personal.” I smiled, only to be met by a blank expression. Alicia’s features were hard and unyielding. I wondered if she regretted giving me the diary. Perhaps she felt a sense of shame at having exposed herself so completely? I left a pause, then went on, “The diary ends abruptly, on a cliff- hanger.” I flicked through the journal’s remaining empty pages. “It’s a little like our therapy together—incomplete, unfinished.” Alicia didn’t speak. She just stared. I don’t know what I’d ex- pected, but not this. ’? d assumed giving me the diary signaled a change of some kind, r epresenting an invitation, an opening, an en- try point, yet here I was, back at square one, faced with an impen- etrable wall. “You know, I hoped that having spoken to me indirectly—through these pages—that you might go one st ep further and speak to me in person.” No response. “I think you gave this to me because you wanted to communicate with me. And you did communicate. Reading this told me a great deal about you—how lonely you were, how isolated, how afraid— that your situation was a lot more complicated than I had previ- ously appreciated. Your relationship with Dr. West, for instance.” I glanced at her as I said Christian’s name. I hoped for some kind of reaction, a narrowing of the eyes, a clenched jaw—something, anything—but there was nothing, not even a blink. “T had no idea you knew Christian West before you were admit- ted to the Grove. You saw him privately for several years. You obvi- ously recognized him when he first came to work here—a few months after your arrival. It must have been confusing when he didn’t acknowledge you. And probably quite upsetting, I imagine?” I asked it as a question, but there was no r eply. Christian seemed of little interest to her. Alicia looked away, bored, disappointed—as if 1 had missed some opportunity, gone down the wrong track. She had been expecting something from me, something I had failed to deliver.
Well, I wasn't done yet. “There’s something else. The diary raises certain questions— questions that need answering. Certain things don’t make sense, don’t fit with information I have from other sources. Now that you've allowed me to read it, I feel obliged to investigate further. I hope you understand that.” I gave Alicia back the diary. She took it and rested her fingers on it. We stared at each other for a moment. “Tm on your side, Alicia,” I said eventually. “You know that, don't you?” She didn’t say anything. I took that as a yes. Pay » Chapter 5 KATHY WAS GETTING CARELESS. It was inevitable, I suppose. Having gotten away with her infidelity for so long, she started get- ting lazy. I returned home to find her about to go out. “T'm going for a walk,” she said, pulling on her trainers. “I won't be long.” “I could use some exercise. Fancy some company?” “No, I need to practice my lines.” “I can test you on them if you like.” “No.” Kathy shook her head. “It’s easier on my own. I just ke ep reciting the speeches—the ones I can’t get my head around, you know, the ones in act two. I walk around the park, r epeating them aloud. You should see the looks I get.” I had to give it to her. Kathy said all of this with perfect sincerity, while maintaining constant eye contact. She was a remarkable actress. My acting was also improving. I gave her a warm, open smile. “Have a nice walk.” I followed her after she left the flat. I k ept a careful distance, but she didn’t even look back once. As I said, she was getting careless. She walked for about five minutes, to the entrance of the park. As she neared it, a man emerged from the shadows. He had his back to me and I couldn’ see his face. He had dark hair and was well built, taller than me. She went up to him and he pulled her close. They started kissing. Kathy devoured his kisses hungrily, surrendering herself to him. It was strange—to say the least—to see another man’s arms around her. His hands groped and fondled her breasts through her clothes. I knew I should hide. I was exposed and in plain sight—if Kathy turned around, she'd be sure to see me. But I couldn’t move. I was transfixed, staring at a Medusa, turned to stone.
Eventually they stopped kissing and walked into the park, arm in arm. I followed. It was disorienting. From behind, from a distance, the man didn’t look dissimilar to me—for a few seconds I had a confused, out-of-body experience, convinced I was watching myself walking in the park with Kathy. Kathy led the man toward a wooded area. He followed her into it and they vanished. I felt a sick feeling of dread in my stomach. My breathing was thick, slow, heavy. Every part of my body was telling me to leave, go, run, run away. But I didn't. I followed them into the woods. I tried to make as little noise as possible, but twigs crunched under my feet, and branches clawed at me. I couldn't see them anywhere— the trees grew so closely together that I could only see a few feet in front of me. I stopped and listened. I heard a rustling in the trees, but it could have been the wind. Then I heard something unmistakable, a low- pitched guttural sound I recognized at once. It was Kathy moaning. I tried to get closer, but the branches caught me and held me sus- pended, like a fly in a web. I stood there in the dim light, breathing in the musty smell of bark and earth. I listened to Kathy moaning as he fucked her. He grunted like an animal. I burned with hate. This man had come from nowhere and in- vaded my life. He had stolen and seduced and corrupted the one thing in the world that was precious to me. It was monstrous— supernatural. Perhaps he wasn’t human at all, but the instrument of some male volent deity intent on punishing me. Was God punishing me? Why? What was I guilty of—exc ept falling in love? Was it that T loved too de eply, too needily? Too much? Did this man love her? I doubted it. Not the way I did. He was just using her; using her body. There was no way he cared for her as I did. I would have died for Kathy. I would have killed for her. I thought of my father—I knew what he’d do in this situation. He’d murder the guy. Be a man, I could hear my father shouting. Toughen up. Was that what I should do? Kill him? Dispose of him? It was a way out of this mess—a way to break the spell, release Kathy and set us free. Once she had grieved his loss, it would be over, he’d just be a memory, easily forgotten, and we could go on as before. I could do it now, here, in the park. I’d drag him into the pond, plunge his head underwater. I’d hold it there until his body convulsed and went limp in my arms. Or I could follow him home on the Tube, stand right behind him on the platform, and—with a sharp shove— push him in the path of an oncoming train. Or cre ep up behind him on a deserted street, clutching a brick, and bash out his brains. Why not? Kathy’s moans grew louder suddenly, and I recognized the groans she made as she climaxed. Then there was a silence . . . interrupted by a muffled giggle I knew so well. I could hear the snapping of twigs as they tramped out of the woods. I waited for a few moments. Then I snapped the branches around me and fought my way out of the trees, tearing and scratching my hands to shreds. When I emerged from the wood, my eyes were half-blind with tears. Iwiped them away with a bleeding fist. I lurched off, going nowhere. I walked round and round like a madman.
Prese anit ‘a Hedine snitisd PRPS deters nlaiaemnn bmi gute k in my ie cite pada one aes yibenotemens ja eiegeed oy F Ayiee, ie hehe boule hind geal: ite ite Rea tt thapenas anna RG t est ee wb cvai a beaeas§ ie Lr utah = eh bath ama a a 1 Rago F Bla eyee A be. gah ae ‘ no ei agers Hketem i asinine seri te pigs te ie! Athttsanai hate Bs Re ee WET Aspe TR we oe Sil PR sisi ; Lied 2 a Sabkra suehens Bi iae Ap eh ith ‘ae sapphic git bk‘frag od ed rom OD +: ithe Pagnonadl tid ola his 190 en it A > sak eid ub ie Atenas hniid rent aan Chapter 6 “JEAN-FELIX?” No one was at the rec eption desk, and no one came when I called. I hesitated for a moment, then went into the gallery. I walked along the corridor to where the Alcestis was hanging. Once again, I looked at the painting. Once again, I tried to read it, and again I failed. Something about the picture defied interpre- tation—or else it had some kind of meaning that I had yet to com- prehend. But what? Then—a sharp intake of breath as I noticed something. Behind Alicia, in the darkness, if you squinted and looked hard at the paint- ing, the darkest parts of the shadows came together—like a holo- gram that goes from two dimensions to three when you look at it from a certain angle—and a shape burst forth from the shadows. . . the figure of a man. A man—hiding in the dark. Watching. Spying on Alicia. “What do you want?” The voice made me jump. I turned around. Jean-Felix didn’t look particularly pleased to see me. “What are you doing here?” I was about to point out the figure of the man in the painting and ask Jean-Felix about it, but something told me it might be a bad idea. Instead I smiled. “I just had a couple more questions. Is now a good time?” “Not really. I’ve told you everything I know. Surely there can't be anything else?” “Actually, some new information has come up.” “And what is that?” “Well, for one thing, I didn’t know Alicia was planning on leav- ing your gallery.” There was a second’s pause before Jean-Felix answered. His voice sounded tight, like a rubber band about to snap. “What are you talking about?” “Ts it true?” “What business is it of yours?” “Alicia is my patient. It’s my intention to get her talking again— but I see now it might be in your interest if she remains silent.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” | “Well, as long as no one knows of her wish to leave, you can hold on to her artwork indefinitely.” “What exactly are you accusing me of?” “I'm not accusing you at all. Merely stating a fact.” Jean-Felix laughed. “We’ll see about that. I'll be contacting my lawyer—and making a formal complaint to the hospital.” “I don't think you will.” “And why is that?” “Well, you see, I haven't told you how I heard Alicia was planning to leave.” “Whoever told you was lying.” “Tt was Alicia.” “What?” Jean-Felix looked stunned. “You mean . . . she spoke?” “In a way. She gave me her diary to read.” “Her—diary?” He blinked a few times, as if he was having trouble processing the information. “I didn’t know Alicia k ept a diary.” “Well, she did. She describes your last few meetings in some de- tail.” I didn't say anything else. I didn’t need to. There was a heavy pause. Jean-Felix was silent. “Tl be in touch,” I said. I smiled and walked out. As I emerged onto the Soho street, I felt a little guilty for ruffling Jean-Felix’s feathers like that. But it had been intentional—I wanted to see what effect the provocation would have, how he'd react, what he would do. Now I had to wait and see. As I walked through Soho, I phoned Alicia’s cousin, Paul Rose, to let him know I was coming. I didn’t want to turn up at the house unannounced and risk a similar rec eption to last time. The bruise on my head still hadn't fully healed. I cradled the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I lit a cigarette. I barely had time to inhale before the phone was an- swered, on the first ring. I hoped it would be Paul, not Lydia. I was in luck. “Hello?” “Paul. It’s Theo Faber.” “Oh. Hello, mate. Sorry ’'m whispering. Mum’s having her nap, and I don’t want to disturb her. How’s your head?” “Much better, thanks.” “Good, good. How can I help?” “Well, I’ve received some new information about Alicia. Iwanted to talk to you about it.” “What kind of information?”
I told him that Alicia had given me her diary to read. “Her diary? I didn’t know she k ept one. What does it say?” “Tt might be easier to talk in person. Are you free today at all?” Paul hesitated. “It might be better if you don’t come to the house. Mother isn’t . . . well, she wasn’t too happy about your last visit.” “Yes, I gathered that.” “There’s a pub at the end of the road, by the roundabout. The White Bear—” “Yes, I remember it. That sounds fine. What time?” “Around five? I should be able to get away then for a bit.” I heard Lydia shouting in the background. Evidently she had woken up. “T have to go. I'll see you later.” Paul hung up. A few hours later, I was on my way back to Cambridge. On the train, I made another phone call—to Max Berenson. | hesitated before calling. He’d already complained to Diomedes once, so he wouldn’t be pleased to hear from me again. But I knew I had no choice. Tanya answered. Her cold sounded better, but I could hear the tension in her voice when she realized who I was. “I don’t think—I mean, Max is busy. He’s in meetings all day.” “Tl call back.” “Tm not sure that’s a good idea. I—” I could hear Max in the background saying something, and Tanya's r eply: “I’m not saying that, Max.” Max grabbed the phone and spoke to me directly: “I just told Tanya to tell you to fuck off.” “Ah.” “You've got a nerve calling here again. I already complained once to Professor Diomedes.” “Yes, I’m aware of that. Nonetheless some new information has come to light, and it concerns you directly—so I felt I had no choice but to get in touch.” “What information?” “It’s a journal Alicia k ept in the weeks leading up to the murder.” There was silence at the other end of the line. I hesitated. “Alicia writes about you in some detail, Max. She said you had romantic feelings for her. Iwas wondering if—” There was a click as he hung up. So far so good. Max had taken the bait—and now I had to wait to see how he’d react. I realized I was a little afraid of Max Berenson, just as Tanya was afraid of him. I remembered her whispered advice to me, to talk to Paul, to ask him something—what? Something about the night after the accident that killed Alicia’s mother. I remembered the look on Tanya’s face when Max had appeared, how she fell silent and pre- sented him with a smile. No, I thought, Max Berenson was not to be underestimated. That would be a dangerous mistake.
Chapter 7 AS THE TRAIN APPROACHED CAMBRIDGE, the lands cape flat- tened and the temperature dropped. I did up my coat as I left the station. The wind cut into my face like a volley of icy razor blades. I made my way to the pub to meet Paul. The White Bear was a ramshackle old place—it looked as if sev- eral extensions had been added onto the original structure over the years. A couple of students were braving the wind, sitting outside with their pints in the beer garden, wrapped up in scarves, smok- ing. Inside, the temperature was much warmer, thanks to several roaring fires, which provided a welcome relief from the cold. I got a drink and looked around for Paul. Several small rooms led off from the main bar and the lighting was low. I peered at the fig- ures in the shadows, unsuccessfully trying to spot him. A good place for an illicit rendezvous, I thought. Which, I suppose, is what this was. I found Paul alone in a small room. He was facing away from the door, sitting by the fire. Irecognized him at once, on account of his sheer size. His huge back nearly blocked the fire from sight. “Paul?” He jumped up and turned around. He looked like a giant in the tiny room. He had to stoop slightly to avoid hitting the ceiling. “All right?” he said. He looked like he was bracing himself for bad news from a doctor. He made some room for me, and I sat down in front of the fire, relieved to feel its warmth on my face and hands. “It’s colder than London here. That wind doesn’t help.” “Comes straight from Siberia, that’s what they say.” Paul contin- ued without pausing, clearly in no mood for small talk, “What's this about a diary? I never knew Alicia k ept a diary.” “Well, she did.” “And she gave it to you?” I nodded. “And? What does it say?” “Tt specifically details the last couple of months before the murder. And there are a couple of discr epancies I wanted to ask you about.” “What discr epancies?” “Between your account of events and hers.” “What are you talking about?” He put down his pint and gave me a long stare. “What do you mean?” “Well, for one thing, you told me you hadn't seen Alicia for sev- eral years before the murder.” Paul hesitated. “Did I?” “In the diary, Alicia says she saw you a few weeks before Gabriel was killed. She says you came to the house in Hampstead.”
I stared at him, sensing him deflate inside. He looked like a boy suddenly, in a body that was much too big for him. Paul was afraid, it was obvious. He didn’t r eply for moment. He shot me a furtive glance. “Can I have a look? At the diary?” I shook my head. “I don’t think that would be appropriate. Any- way, I didn’t bring it with me.” “Then how do I even know it exists? You could be lying.” “T'm not lying. But you were—you lied to me, Paul. Why?” “Tt’s none of your business, that’s why.” “Tm afraid it is my business. Alicia’s well-being is my concern.” “Her well-being has got nothing to do with it. I didn’t hurt her.” “T never said you did.” “Well, then.” “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Paul shrugged. “It’s a long story.” He hesitated, then gave in. He spoke quickly, breathlessly. I sensed his relief at finally telling some- one. “I was in a bad way. I had a problem, you know—I was gam- bling and borrowing money, and not able to pay it back. I needed some cash to... to put everyone straight.” “And so you asked Alicia? Did she give you the money?” “What does the diary say?” “It doesn’t.” Paul hesitated, then shook his head. “No, she didn’t give me any- thing. She said she couldn’t afford to.” Again he was lying. Why? “How did you get the money, then?” “I—I took it out of my savings. I'd appreciate it if you k ept this between us—I don’t want my mother to find out.” “I don't think there’s any reason to in volve Lydia in this.” “Really?” Some color came back into Paul’s expression. He looked more hopeful. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” “Did Alicia ever tell you she suspected she was being watched?” Paul lowered his glass and gave me a puzzled look. I could see she hadn't. “Watched? What do you mean?” I told him the story I had read in the diary—about Alicia’s suspi- cions she was being watched by a stranger, and finally her fears that she was under attack in her own home. Paul shook his head. “She wasn’t right in the head.” “You think she imagined it?” “Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it?” Paul shrugged. “You don’t think someone was stalking her? I mean, I suppose it’s possible—” “Yes, it is possible. So I presume she said nothing to you about it?” “Not a word. But Alicia and I never talked much, you know. She was always pretty silent. We all were, as a family. I remember Alicia saying how weird it was—she’d go to friends’ houses and see other families laugh and joke and
have conversations about things, and our house was so silent. We never talked. Apart from my mum, giving orders.” “And what about Alicia’s father? Vernon? What was he like?” “Vernon didn’t really talk much. He wasn’t right in the head—not after Eva died. He was never the same after that. Neither was Alicia, come to that.” “That reminds me. There was something I wanted to ask you— something Tanya mentioned to me.” “Tanya Berenson? You spoke to her?” “Only briefly. She suggested I talk to you.” “Tanya did?” Paul’s cheeks colored. “I—I don’t know her well, but she’s always been very kind to me. She’s a good, very good person. She visited me and Mum a couple of times.” A smile appeared on Paul’s lips and he looked faraway for a moment. He has a crush on her, I thought. I wondered how Max felt about that. “What did Tanya say?” he asked. “She suggested I ask you about something—that happened the night after the car accident. She didn’t go into detail.” “Yes, I know what she means—I told her during the trial. I asked her not to tell anyone.” “She didn’t tell me. It’s up to you to tell me. If you wish to. Of course, if you don’t want to...” Paul drained his pint and shrugged. “It’s probably nothing, but— it might help you understand Alicia. She...” He hesitated and fell silent. “Go on.” “Alicia... the first thing Alicia did, when she got home from the hospital—they k ept her in for a night after the crash—was she climbed up onto the roof of the house. I did too. We sat up there all night, pretty much. We used to go there all the time, Alicia and me. It was our secret place.” “On the roof?” Paul hesitated. He looked at me for a second, deliberating. He made a decision. “Come on.” He stood up. “I'll show you.” Chapter 8 PPTERCELGH THE HOUSE WAS IN DARKNESS as we approached. “Here it is,” Paul said. “Follow me.” An iron ladder was attached to the side of the house. We made our way over to it. The mud was frozen beneath our feet, sculpted into hard ripples and ridges. Without waiting for me, Paul started climbing up.
It was getting colder by the minute. I was wondering if this was such a good idea. I followed him and gripped the first rung—icy and slippery. It was overgrown with some kind of climbing plant; ivy, perhaps. I made my way up, rung by rung. By the time I reached the top, my fingers were numb and the wind was slashing my face. I climbed over, onto the roof. Paul was waiting for me, grinning in an excited, adolescent way. The razor-thin moon hung above us; the rest was darkness. Suddenly Paul rushed at me, a strange expression on his face. I felt a flicker of panic as his arm reached out toward me—I swerved to avoid. it, but he grabbed hold of me. For a terrifying second I thought he was going to throw me off the roof. Instead he pulled me toward him. “Youre too close to the edge. Stay in the middle here. It’s safer.” I nodded, catching my breath. This was a bad idea. I didn’t feel remotely safe around Paul. I was about to suggest climbing down again—then he pulled out his cigarettes and offered me one. I hesi- tated, then I acc epted. My fingers were shaking as I took out my lighter and lit the cigarettes. We stood there and smoked in silence for a moment. “This is where we would sit. Alicia and me. Every day, pretty much.” “How old were you?” “T was about seven, maybe eight. Alicia couldn’t have been more than ten.” “You were a bit young to be climbing ladders.” “I suppose so. Seemed normal to us. When we were teenagers, we'd come up and smoke and drink beers.” I tried to picture a teenage Alicia, hiding from her father and her bullying aunt; Paul, her adoring younger cousin, following up the ladder, pestering her when she’d much rather be silent, alone with her thoughts. “It’s a good hiding place,” I said. Paul nodded. “Uncle Vernon couldn’t make it up the ladder. He had a big build, like Mum.” “I could barely make it up myself. That ivy is a death trap.” “It’s not ivy, it’s jasmine.” Paul looked at the green vines that curled over the top of the ladder. “No flowers yet—not until the spring. Smells like perfume then, when there’s a lot of it.” He seemed lost in a memory for a moment. “Funny that.” “What?” “Nothing.” He shrugged. “The things you remember . . . I just was thinking about the jasmine—it was in full bloom that day, the day of the accident, when Eva was killed.” I looked around. “You and Alicia came up here together, you said?” He nodded. “Mum and Uncle Vernon were looking for us down there. We could hear them calling. But we didn’t say a word. We stayed hiding. And that’s when it happened.” He stubbed out his cigarette and gave me an odd smile. “That’s why I brought you here. So you can see it—the scene of the crime.”
“The crime?” Paul didn’t answer, just k ept grinning at me. “What crime, Paul?” “Vernon’s crime. Uncle Vernon wasn’t a good man, you see. No, not at all.” “What are you trying to say?” “Well, that’s when he did it.” “Did what?” “That’s when he killed Alicia.” I stared at Paul, unable to believe my ears. “Killed Alicia? What are you talking about?” Paul pointed at the ground below. “Uncle Vernon was down there with Mum. He was drunk. Mum k ept trying to get him to go back inside. But he stood down there, yelling for Alicia. He was so angry with her. He was so mad.” “Because Alicia was hiding? But—she was a child—her mother had just died.” “He was a mean bastard. The only person he ever cared about was Auntie Eva. I suppose that’s why he said it.” “Said what?” I was losing patience. “I don’t understand what you're saying to me. What exactly happened?” “Vernon was going on about how much he loved Eva—how he couldn't live without her. ‘My girl, he k ept saying, ‘my poor girl, my Eva... Why did she have to die? Why did it have to be her? Why didn’t Alicia die instead?” I stared at Paul for a second, stunned. I wasn’t sure I understood. “Why didn’t Alicia die instead?’” “That’s what he said.” “Alicia heard this?” “Yeah. And Alicia whispered something to me—I’ll never forget it. “He killed me, she said. “Dad just—killed me.” I stared at Paul, speechless. A chorus of bells started ringing in my head, clanging, chiming, reverberating. This was what I’d been looking for. I'd found it, the missing piece of the jigsaw, at last—here on a roof in Cambridge. All the way back to London, I k ept thinking about the implications of what I had heard. I understood now why Alcestis had struck a chord with Alicia. Just as Admetus had physically condemned Al- cestis to die, so had Vernon Rose psychically condemned his daughter to death. Admetus must have loved Alcestis, on some level, but there was no love in Vernon Rose, just hate. He had com- mitted psychic infanticide—and Alicia knew it. “He killed me,” she said. “Dad just killed me.” Now, at last, I had something to work with. Something I knew about—the emotional effects of psychological wounds on children, and how they manifest themselves later in adults. Imagine it— hearing your father, the very person you d epend upon for your survival, wishing you dead. How terrifying that must be for a child, how traumatizing—how your sense of self-worth would im- plode, and the pain would be too great, too huge to feel, so you'd swallow it, r epress it, bury it. Over time you would lose contact with the origins of your trauma, dissociate the roots of its cause, and forget. But one day, all the hurt and anger would burst forth, like fire from a dragon’s belly—and you'd pick up a gun. You'd visit that rage not upon your father, who was dead and forgotten and out of reach—but upon your husband, the man who had taken his place in your life, who loved you and shared your bed.
You'd shoot him five times in the head, without possibly even knowing why. The train raced through the night back to London. At last, I thought—at last I knew how to reach her. Now we could begin. Chapter 9 TPE RGN LNCE I SAT WITH ALICIA IN SILENCE. I was getting better at these silences, better at enduring them, settling into them and toughing it out; it had become almost com- fortable, sitting in that small room with her, ke eping quiet. Alicia held her hands in her lap, clenching and unclenching them rhythmically, like a heartbeat. She was facing me, not look- ing at me, but gazing out of the window through the bars. It had stopped raining, and the clouds momentarily parted to reveal a pale blue sky; then another cloud appeared, obscuring it with gray. Then I spoke. “There’s something I have become aware of. Something your cousin told me.” I said this as gently as I could. She didn’t react, so I went on. “Paul said that when you were a child, you overheard your father say something devastating. After the car accident that killed your mother . .. you heard him say that he wished you had died, instead of her.” I was certain there would be a knee-jerk physical reaction, an acknowledgment of some kind. I waited, but none came. “I wonder how you feel about Paul telling me this—it might seem like a betrayal of confidence. But I believe he had your best inter- ests in mind. You are, after all, in my care.” No response. I hesitated. “It might help you if I tell you something. No—perhaps that’s be- ing disingenuous—perhaps it’s me it would help. The truth is I understand you better than you think. Without wishing to dis- close too much, you and I experienced similar kinds of childhoods, with similar kinds of fathers. And we both left home as soon as we could. But we soon discovered that geographical distance counts for little in the world of the psyche. Some things are not so easily left behind. I know how damaging your childhood was. It’s impor- tant you understand how serious this is. What your father said is tantamount to psychic murder. He killed you.” This time she reacted. She looked up sharply—straight at me. Her eyes seemed to burn right through me. If looks could kill, I would have dropped dead. I met her murderous gaze without flinching. “Alicia. This is our last chance. I’m sitting here now with- out Professor Diomedes’s knowledge or permission. If I ke ep breaking the rules like this for your sake, I’m going to get fired. That’s why this will be the last time you see me. Do you under- stand?” I said this without any expectation or emotion, drained of hope or feeling. I was sick of bashing my head against a wall. I didn’t ex- pect any kind of response. And then...
I thought I imagined it at first. I thought I was hearing things. I stared at her, breathless. I felt my heart thudding in my chest. My mouth was dry when I spoke. “Did—did you just .. . say something?” Another silence. Jmust have been mistaken. I must have imagined it. But then . . . it happened again. Alicia’s lips moved slowly, painfully; her voice cracked a little as it emerged, like a creaking gate that needed oiling. “What . . .” she whispered. Then she stopped. And again: “What... what—” For a moment we just stared at each other. My eyes slowly filled with tears—tears of disbelief, excitement, and gratitude. “What do I want? I want you to ke ep talking... . Talk—talk to me, Alicia—” Alicia stared at me. She was thinking about something. She came to a decision. She slowly nodded. “Okay,” she said. Pypa, i OK Bhar ty tei . re ET HBG TS See USOe Vat VOR E SAAS Ty. yeti ecgnapaeen RE basa Sey: Chapter 10 AP hb RPi N “SHE SAID WHAT?” Professor Diomedes stared at me with a look of stunned amaze- ment. We were outside, smoking. I could tell he was excited because he had dropped his cigar on the ground without even noticing. “She spoke? Alicia really spoke?” “She did.” “Incredible. So you were right. You were right. And I was wrong.” “Not at all. It was wrong of me to see her without your permis- sion, Professor. I’m sorry, I just had an instinct...” Diomedes waved away my apology and finished my sentence for me. “You followed your gut. I would have done the same, Theo. Well done.” I was unwilling to be too celebratory. “We mustn't count our chickens yet. It’s a breakthrough, yes. But there’s no guarantee—she might revert or regress at any point.” Diomedes nodded. “Quite right. We must organize a formal re- view and interview Alicia as soon as possible—get her in front of a panel—you and me and someone from the Trust—Julian will do, he’s harmless enough—” “Youre going too fast. You're not listening to me. That’s too soon. Anything like that will scare her. We need to move slowly.” “Well, it’s important the Trust knows—” “No, not yet. Maybe this was a one-off. Let’s wait. Let’s not make any announcements. Not just yet.” Diomedes nodded, taking this in. His hand reached for my shoul- der and gripped it. “Well done. I’m proud of you.”
I felt a small flicker of pride—a son congratulated by his father. I was conscious of my desire to please Diomedes, justify his faith in me and make him proud. | felt a little emotional. I lit a cigarette to disguise it. “What now?” “Now you ke ep going. Ke ep working with Alicia.” “And if St ephanie finds out?” “Forget St ephanie—leave her to me. You focus on Alicia.” And so I did. During our next session, Alicia and I talked nonstop. Or rather, Alicia talked and I listened. Listening to Alicia was an unfamiliar and somewhat disconcerting experience, after so much silence. She spoke hesitantly at first, tentatively—trying to walk on legs that hadn't been used in a while. She soon found her feet, picking up speed and agility, tripping through sentences as if she had never been silent, which in a way, she hadn't. | When the session ended, I went to my office. I sat at the desk, transcribing what had been said while it was still fresh in my mind. I wrote down everything, word for word, capturing it as precisely and accurately as possible. As you will see, it’s an incredible story—of that there is no doubt. Whether you believe it or not is up to you. Chapter 11 ALICIA SAT IN THE CHAIR opposite me in the therapy room. “Before we begin, I have some questions for you. A few things I’d like to clarify...” No r eply. Alicia looked at me with that unreadable look of hers. “Specifically, I want to understand your silence. I want to know why you refused to speak.” Alicia seemed disappointed by the question. She turned and looked out the window. We sat like that in silence for a minute or so. I tried to contain the suspense I was feeling. Had the breakthrough been temporary? Would we now go on as before? I couldn’t let that happen. “Alicia. I know it’s difficult. But once you start talking to me, youll find it easier, I promise.” No response. “Try. Please. Don’t give up when you've made such progress. Ke ep going. Tell me... tell me why you wouldn't speak.” Alicia turned back and stared at me with a chilly gaze. She spoke in a low voice: “Nothing . .. nothing to say.” “Tm not sure I believe that. I think there was too much to say.” A pause. A shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps... you're right.” “Go on.” She hesitated. “At first, when Gabriel... when he was dead—I couldn't, I tried... but I couldn’t .. . talk. lopened my mouth—but no sound came out. Like ina dream . .. where you try to scream...
but can't.” “You were in a state of shock. But over the next few days, you must have found your voice returning to you... ?” “By then .. . it seemed pointless. It was too late.” “Too late? To speak in your defense?” Alicia held me in her gaze, a cryptic smile on her lips. She didn't speak. “Tell me why you started talking again.” “You know the answer.” ss Drom kiss “Because of you.” “Me?” I looked at her with surprise. “Because you came here.” “And that made a difference?” “All the difference—it made . . . all the difference.” Alicia lowered her voice and stared at me, unblinking. “I want you to understand— what happened to me. What it felt like. It’s important... you un- derstand.” “T want to understand. That’s why you gave me the diary, isn’t it? Because you want me to understand. It seems to me the people who mattered most to you didn’t believe your story about the man. Per- haps youre wondering . . . if I believe you.” “You believe me.” This was not a question but a simple statement of fact. I nodded. “Yes, I believe you. So why don’t we start there? The last diary entry you wrote described the man breaking into the house. What happened then?” “Nothing.” “Nothing?” She shook her head. “It wasn’t him.” “Tt wasn’t? Then who was it?” “Tt was Jean-Felix. He wanted—he had come to talk about the ex- hibition.” OSNE “Judging by your diary, it doesn’t seem you were in the right state of mind for visitors.” Alicia acknowledged this with a shrug. “Did he stay long?” “No. I asked him to leave. He didn’t want to—he was upset. He shouted at me a bit—but he went after a while.” “And then? What happened after Jean-Felix left?” Alicia shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about that.” “No?”
“Not yet.” Alicia’s eyes looked into mine for a moment. Then they darted to the window, considering the darkening sky beyond the bars. Some- thing in the way she was tilting her head was almost coquettish, and the beginning of a smile was forming at the corner of her mouth. She’s enjoying this, I thought. Having me in her power. “What do you want to talk about?” I asked. “T don’t know. Nothing. I just want to talk.” So we talked. We talked about Lydia and Paul, and about her mother, and the summer she died. We talked about Alicia's childhood—and mine. I told her about my father, and growing up in that house; she seemed curious to know as much as possible about my past and what had shaped me and made me who I am. I remember thinking, There’s no going back now. We were crash- ing through every last boundary between therapist and patient. Soon it would be impossible to tell who was who. “Sia ie claus hint vistx¥ + lie cas paso g (t" “i Stadtie oe Sea abe Hoes a P Stee aie Chapter 12 LM E THE NEXT MORNING, we met again. Alicia seemed different that day somehow—more reserved, more guarded. I think it’s because she was pr eparing herself to talk about the day of Gabriel’s death. She sat opposite me and, unusually for her, looked straight at me and maintained eye contact throughout. She started speaking with- out being prompted; slowly, thoughtfully, choosing each phrase with care, as if cautiously applying brushstrokes to a canvas. “I was alone that afternoon. I knew I had to paint, but it was so hot, I didn’t think I could face it. But I decided to try. So I took the little fan ’'d bought down to the studio in the garden, and then... .” “And then?” “My phone rang. It was Gabriel. He was calling to say he’d be back late from the shoot.” “Did he normally do that? Call to say he'd be late?” Alicia gave me an odd look, as if it struck her as a strange ques- tion. She shook her head. “No. Why?” “IT wondered if he might be calling for another reason. To see how you were feeling? Judging from your diary, it sounds like he was concerned about your mental state.” “Oh.” Alicia pondered this, taken aback. She slowly nodded. “T see. Yes, yes, possibly...” “Tm sorry—I interrupted you. Go on. What happened after the phone call?” Alicia hesitated. “I saw him.” “Him?” “The man. I mean, I saw his reflection. Reflected in the window.
He was inside—inside the studio. Standing right behind me.” Alicia shut her eyes and sat quite still. There was a long pause. I spoke gently. “Can you describe him? What did he look like?” She opened her eyes and stared at me for a moment. “He was tall.... Strong. I couldn’t see his face—he had put on a mask, a black mask. But I could see his eyes—they were dark holes. No light in them at all.” “What did you do when you saw him?” “Nothing. I was so scared. I k ept looking at him. He had a knife in his hand. I asked what he wanted. He didn’t speak. And I said I had money in the kitchen, in my bag. And he shook his head and said, ‘I don’t want money. And he laughed. A horrible laugh, like breaking glass. He held the knife up to my neck. The sharp end of the blade was against my throat, against my skin. ... He told me to go with him into the house.” Alicia shut her eyes as she remembered it. “He led me out of the studio, onto the lawn. We walked toward the house. I could see the gate to the street, just a few meters away—I was so close to it.... And something in me took over. It was—it was my only chance to es cape. So I kicked him hard and broke away from him. And I ran. I ran for the gate.” Her eyes opened and she smiled at the memory. “For a few seconds, I was free.” Her smile faded. “Then—he jumped on me. On my back. We fell to the ground. . . . His hand was over my mouth, and I felt the cold blade against my throat. He said he’d kill me if Imoved. We lay there for a few sec- onds, and I could feel his breath on my face. It stank. Then he pulled me up—and dragged me into the house.” “And then? What happened?” “He locked the door. And I was trapped.” Alicia’s breathing was heavy and her cheeks were flushed. I was concerned she was becoming distressed, and I was wary of pushing her too hard. “Do you need a break?” She shook her head. “Let’s ke ep going. I’ve waited long enough to say this. I want to get it over with.” “Are you sure? It might be a good idea to take a moment.” She hesitated. “Can I have a cigarette?” “A cigarette? I didn’t know you smoked.” “T don’t. I—I used to. Can you give me one?” “How do you know I smoke?” “IT can smell it on you.” “Oh.” I smiled, feeling a little embarrassed. “Okay.” I stood up. “Let’s go outside.”
SES hp ee. it ese Tph Syy 5 “sien tee ace GF folie a) tot Datigue Gey f Hi Teay aad Yt” need vi sce a = ae em a e T 4 Baris Seips q a jeer at over ‘ ae; x Se: =3 F ~ = B a A « ‘ arn x vir. ; a Pe ai : i‘ e ee: Std om SR ea —~. So eisat at bet a - opti ascesi yes log. Hit.) , see eae aeoan , becpradaig eiitl s aie jashiene:£ bi Sanka uae Yow si *abate € r 3 5 sat thas = yo abe dhe iehaa th Ade oaea: i poy| Chapter 13 THE COURTYARD WAS POPULATED WITH PATIENTS. They were huddled about in their usual groups, gossiping, arguing, smoking; some were hugging themselves and stamping their feet to ke ep warm. Alicia put a cigarette to her lips, holding it between her long thin fingers. I lit it for her. As the flame caught the tip of her cigarette, it crackled and glowed red. She inhaled de eply, her eyes on mine. She seemed almost amused. “Aren't you going to smoke? Or is that inappropriate? Sharing a cigarette with a patient?” She’s making fun of me, I thought. But she was right to—no reg- ulation prohibited a member of staff and a patient from having a cigarette together. But if staff smoked, they tended to do it covertly, sneaking to the fire es cape at the back of the building. They cer- tainly didn’t do it in front of the patients. To stand here in the courtyard and smoke with her did feel like a transgression. I was probably imagining it, but I felt we were being watched. I sensed Christian spying on us from the window. His words came back to me: “Borderlines are so seductive.” I looked into Alicia’s eyes. They weren't seductive; they weren't even friendly. A fierce mind was behind those eyes, a sharp intelligence that was only just wak- ing up. She was a force to be reckoned with, Alicia Berenson. I un- derstood that now. Perhaps that’s why Christian had felt the need to sedate her. Was he scared of what she might do—what she might say? I felt a little scared of her myself; not scared, exactly—but alert, apprehensive. I knew I had to watch my st ep. “Why not?” I said. “I'll have one too.” I put a cigarette in my mouth and lit it. We smoked in silence for a moment, maintaining eye contact, only inches from each other, until I felt a strange adolescent embarrassment and averted my gaze. I tried to cover it by gesturing at the courtyard. “Shall we walk and talk?” Alicia nodded. “Okay.” We started walking around the wall, along the perimeter of the courtyard. The other patients watched us. I wondered what they were thinking. Alicia didn’t seem to care. She didn’t even seem to notice them. We walked in silence for a moment.
Eventually she said, “Do you want me to go on?” “If you want to, yes... Are you ready?” Alicia nodded. “Yes, I am.” “What happened once you were inside the house?” “The man said... he said he wanted a drink. So I gave him one of Gabriel’s beers. I don’t drink beer. I didn’t have anything else in the house.” “And then?” “He talked.” “What about?” “I don’t remember.” “You don’t?” “No.” She lapsed into silence. I waited as long as I could bear before prompting her, “Let’s ke ep going. You were in the kitchen. How were you feeling?” “I don't . . I don’t remember feeling anything at all.” I nodded. “That’s not uncommon in these situations. It’s not just a case of flight-or-fight responses. There’s a third, equally common response when we're under attack—we freeze.” “I didn’t freeze.” “No?” “No.” She shot me a fierce look. “I was pr eparing myself. I was get- ting ready ... ready to fight. Ready to—kill him.” “I see. And how did you intend to do that?” “Gabriel’s gun. I knew I had to get to the gun.” “Tt was in the kitchen? You had put it there? That’s what you wrote in the diary.” Alicia nodded. “Yes, in the cupboard by the window.” She inhaled de eply and blew out a long line of smoke. “I told him I needed some water. I went to get a glass. I walked across the kitchen—it took for- ever to walk a few feet. St ep by st ep, I reached the cupboard. My hand was shaking. .. . I opened it... .” “And?” “The cupboard was empty. The gun was gone. And then I heard him say, “The glasses are in the cupboard to your right.’ I turned around, and the gun was there—in his hand. He was pointing it at me, and laughing.” “And then?” “Then?” “What were you thinking?”
“That it had been my last chance to es cape, and now—now he was going to kill me.” “You believed he was going to kill you?” “I knew he was.” “But then why did he delay? Why not do it as soon as he broke into the house?” | Alicia didn’t answer. I glanced at her. To my surprise, a smile was on her lips. “When I was young, Aunt Lydia had a kitten. A tabby cat. I didn’t like her much. She was wild, and she’d go for me sometimes with her claws. She was unkind—and cruel.” “Don’t animals act out of instinct? Can they be cruel?” Alicia looked at me intently. “They can be cruel. She was. She would bring in things from the field—mice or little birds she'd caught. And they were always half-alive. Wounded, but alive. She’d ke ep them like that and play with them.” “T see. It sounds like you’re saying you were this man’s prey? That he was playing some kind of sadistic game with you. Is that right?” Alicia dropped the end of her cigarette on the ground and st epped on it. “Give me another one.” I handed her the pack. She took one and lit the cigarette herself. She smoked for a moment. “Gabriel was coming home at eight. Two more hours. I k ept staring at the clock. “What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Don't you like spending time with me?’ And he stroked my skin with the gun, running it up and down my arm.” She shivered at the memory..“I said Gabriel was going to be home any minute. ‘And what then?’ he asked. “He’ll rescue you?” “And what did you say?” “T didn’t say anything. I just k ept staring at the clock... and then my phone rang. It was Gabriel. He told me to answer it. He held the gun against my head.” “And? What did Gabriel say?” “He said .. . he said the shoot was turning into a nightmare, so I should go ahead and eat without him. He wouldn't get back until ten at the earliest. I hung up. ‘My husband is on his way home, I said. “He'll be here in a few minutes. You should go, now, before he gets back.’ The man just laughed. ‘But I heard him say he won't be back until ten, he said. “We've got hours to kill. Get me some rope, he said, ‘or tape or something. I want to tie you up. “I did as he asked. I knew it was hopeless now. I knew how it was going to end.” Alicia stopped talking and looked at me. I could see the raw emo- tion in her eyes. I wondered if I was pushing her too hard. “Maybe we should take a break.” “No, I need to finish. I need to do this.” She went on, speaking faster now. “I didn’t have any rope, so he took the wire I had for hanging canvases. He made me go in the living room. He pulled out one of the upright chairs from the dining table.
He told me to sit down. He started wrapping the wire around my ankles, tying me to the chair. I could feel it cutting into me. ‘Please, I said, ‘please—’ But he didn’t listen. He tied my wrists behind my IEIGEN IE back. I was sure then that he was going to kill me. I wish .. . Iwish he had.” She spat this out. I was startled by her vehemence. “Why do you wish that?” “Because what he did was worse.” For a second I thought Alicia was going to cry. I fought a sudden desire to hold her, take her in my arms, kiss her, reassure her, prom- ise her she was safe. I restrained myself. I stubbed out my cigarette on the redbrick wall. “T feel that you need to be taken care of. I find myself wanting to take care of you, Alicia.” “No.” She shook her head firmly. “That’s not what I want from you.” “What do you want?” Alicia didn’t answer. She turned and walked back inside. ibid. ghd wei ot eg veo Vad ig a By seraeiroy shpaeell gr -EUS Ds ihe och ai ois $, pa ibeaiiing tng GAR Cin & iag i a pisiasetl gee eeeaoriat 3 deine ie ve ee LG Sige tie “in, 0 6 6 aia y ae Gopsreah ircesig ae Chapter 14 I TURNED ON THE LIGHT in the therapy room and shut the door. When I turned around, Alicia had already sat down—but not in her chair. She was sitting in my chair. Normally I would have explored the meaning of this telling ges- ture with her. Now, however, I said nothing. If sitting in my chair signified she had the upper hand—well, she did. I was impatient to get to the end of her story, now that we were so close to it. So I just sat down and waited for her to speak. She half shut her eyes and was perfectly still. Eventually she said, “I was tied to the chair, and every time I squirmed, the wire cut de eper into my legs, and they were bleed- ing. It was a relief to focus on the cutting instead of my thoughts. My thoughts were too scary.... I thought I would never see Gabriel again. I thought I was going to die.” “What happened next?” “We sat there for what seemed like forever. It’s funny. I’ve always thought of fear as a cold sensation, but it’s not—it burns like fire. It was so hot in that room, with the windows closed and the blinds drawn. Still, stifling, heavy air. Beads of sweat were dripping down my forehead and into my eyes, stinging them. I could smell the al- cohol on him and the stink of his sweat while he drank and talked— he k ept talking. I didn’t listen to a lot of it. 1 could hear a big fat fly, buzzing between the blind and the window—it was trapped and ase thudding against the glass, thud, thud, thud. He asked questions about me and Gabriel—how we met, how long we’d been together, if we were happy. I thought if I could ke ep him talking, I had a better chance of staying alive.
So I answered his questions—about me, Gabriel, my work. I talked about whatever he wanted. Just to buy time. I
k ept focusing on the clock. Listening to it tick. And then suddenly it was ten o’clock.... And then... ten-thirty. And
still Gabriel hadn’t come home.
““He’s late, he said. ‘Maybe he’s not coming.’
ace He’s coming, I said.
Well, it’s a good thing I’m here to ke ep you company.’
i Rett ae t S oe
Sap, ng ae ay5 ineva pane
Chapter 15
SO THERE YOU HAVE IT. Alicia Berenson didn’t kill her husband.
A faceless intruder broke into their home and, in an apparently mo- tiveless act of malice, shot Gabriel dead before
vanishing into the night. Alicia was entirely innocent.
That’s if you believe her explanation.
I didn’t. Not a word ofit.
Apart from her obvious inconsistencies and inaccuracies—such as that Gabriel was not shot six times, but only five,
one of the bul- lets being fired at the ceiling; nor was Alicia discovered tied to a chair, but standing in the middle of
the room, having slashed her wrists. Alicia made no mention to me of the man’s untying her, nor did she explain
why she hadn’t told the police this version of events from the start. No, I knew she was lying. I was annoyed that
she had lied, badly and pointlessly, to my face. For a second I wondered if she was testing me, seeing whether I
acc epted the story? If so, I was determined to give nothing away.
I sat there in silence.
Unusually, Alicia spoke first. “I’m tired. I want to stop.”
I nodded. I couldn't object.
“Let’s carry on tomorrow,’ she said.
“Is there more to say?”
“Yes. One last thing.”
“Very well. Tomorrow.”
Yuri was waiting in the corridor. He escorted Alicia to her room, and I went up to my office.
As I have said, it’s been my practice for years to transcribe a ses- sion as soon as it’s ended. The ability to accurately
record what has been said during the past fifty minutes is of paramount importance to a therapist—otherwise much
detail is forgotten and the imme- diacy of the emotions lost.
I sat at my desk and wrote down, as fast as I could, everything that had transpired between us. The moment I
finished, I marched through the corridors, clutching my pages of notes.
I knocked on Diomedes’s door. There was no response, so I knocked again. Still no answer. I opened the door a
crack—and there was Diomedes, fast asle ep on his narrow couch.
“Professor?” And again, louder: “Professor Diomedes?”
He woke with a start and sat up quickly. He blinked at me.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I need to talk to you. Should I come back later?”
Diomedes frowned and shook his head. “I was having a brief si- esta. I always do, after lunch. It helps me get
through the afternoon. It becomes a necessity as you get older.” He yawned and stood up.
“Come in, Theo. Sit down. By the looks of you, it’s important.”
“T think it is, yes.”
“Alicia?”
I nodded. I sat in front of the desk. He sat down behind it. His hair was sticking up to one side, and he still looked
half-asle ep.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t come back later?”
Diomedes shook his head. He poured himself a glass of water from a jug. “I’m awake now. Go on. What is it?”
“Tve been with Alicia, talking. .. . Ineed some supervision.”
Diomedes nodded. He was looking more awake by the second, and more interested. “Go on.”
I started reading from my notes. I took him through the entire session. I r epeated her words as accurately as I could
and relayed the story she had told me: how the man who'd been spying on her broke into the house, took her
prisoner, and shot and killed Gabriel.
When I finished, there was a long pause. Diomedes’s expression
gave little away. He pulled a box of cigars out of his desk drawer. He took out a little silver guillotine. He popped
the end of a cigar into it and sliced it off.
“Let’s start with the countertransference. Tell me about your emo- tional experience. Start at the beginning. As she
was telling you her story, what kind of feelings were coming up?”
I thought about it for a moment. “I felt excited, I suppose. ... And anxious. Afraid.”
“Afraid? Was it your fear, or hers?”
“Both, I imagine.”
“And what were you afraid of?”
“Tm not sure. Fear of failure, perhaps. I have a lot riding on this, as you know.”
Diomedes nodded. “What else?”
“Frustration too. I feel frustrated quite frequently during our ses- sions.”
“And angry?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“You feel like a frustrated father, dealing with a difficult child?”
“Yes. I want to help her—but I don’t know if she wants to be helped.”
He nodded. “Stay with the feeling of anger. Talk more about it.
How does it manifest itself?”
I hesitated. “Well, I often leave the sessions with a splitting head- ache.”
Diomedes nodded. “Yes, exactly. It has to come out one way or another. ‘A trainee who is not anxious will be sick.’
Who was it who said that?” “T don’t know.” I shrugged. “I’m sick and anxious.”
Diomedes smiled. “You're also no longer a trainee—although those feelings never go away entirely.” He picked up
his cigar. “Let's go outside for a smoke.”
We went onto the fire es cape. Diomedes puffed on his cigar for a moment, mulling things over. Eventually he
reached a conclusion.
“She’s lying, you know.”
“You mean about the man killing Gabriel? I thought so too.”
“Not just that.”
“Then what?”
“All of it. The whole cock-and-bull story. I don’t believe a single word of it.”
I must have looked rather taken aback. I had suspected he'd dis- believe some elements of Alicia’s tale. I hadn’t
expected him to re- ject the whole thing.
“You don’t believe in the man?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t believe he ever existed. It’s a fantasy. From start to finish.”
“What makes you so sure?”
Diomedes gave me a strange smile. “Call it my intuition. Years of professional experience with fantasists.” I tried to
interrupt but he forestalled me with a wave of his hand. “Of course, I don’t expect you to agree, Theo. You're in
de ep with Alicia, and your feelings are bound up with hers like a tangled ball of wool. That is the purpose of a
supervision like this—to help you unpick the strands of wool— to see what is yours and what is hers. And once you
gain some dis- tance, and clarity, I suspect you will feel rather differently about your experience with Alicia
Berenson.”
“Tm not sure what you mean.”
“Well, to be blunt, I fear she has been performing for you. Ma- nipulating you. And it’s a performance that I believe
has been tailored specifically to appeal to your chivalric .. . and, let’s say, romantic instincts. It was obvious to me
from the start that you intended to rescue her. I’m quite sure it was obvious to Alicia too.
Hence her seduction of you.”
“You sound like Christian. She hasn’t seduced me. I am perfectly capable of withstanding a patient’s sexual
projections. Don’t under- estimate me, Professor.”
“Don’t underestimate her. She’s giving an excellent performance.”
Diomedes shook his head and peered up at the gray clouds. “The vulnerable woman under attack, alone, in need of
protection. Ali- cia has cast herself as the victim and this mystery man as the vil- lain. Whereas in fact Alicia and the
man are one and the same. She
killed Gabriel. She was guilty—and she is still refusing to acc ept that guilt. So she splits, dissociates,
fantasizes—Alicia becomes the innocent victim and you are her protector. And by colluding with this fantasy you
are allowing her to disown all responsibility.”
“I don’t agree with that. I don’t believe she is lying, consciously, anyway. At the very least, Alicia believes her story
to be true.” “Yes, she believes it. Alicia is under attack—but from her own psyche, not the outside world.”
I knew that wasn’t true, but there was no point in arguing fur- ther. I stubbed out my cigarette.
“How do you think I should proceed?”
“You must force her to confront the truth. Only then will she have a hope of recovery. You must refuse point-blank
to acc ept her story.
Challenge her. Demand she tell you the truth.”
“And do you think she will?”
He shrugged. “That”—he took a long drag on his cigar—“is any- one’s guess.”
“Very well. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. I’ll confront her.”
Diomedes looked slightly uneasy and opened his mouth as if he was about to say something further. But he changed
his mind. He nodded and stamped out his cigar with an air of finality. “Tomorrow.”
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Chapter 16
Reser EN
AFTER WORK, I followed Kathy to the park again. Sure enough, her lover was waiting at the same spot where
they met last time. They kissed and groped each other like teenagers.
Kathy glanced in my direction, and for a second I thought she saw me, but no. She only had eyes for him. I tried to
get a better look at him this time. But I still didn’t see his face properly, though some- thing about his build was
familiar. I had the feeling I’d seen him before somewhere.
They walked toward Camden and disappeared into a pub, the Rose and Crown, a seedy-looking place. I waited in
the café opposite.
About an hour later, they came out. Kathy was all over him, kissing him. They kissed for a while by the road. I
watched, feeling sick to my stomach, burning with hate.
She eventually said goodbye to him, and they left each other. She started walking away. The man turned and walked
in the opposite direction. I didn’t follow Kathy.
I followed him. He waited at a bus stop. I stood behind him. I looked at his back, his shoulders; I imagined lunging at him—shoving
him under the oncoming bus. But I didn’t push him. He got on the bus. So did I.
I assumed he would go directly home, but he didn’t. He changed buses a couple of times. I followed him from a
distance. He went to the East End, where he disappeared into a warehouse for half an
hour. Then another journey, on another bus. He made a couple of phone calls, speaking in a low voice and
chuckling frequently. I wondered if he was talking to Kathy. I was feeling increasingly frus- trated and disheartened.
But I was also stubborn and refused to give up.
Eventually he made his way home—getting off the bus and turn- ing onto a quiet tree-lined street. He was still
talking on his phone.
I followed him, ke eping my distance. The street was deserted. If he had turned around, he would have seen me. But
he didn't.
I passed a house with a rock garden and succulent plants. I acted without thinking—my body seemed to move on its
own. My arm reached over the low wall into the garden and picked up a rock. I could feel its weight in my hands.
My hands knew what to do: they had decided to kill him, crack open the worthless scumbag’s skull.
I went along with this, in a mindless trance, cre eping after him, silently gaining ground, getting nearer. Soon I was
close enough. I raised the rock, pr eparing to smash it down on him with all my strength. I'd knock him to the ground
and bash his brains out. I was so close; if he weren't still talking on his phone, he’d have heard me.
Now: I raised the rock, and— Right behind me, on my left, a front door opened. A sudden buzz of conversation,
loud Thank yous and Goodbyes as people left the house. I froze. Right in front of me, Kathy’s lover stopped and
looked in the direction of the noise, at the house. I st epped aside and hid behind a tree. He didn’t see me.
He started walking again, but I didn’t follow. The interruption had startled me out of my reverie. The rock fell from
my hand and it thudded to the ground. I watched him from behind the tree. He strolled up to the front door of a
house, unlocked it, and let himself inside.
A few seconds later, a light went on in the kitchen. He was stand- ing in profile, a little way from the window. Only
half of the room was visible from the street. He was talking to someone I couldn't see. While they talked, he opened
a bottle of wine. They sat down and ate a meal together. Then I caught a glimpse of his companion.
It was a woman. Was it his wife? I couldn’t see her clearly. He put his arm around her and kissed her.
So I wasn't the only one being betrayed. He had returned home, after kissing my wife, and ate the meal this woman
had pr epared for him, as if nothing had happened. I knew I couldn’t leave it here—I had to do something. But what?
Despite my best homicidal fantasies, I wasn’t a murderer. I couldn’t kill him.
I'd have to think of something cleverer than that.
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T epes witatte dex they. “s bad Bechet Lege is steheic’ ee vie thie niet ge at | bshaalg wa aa hk raise ety Pranab Chapter 17
I PLANNED TO HAVE IT out with Alicia first thing in the morn- ing. I intended to make her admit she had lied to
me about the man killing Gabriel and force her to confront the truth.
Unfortunately, I never got the chance.
Yuri was waiting for me in rec eption. “Theo, I need to talk to you—” “What is it?”
I took a closer look at him. His face seemed to have aged over- night; he looked shrunken, pale, bloodless.
Something bad had happened.
“There’s been an accident. Alicia—she took an overdose.”
“What? Is she—?”
Yuri shook his head. “She’s still alive, but—” “Thank God—” “But she’s in a coma. It doesn’t look good.”
“Where is she?”
Yuri took me through a series of locked corridors into the inten- sive care ward. Alicia was in a private room. She
was hooked up to an ECG machine and a ventilator. Her eyes were closed.
Christian was there with another doctor. He looked ashen in contrast to the emergency-room doctor, who had a de ep
suntan— she’d obviously just gotten back from holiday. But she didn’t look refreshed. She looked exhausted.
“How is Alicia?” I said.
The doctor shook her head. “Not good. We had to induce coma.
Her respiratory system failed.”
“What did she take?”
“An opioid of some kind. Hydrocodone, probably.”
Yuri nodded. “There was an empty bottle of pills on the desk in her room.”
“Who found her?”
“T did,” Yuri said. “She was on the floor, by the bed. She didn’t seem to be breathing. I thought she was dead at
first.”
“Any idea how she got hold of the pills?”
Yuri glanced at Christian, who shrugged. “We all know there's a lot of dealing going on in the wards.”
“Elif is dealing,” I said.
Christian nodded. “Yes, I think so too.”
Indira came in. She looked close to tears. She stood by Alicia’s side and watched her for a moment. “This is going
to have a terrible effect on the others. It always sets the patients back months when this sort of thing happens.” She
sat down and reached for Alicia’s hand and stroked it. I watched the ventilator rise and fall. There was silence for a
moment.
“I blame myself,” I said.
Indira shook her head. “Tt’s not your fault, Theo.” “T should have taken better care of her.”
“You did your best. You helped her. Which is more than anyone else did.”
“Has anybody told Diomedes?”
Christian shook his head. “We’ve not been able to get hold of him yet.”
“Did you try his mobile?”
“And his home phone. I’ve tried a few times.”
Yuri frowned. “But—I saw Professor Diomedes earlier. He was here.”
“He was?”
“Yes, I saw him early this morning. He was at the other end of
the corridor, and he seemed in a rush—at least, I think it was him.”
“That's odd. Well, he must have gone home. Try him again, will you?”
Yuri nodded. He looked far away somehow; dazed, lost. He seemed to have taken it badly. I felt sorry for him.
Christian’s pager went off, startling him—he quickly left the room, followed by Yuri and the doctor.
Indira hesitated and spoke in a low voice. “Would you like a mo- ment alone with Alicia?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Indira stood up and squeezed my shoulder for a second. Then she walked
out.
Alicia and I were alone.
I sat down by the bed. I reached out and took Alicia’s arm. A cath- eter was attached to the back of her hand. I
gently held her hand, stroking her palm and the inside of her wrist. I stroked her wrist with my finger, feeling the
veins under her skin, and the raised, thickened scars from her suicide attempts.
So this was it. This was how it was going to end. Alicia was silent again, and this time her silence would last
forever.
I wondered what Diomedes would say. I could imagine what Christian would tell him—Christian would find a way
to blame me somehow: the emotions I stirred up in therapy were too much for Alicia to contain—she got hold of the
hydrocodone as an attempt to self-soothe and self-medicate. The overdose might have been accidental, I could hear
Diomedes saying, but the behavior was suicidal. And that would be that.
But that was not that.
Something had been overlooked. Something significant, some- thing no one had noticed—not even Yuri, when he
found Alicia unconscious by the bed. An empty pill bottle was on her desk, yes, and a couple of pills were on the
floor, so of course it was assumed she had taken an overdose.
But here, under my fingertip, on the inside of Alicia’s wrist, was some bruising and a little mark that told a very
different story.
A pinprick along the vein—a tiny hole left by a hypodermic needle—revealing the truth: Alicia didn’t swallow a
bottle of pills in a suicidal gesture. She was injected with a massive dose of mor- phine. This wasn’t an overdose.
It was attempted murder. Chapter 18
HT EEN
DIOMEDES TURNED u P half an hour later. He had been in a meet- ing with the Trust, he said, then got stuck on
the Underground, delayed by a signal failure. He asked Yuri to send for me.
Yuri found me in my office. “Professor Diomedes is here. He’s with St ephanie. They're waiting for you.”
“Thanks. I'll be right there.”
I made my way to Diomedes’s office, expecting the worst. A s cape- goat would be needed to take the blame. I'd
seen it before, at Broad- moor, in cases of suicide: whichever member of staff was closest to the victim was held
accountable, be it therapist, doctor, or nurse. No doubt St ephanie was baying for my blood.
I knocked on the door and went inside. St ephanie and Diomedes were standing on either side of the desk. Judging
by the tense silence, I'd interrupted a disagreement.
Diomedes spoke first. He was clearly agitated, and his hands flew all over the place. “Terrible business. Terrible.
Obviously it couldn't have come at a worse time. It gives the Trust the perfect excuse to shut us down.”
“T hardly think the Trust is the immediate concern,’ St ephanie said. “The safety of the patients comes first. We need
to find out ex- actly what happened.” She turned to me. “Indira mentioned you suspected Elif of dealing drugs?
That’s how Alicia got hold of the hydrocodone?”
I hesitated. “Well, I’ve no proof. It’s something I’ve heard a couple of the nurses talking about. But actually there’s
something else I think you should know—” St ephanie interrupted me with a shake of her head. “We know what
happened. It wasn’t Elif.”
“No?”
“Christian happened to be passing the nurses’ station, and he saw the drugs cabinet was left wide-open. There was
no one in the sta- tion. Yuri had left it unlocked. Anyone could have gone in and helped themselves. And Christian
saw Alicia lurking around the corner. He wondered what she was doing there at the time. Now of course it makes
sense.”
“How fortunate Christian was there to see all this.”
My voice had a sarcastic tone. But St ephanie chose not to pick up on it. “Christian isn’t the only person who’s
noticed Yuri’s careless- ness. I’ve often felt Yuri is far too relaxed about security. Too friendly with the patients.
Too concerned with being popular. I’m surprised something like this didn’t happen sooner.”
“T see.” I did see. I understood now why St ephanie was being cor- dial to me. It seemed I was off the hook; she had
chosen Yuri as the s capegoat.
“Yuri always seems so meticulous,” I said, glancing at Diomedes, wondering if he’d intervene. “I really don’t
think—” Diomedes shrugged. “My personal opinion is Alicia has always been highly suicidal. As we know, when
someone wants to die, despite your best efforts to protect them, it’s often impossible to prevent it.”
“Isn't that our job?” St ephanie snapped. “To prevent it?”
“No.” Diomedes shook his head. “Our job is to help them heal.
But we are not God. We do not have the power over life and death.
Alicia Berenson wanted to die. At some point she was bound to succeed. Or at least partly succeed.” I hesitated. It was now or never.
“Tm not so sure that’s true,” I said. “I don’t think it was a suicide attempt.”
“You think it was an accident?”
“No. I don’t think it was an accident.”
Diomedes gave me a curious look. “What are you trying to say, Theo? What other alternative is there?”
“Well, to start with, I don’t believe Yuri gave Alicia the drugs.”
“You mean Christian is mistaken?”
“No,” I said. “Christian is lying.”
Diomedes and St ephanie stared at me, shocked. I went on before they could recover their power of speech.
I quickly told them everything that I had read in Alicia’s diary: that Christian had been treating Alicia privately
before Gabriel’s murder; that she was one of several private patients he saw unofh- cially, and not only had he not
come forward to testify at the trial, he had pretended not to know Alicia when she was admitted to the Grove. “No
wonder he was so against any attempt to get her talking again,’ I said. “If she did speak, she would be in a position
to ex- pose him.”
St ephanie stared at me blankly. “But—what are you saying? You can't seriously be suggesting that he—” “Yes, Iam
suggesting it. It wasn’t an overdose. It was an attempt to murder her.”
“Where is Alicia’s diary?” Diomedes asked me. “You have it in your possession?”
I shook my head. “No, not anymore. I gave it back to Alicia. It must be in her room.”
“Then we must retrieve it.” Diomedes turned to St ephanie. “But first, I think we should call the police. Don’t you?”
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Chapter 19
PE EN
FROM THEN ON THINGS MOVED FAST.
Police officers swarmed all over the Grove, asking questions, taking photographs, sealing off Alicia’s studio and her
room. The investigation was led by Chief Inspector Steven Allen, heavyset, bald, with large reading glasses that
distorted his eyes, magnifying them, making them seem bigger than life, bulging with interest and curiosity.
Allen listened with careful interest to my story; I told him every- thing I had said to Diomedes, and I showed him
my supervision notes. “Thank you very much indeed, Mr. Faber.”
“Call me Theo.”
“Td like you to make an official statement, please. And I'll be talk- ing to you more in due course.”
“Yes, certainly.”
Inspector Allen had commandeered Diomedes’s office. He showed me out. After I made my statement to a junior
officer, I hung around in the corridor, waiting. Soon enough, Christian was led to the door by a police officer. He
looked uneasy, scared—and guilty. I felt sat- isfied he would soon be charged.
There was nothing else to do now, exc ept wait. On my way out of the Grove, I passed the goldfish bowl. I glanced
inside—and what I saw stopped me in my tracks.
Elif was being slipped some drugs by Yuri, and he was pocketing some cash.
Elif charged out and fixed me with her one eye. A look of con- tempt and hatred.
“Elif,” I said.
“Puck off.” She marched off, disappearing around the corner.
Yuri emerged from the goldfish bowl. As soon as he saw me, his jaw dropped. He stuttered with surprise. “I—I
didn’t see you there.”
“Obviously not.”
“Elif—forgot her medication. I was just giving it to her.”
Clseee So Yuri was dealing and supplying Elif. I wondered what else he was up to—perhaps I had been a little too
hasty to defend him so determinedly to St ephanie. I'd better ke ep an eye on him.
“T wanted to ask you,’ he said, leading me away from the goldfish bowl. “What should we do about Mr. Martin?”
“What do you mean?” I looked at him, surprised. “You mean Jean-Felix Martin? What about him?”
“Well, he’s been here for hours. He came this morning to visit Alicia. And he’s been waiting since then.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me? You mean he’s been here all this time?”
“Sorry, it slipped my mind with everything that happened. He’s in the waiting room.”
“I see. Well, 'd better go and talk to him.”
I hurried downstairs to rec eption, thinking about what Id just heard. What was Jean-Felix doing here? I wondered
what he wanted; what it meant.
I went into the waiting room and looked around.
But no one was there.
Chapter 20
I LEFT THE GROVE and lit a cigarette. I heard a man’s voice call- ing my name. I looked up, expecting it to be
Jean-Felix. But it wasn't him.
It was Max Berenson. He was getting out of a car and charging toward me. “What the fuck?” he shouted. “What happened?” Max’s face was bright red, contorted with anger. “They just called
and told me about Alicia. What happened to her?”
I took a st ep backward. “I think you need to calm down, Mr.
Berenson.”
“Calm down? My sister-in-law is lying in there in a fucking coma because of your negligence—” Max’s hand was
clenched in a fist. He raised it. Ithought he was going to throw a punch at me.
But he was interrupted by Tanya. She hurried over, looking just as angry as he was—but angry with Max, not me.
“Stop it, Max! For Christ’s sake. Aren't things bad enough? It’s not Theo’s fault!”
Max ignored her and turned back to me. His eyes were wild.
“Alicia was in your care,’ he shouted. “How did you let it happen?
How?”
Max’s eyes filled with angry tears. He was making no attempt to disguise his emotions. He stood there crying. I
glanced at Tanya; she obviously knew about his feelings for Alicia. Tanya looked
dismayed and drained. Without another word, she turned and went back to their car.
I wanted to get away from Max as fast as possible. I k ept walking.
He k ept shouting abuse. I thought he was going to follow, but he didn’t—he was rooted to the spot, a broken man,
calling after me, yelling piteously: “I hold you responsible. My poor Alicia, my girl... my poor Alicia... You'll pay
for this! You hear me?”
Max k ept on shouting, but I ignored him. Soon his voice faded into silence. I was alone.
I k ept walking.
Chapter 21
I WALKED BACK TO THE HOUSE where Kathy's lover lived. I stood there for an hour, watching. Eventually the
door opened, and he emerged. I watched him leave. Where was he going? To meet Kathy? I hesitated, but decided
not to follow him. Instead I stayed watching the house.
I watched his wife through the windows. As I watched, I felt in- creasingly sure I had to do something to help her.
She was me, and I was her: we were two innocent victims, deceived and betrayed. She believed this man loved
her—but he didn't.
Perhaps I was wrong, assuming she knew nothing about the af- fair? Perhaps she did know. Perhaps they enjoyed a
sexually open relationship and she was equally promiscuous? But somehow I didn’t think so. She looked innocent,
as I had once looked. It was my duty to enlighten her. I could reveal the truth about the man she was living with,
whose bed she shared. I had no choice. I had to help her.
Over the next few days, I k ept returning. One day, she left the house and went for a walk. I followed her, ke eping
my distance. I was worried she saw me at one point, but even if she did, I was just a stranger to her. For the moment.
I went away and made a couple of purchases. I came back again.
I stood across the road, watching the house. I saw her again, stand- ing by the window. I didn’t have a plan, as such, just a vague, unformed idea of what I needed to accomplish. Rather like an
inexperienced artist, Iknew the result I wanted—without knowing quite how to achieve it. I waited awhile, then
walked up to the house. I tried the gate—it was unlocked. It swung open and I st epped into the garden. I felt a sud-
den rush of adrenaline. An illicit thrill at being an intruder on someone else’s property.
Then I saw the back door opening. I looked for somewhere to hide. I noticed the little summerhouse across the
grass. I raced si- lently across the lawn and slipped inside. I stood there for a second, catching my breath. My heart
was pounding. Had she seen me? I heard her footst eps approaching. Too late to back out now. I reached into my
back pocket and took out the black balaclava ’'d bought. I pulled it over my head. I put on a pair of gloves.
She walked in. She was on the phone: “Okay, darling. P'll see you at eight. Yes .. . love you too.”
She ended the call and switched on an electric fan. She stood in front of the fan, her hair blowing in the breeze. She
picked up a paintbrush and approached a canvas on an easel. She stood with her back to me. Then she caught sight
of my reflection in the window. I think she saw my knife first. She stiffened and slowly turned around.
Her eyes were wide with fear. We stared at each other in silence.
This was the first time I came face-to-face with Alicia Berenson.
The rest, as they say, is history. Part Five
If I justify myself, mine own mouth shall condemn me.
—Job 9:20
Chapter 1
Alicia Berenson’s Diary
FEBRUARY 23
Theo just left. |am alone. I’m writing this as fast as | can. | haven’t got much time. I’ve got to get this down while |
still have the strength.
| thought | was crazy at first. It was easier to think | was crazy than believe it was true. But I’m not crazy. I’m not.
That first time | met him in the therapy room, | wasn’t sure—there was something familiar about him, but
different—l recognized his eyes, not just the color but the shape. And the same smell of cigarettes and smoky
aftershave. And the way he formed words, and the rhythm of his speech—but not the tone of his voice, it seemed
different somehow. So | wasn’t sure—but the next time we met, he gave himself away. He said the same
words—the exact same phrase he’d used at the house, burned into my memory:
“| want to help you—I want to help you see clearly.”
As soon as | heard that, something in my brain clicked and the jigsaw came together—the picture was complete.
It was him.
And something in me took over, some kind of wild animal instinct.
| wanted to kill him, kill or be killed—I leaped on him and tried to strangle him and scratch his eyes out, bash his
skull to pieces on the floor. But
| didn’t succeed in killing him, and they held me down and drugged me and locked me up. And then—after that |
lost my nerve. | started to doubt myself again—maybe I’d made a mistake, maybe | was imagining it, maybe it
wasn’t him.
How could it possibly be Theo? What purpose could he have in coming here to taunt me like this? And then |
understood. All that bullshit about wanting to help me—that was the sickest part of it. He was getting a kick out of
it, he was getting off on it—that’s why he was here. He had come back to gloat.
“| want to help you—| want to help you see clearly.”
Well, now | saw. | saw clearly. |wanted him to know that | knew. So | lied about the way Gabriel died. As | was
talking, | could see he knew | was lying. We looked at each other and he saw it—that | had recognized him. And
there was something in his eyes I'd never seen before. Fear. He was afraid of me—of what | might say. He was
scared—of the sound of my voice.
That's why he came back a few minutes ago. He didn’t say anything this time. No more words. He grabbed my wrist
and stuck a needle in my vein. | didn’t struggle. | didn’t fight back. | let him do it. | deserve it—l deserve this
punishment. | am guilty—but so is he.
That’s why I’m writing this—so he won't get away with it. So he will be punished. I’ve got to be quick. | can feel it now—the stuff he injected me with is working. I’m so drowsy. | want to lie down. |
want to sle ep. ... But no—not yet. I’ve got to stay awake. I’ve got to finish the story. And this time, I'll tell the truth.
That night, Theo broke into the house and tied me up—and when Gabriel came home, Theo knocked him out. At
first | thought he’d killed him—but then | saw Gabriel was breathing. Theo pulled him up and tied him to the chair.
He moved it so Gabriel and | were sitting back- to-back, and | couldn't see his face.
“Please,” | said. “Please don't hurt him. I’m begging you—l'll do anything, anything you want.”
Theo laughed. I’d come to hate his laugh so much—it was cold, empty.
Heartless. “Hurt him?” He shook his head. “I’m going to kill him.”
He meant it. | felt such terror, | lost control of my tears. | w ept and pleaded. “I'll do anything you want,
anything—please, please let him live—he deserves to live. He’s the kindest and the best of men—and | love him, |
love him so much—”
“Tell me, Alicia. Tell me about your love for him. Tell me, do you think he loves you?”
“He loves me,” | said.
| heard the clock ticking in the background. There seemed to be an age before he r eplied. “We'll see,” he said. His
black eyes stared at me for a second and | felt consumed by darkness. | was in the presence of a creature that wasn’t
even human. He was evil.
He walked around the chair and faced Gabriel. | turned my head as far as | could, but | couldn’t see them. There was
a horrible dull thud—| flinched as | heard him strike Gabriel across the face. He hit him again and again, until
Gabriel started spluttering and woke up.
“Hello, Gabriel,” he said.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m a married man. So | know what it's like to love someone. And | know what it’s like to be let down.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Only cowards betray the people who love them. Are you a coward, Gabriel?”
“Fuck you.”
“| was going to kill you. But Alicia pleaded for your life. So instead, I’m going to give you a choice. Either you
die—or Alicia does. You decide.”
The way he spoke was so cool and calm and in control. No emotion.
Gabriel didn’t r eply for a second. He sounded out of breath, like he’d been punched.
“Nlio—”
“Yes. Alicia dies, or you die. Your choice, Gabriel. Let’s find out how much you love her. Would you die for her?
You have ten seconds to decide.... Ten... nine—”
“Don’t believe him,” | said. “He’s going to kill us both—I love you—”
“—eight ... seven—”
“| know you love me, Gabriel—” “—six... five—”
“You love me—”
“—four... three—”
“Gabriel, say you love me—”
“—two—”
And then Gabriel spoke. | didn’t recognize his voice at first. Such a tiny voice, so far away—a little boy’s voice. A
small child—with the power of life and death at his fingertips.
“| don’t want to die,” he said.
Then there was silence. Everything stopped. Inside my body, every cell deflated; wilting cells, like dead petals
falling from a flower. Jasmine flowers floating to the ground. Can | smell jasmine somewhere? Yes, yes, sweet
jasmine—on the windowsill perhaps...
Theo st epped away from Gabriel and started talking to me. | found it hard to focus on his words. “You see, Alicia? |
knew Gabriel was a coward—fucking my wife behind my back. He destroyed the only happiness I’ve ever had.”
Theo leaned forward, right in my face. “I'm sorry to do this. But quite frankly, now you know the truth... you're
better off dead.”
He raised the gun and pointed it at my head. | shut my eyes. | heard Gabriel screaming—“Don’t shoot don’t shoot
don’t—”
A click. And then a gunshot—so loud that it blew away all other sound.
There was silence for a few seconds. | thought | was dead.
But | wasn’t so lucky.
| opened my eyes. Theo was still there—pointing the gun at the ceiling.
He smiled. He put his finger to his lips, telling me to ke ep quiet.
“Alicia?” Gabriel shouted. “Alicia?”
| could hear Gabriel writhing in his chair, trying to turn around to see what had happened.
“What did you do to her, you bastard? You fucking bastard. Oh, Jesus—”
Theo untied my wrists. He dropped the gun to the floor. Then he kissed me, ever so gently, on the cheek. He walked
out, and the front door slammed after him.
Gabriel and | were alone. He was sobbing, crying, barely able to form words. He just k ept calling my name, wailing,
“Alicia, Alicia—”
| remained silent.
“Alicia? Fuck, fuck, oh, fuck—”
| remained silent.
“Alicia, answer me, Alicia—oh, God—”
| remained silent. How could | talk? Gabriel had sentenced me to death.
The dead don’t talk. | untied the wire around my ankles. | got up from the chair. | reached down to the floor. My fingers closed around the
gun. It was hot and heavy in my hand. | walked around the chair, and | faced Gabriel. Tears were streaming down his
cheeks. His eyes widened.
“Alicia? You're alive—thank God you’re—”
| wish | could say | struck a blow for the defeated—that | was standing up for the betrayed and brokenhearted—that
Gabriel had a tyrant’s eyes, my father’s eyes. But I’m past lying now. The truth is Gabriel had my eyes,
suddenly—and | had his. Somewhere along the way we had swapped places.
| saw it now. | would never be safe. Never be loved. All my hopes, dashed—all my dreams, shattered—leaving
nothing, nothing.
My father was right—I didn’t deserve to live. | was—nothing. That’s what Gabriel did to me.
That's the truth. | didn’t kill Gabriel. He killed me.
All| did was pull the trigger.
a12
Chapter 2
“THERE IS NOTHING SO PITIFUL, Indira said, “as seeing all someone’s possessions in a cardboard box.”
I nodded. I looked around the room sadly.
“Surprising, really,” Indira went on, “how few things Alicia had.
When you think how much junk the other patients accumulate . . .
All she had were some books, a few drawings, her clothes.”
Indira and I were clearing out Alicia’s room on St ephanie’s instructions. “It’s unlikely she’ll ever wake up,”
St ephanie had said, “and quite frankly we need the bed.” We worked in silence mostly, deciding what to put in
storage and what to throw away. I carefully looked through her belongings. I wanted to make sure there was nothing
incriminating—nothing that might trip me up.
I wondered how Alicia had managed to ke ep her diary hidden and out of sight for so long. Each patient was allowed
to bring a small amount of personal items with them upon admittance to the Grove. Alicia had brought a portfolio of
sketches, which I presume was how she had smuggled in the diary. I opened the portfolio and flicked through the
drawings—they were mostly unfinished pencil sketches and studies. A few casual lines thrown onto a page,
immedi- ately coming to life, brilliantly evocative, capturing an unmistakable likeness.
I showed a sketch to Indira. “It’s you.”
“What? It’s not.”
“It is.”
“Ts it?” Indira looked delighted and studied it closely. “Do you think so? I never noticed her drawing me. I wonder
when she did it. It’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. You should ke ep it.”
Indira pulled a face and handed it back. “I couldn’t do that.” “Of course you can. She wouldn’t mind.” I smiled. “No one will ever know.”
“I suppose—I suppose not.” She glanced at the painting upright on the floor, leaning against the wall—the painting
of me and Ali- cia on the fire es cape of the burning building, which had been defaced by Elif.
“What about that?” Indira asked. “Will you take it?”
I shook my head. “I'll call Jean-Felix. He can take charge of it.”
Indira nodded. “Shame you can’t ke ep it.”
I looked at it for a moment. I didn’t like it. Of all of Alicia’s paintings, it was the only one I didn’t like. Strange,
considering it had me as its subject.
I want to be clear—I never thought Alicia would shoot Gabriel.
This is an important point. I never intended nor expected her to kill him. All I wanted was to awaken Alicia to the
truth about her mar- riage, as I had been awakened. I intended to show her that Gabriel didn’t love her, that her life
was a lie, their marriage a sham. Only then would she have a chance, as I had, to build a new life from the rubble; a
life based on truth, not lies.
I had no idea about Alicia’s history of instability. Had I known, I never would have pushed things so far. I had no
idea she would re- act like that. And when the story was all over the press and Alicia was on trial for murder, I felt a
de ep sense of personal responsibil- ity, and the desire to expiate my guilt and prove that I was not re- sponsible for
what had happened. So I applied for the job at the Grove. I wanted to help her through the aftermath of the
murder— help her understand what had happened, work through it—and be free. If you were cynical, you might say
I revisited the scene of the crime, so to speak, to cover my tracks. That’s not true. Even though I knew the risks of
such an endeavor, the real possibility that Imight
EE NSE
get caught, that it might end in disaster, I had no choice—because of who I am.
Iam a psychotherapist, remember. Alicia needed help—and only I knew how to help her.
I was nervous she might know me, despite my having worn the mask and disguised my voice. But Alicia didn’t
seem to recognize me, and I was able to play a new part in her life. Then, that night in Cambridge, I finally
understood what I had unwittingly reenacted, the long-forgotten land mine on which I had trodden. Gabriel was the
second man to condemn Alicia to death; bringing up this orig- inal trauma was more than she could bear—which is
why she picked up the gun and visited her long-awaited revenge not upon her father, but upon her husband. As I
suspected, the murder had much older, de eper origins than my actions.
But when she lied to me about how Gabriel died, it was obvious Alicia had recognized me and she was testing me. I
was forced to take action, to silence Alicia forever. I had Christian take the blame—a poetic justice, I felt. Ihad no
qualms about framing him.
Christian had failed Alicia when she needed him the most; he de- served to be punished.
Silencing Alicia wasn’t so easy. Injecting her with morphine was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. That she didn’t
die, but is asle ep, is better—this way, I can still visit her every day and sit by her bed and hold her hand. I haven't
lost her.
“Are we done?” asked Indira, interrupting my thoughts.
“T think so.” “Good. I have to go, I have a patient at twelve.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“See you at lunch?”
ec ae Indira gave my arm a squeeze and left.
I looked at my watch. I thought about leaving early, going home.
I felt exhausted. I was about to turn off the light and leave when a thought occurred to me and I felt my body stiffen.
The diary. Where was it?
My eyes flickered around the room, neatly packed and boxed up.
p15
We'd gone through it all. I had looked at and considered each and every one of her personal items.
And it wasn’t there.
How could I have been so careless? Indira and her fucking end- less inane chatter had distracted me and made me
lose focus.
Where was it? It had to be here. Without the diary there was pre- cious little evidence to convict Christian. I had to
find it.
I searched the room, feeling increasingly frantic. I turned the cardboard boxes upside down, scattering their contents
on the floor.
I rummaged through the debris, but it wasn’t there. I tore apart her clothing but found nothing. I ripped open the art
portfolio, shak- ing the sketches to the floor, but the diary wasn’t among them. Then I went through the cupboards
and pulled out all the drawers, check- ing that they were empty, then hurling them aside.
But it wasn’t there.
Chapter 3
Aer ek Reitae Rek E
JULIAN MCMAHON FROM THE TRUST was waiting for me in re- c eption. He had a big build, curly ginger hair,
and a fondness for phrases such as between you and me or at the end of the day or the bottom line, which frequently
popped up in his conversation, often in the same sentence. He was essentially a benign figure—the friendly face of
the Trust. He wanted to have a word with me before I went home.
“T’ve just come from Professor Diomedes. I thought you should know—he’s resigned.”
TAhzbsee.”
“He took early retirement. Between you and me, it was either that or face an inquiry into this mess.” Julian
shrugged. “I can’t help but feel sorry for him—not a particularly glorious end to a long and distinguished career.
But at least this way he’ll be spared the press and all the hoo-ha. Incidentally, he mentioned you.”
“Diomedes?” .
“Yes. He suggested we give you his job.” Julian winked. “He said you were the perfect man for it.” I smiled. “That’s very kind.”
“Unfortunately, at the end of the day, given what happened to Alicia, and Christian’s arrest, there’s simply no
question of ke eping the Grove open. We're closing it down permanently.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. So in fact there’s no job to be had?”
Bly
“Well, the bottom line is this—we’re planning to open a new, much more cost-effective psychiatric service here in
the next few months. And we’d like you to consider running it, Theo.”
It was hard to conceal my excitement. I agreed with pleasure. “Be- tween you and me,” I said, borrowing one of his
phrases, “it’s the kind of opportunity that I dream about.” And it was—a chance to actually help people, not just
medicate them; help them the way I believe they should be helped. The way Ruth helped me. The way I tried to help
Alicia.
Things have worked out well for me—I’d be ungrateful not to ac- knowledge that.
It seems I’ve gotten everything I wanted. Well, almost.
Last year, Kathy and I moved out of central London to Surrey—back to where I grew up. After my father died, he
left me the house; al- though it remained my mother’s to live in until she died, she decided to give it to us, and she
moved into a care facility.
Kathy and I thought the extra space and a garden would be worth the commute into London. I thought it would be
good for us. We promised ourselves we would transform the house and made plans to redecorate and exorcise. But
nearly a year since we moved in, the place remains unfinished, half-decorated, the pictures and convex mirror we
bought in Portobello Market still propped up against un- painted walls. It remains very much the house I grew up in.
But I don’t mind the way I thought I would. In fact, I feel quite at home, which is ironic.
I arrived at the house and let myself in. I quickly took off my coat—it was sweltering, like a greenhouse. I turned
down the ther- mostat in the hallway. Kathy loves being hot, while I much prefer being cold, so temperature is one
of our little battlegrounds. I could hear the TV from the hallway. Kathy seems to watch a lot of TV these days. A
never-ending sound track of garbage that underscores our life in this house.
I found her in the living room, curled up on the sofa. She had a giant bag of prawn cocktail crisps on her lap and was
fishing them out with sticky red fingers and shoveling them into her mouth. She’s
always eating crap like that; it’s not surprising she’s gained weight recently. She hasn’t been working much in the
past couple of years, ~ and she’s become quite withdrawn, d epressed even. Her doctor wanted to put her on
antid epressants, but I discouraged it. Instead I advocated her getting a therapist and talking through her feelings; I
even offered to find her a shrink myself. But Kathy doesn’t want to talk, it seems.
Sometimes I catch her looking at me strangely—and wonder what she’s thinking. Is she trying to summon up the
courage to tell me about Gabriel and the affair? But she doesn’t say a word. She just sits in silence, the way Alicia
used to. I wish I could help her—but I can’t seem to reach her.
That's the terrible irony: I did all this to ke ep Kathy—and I’ve lost her anyway.
I perched on the armrest and watched her a moment. “A patient of mine took an overdose. She’s in a coma.” No
reaction. “It looks as though another member of the staff may have administered the overdose deliberately. A
colleague.” No reaction. “Are you listening to me?”
Kathy gave a brief shrug. “I don’t know what to say.” “Some sympathy might be nice.”
“For who? For you?”
“For her. I’ve been seeing her for a while, in individual therapy.
Her name is Alicia Berenson.” I glanced at Kathy as I said this.
She didn’t react. Not even a flicker of emotion.
“She's famous, or infamous. Everyone was talking about her a few years ago. She killed her husband . . .
remember?”
“No, not really.” Kathy shrugged and changed the channel.
So we continue our game of “Let’s pretend.”
I seem to do a lot of pretending, these days—for a lot of people, including myself. Which is why I’m writing this, I
suppose. An attempt to bypass my monstrous ego and access the truth about myself—if that’s possible.
I needed a drink. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a shot of vodka from the freezer. It burned my throat as I
swallowed it. I poured another.
I wondered what Ruth would say if I went to find her again—as I did six years ago—and confessed all this to her?
But I knew it was impossible. That I was altogether a different creature now, a guiltier thing, less capable of
honesty. How could I sit opposite that frail old lady and look into those watery blue eyes that held me safe for so
long—and gave me nothing but decency, kindness, truth—and re- veal how foul I am, how cruel, how vengeful and
perverse, how un- worthy I am of Ruth and everything she tried to do for me? How could I tell her that I have
destroyed three lives? That I have no moral code, that I’m capable of the worst kind of acts without re- morse, and
my only concern is for my own skin?
Even worse than the shock or r epulsion, or possibly even fear, in Ruth’s eyes as I told her this would be the look of
sadness, disap- pointment, and self-r eproach. Because not only had I let her down, I know she would be thinking
she had let me down—and not just me, but the talking cure itself. For no therapist ever had a better shot at it than
Ruth—she had years to work with someone who was damaged, yes, but so young, just a boy, and so willing to
change, to get better, to heal. Yet, despite hundreds of hours of psychotherapy, talking and listening and analyzing,
she was unable to save his soul.
Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps some of us are simply born evil, and despite our best efforts we remain that way.
The doorbell rang, rousing me from my thoughts. It wasn’t a common occurrence, an evening visitor, not since we
moved to Sur- rey; I couldn't even remember the last time we'd had friends over.
“Are you expecting someone?” I called out, but there was no re- ply. Kathy probably couldn’t hear me over the TV.
I went to the front door and opened it. To my surprise, it was Chief Inspector Allen. He was wrapped up in a scarf
and coat, and his cheeks were flushed.
“Good evening, Mr. Faber.”
“Inspector Allen? What are you doing here?”
“I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop in.
A couple of developments I wanted to tell you about. Is now con- venient?”
I hesitated. “To be honest, I’m just about to cook dinner, so—” “This won't take long.”
Allen smiled. He clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so I st epped aside and let him enter. He looked
happy to be inside.
He pulled off his gloves and his coat. “It’s getting bloody cold out there. Cold enough to snow, Id bet.” His glasses
had steamed up and he took them off and wiped them with his handkerchief.
“Tm afraid it’s rather warm in here,” I said.
“Not for me. Can't be too warm for my liking.”
“You'd get on with my wife.”
Right on cue, Kathy appeared in the hallway. She looked from me to the inspector quizzically. “What’s going on?”
“Kathy, this is Chief Inspector Allen. He’s in charge of the inves- tigation about the patient I mentioned.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Faber.”
“Inspector Allen wants to talk to me about something. We won't be long. Go upstairs and have your bath, and I'll
cail you when dinner’s ready.” I nodded at the inspector to go into the kitchen. “After you.”
Inspector Allen glanced at Kathy again before he turned and went into the kitchen. Ifollowed, leaving Kathy
lingering in the hallway, before I heard her footst eps slowly going upstairs.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“Thank you. That’s very kind. A cup of tea would be lovely.” I saw his eyes go to the bottle of vodka on the
counter.
I smiled. “Or something stronger if you prefer?”
“No, thank you. A cup of tea suits me just fine.”
“How do you take it?”
“Strong, please. Just enough milk to color it. No sugar, I’m trying to give it up.”
As he spoke, my mind drifted—wondering what he was doing here, and if I should be nervous. His manner was so
genial it was hard not to feel safe. Besides, there was nothing that could trip me up, was there?
I switched on the kettle and turned to face him.
“So, Inspector? What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Well, about Mr. Martin, mainly.”
“Jean-Felix? Really?” That surprised me. “What about him?”
“Well, he came to the Grove to collect Alicia’s art materials, and we got talking about one thing and another.
Interesting man, Mr. Martin. He’s planning a retrospective of Alicia’s work. He seems to think now is a good time
to reevaluate her as an artist.
Given all the publicity, I daresay he’s right.” Allen gave me an ap- praising look. “You might want to write about
her, sir. I’m sure there’ll be interest in a book, or something like that.”
“T hadn't considered it.... What exactly has Jean-Felix’s retro- spective got to do with me, Inspector?” “Well, Mr. Martin was particularly excited to see the new painting—he didn’t seem concerned that Elif defaced it.
He said it added a special quality to it—I can’t remember the exact words he used—I don’t know much about art
myself. Do you?”
“Not really.” I wondered how long it was going to take the inspec- tor to get to the point, and why I was feeling
increasingly uneasy.
“Anyway, Mr. Martin was admiring the picture. And he picked it up to look at it more closely, and there it was.”
“What was?”
“hist The inspector pulled out something from inside his jacket. I rec- ognized it at once.
The diary.
The kettle boiled and a shriek filled the air. I switched it off and poured some boiling water into the mug. I stirred it
and noticed my hand was trembling slightly.
“Oh, good. I wondered where it was.”
“Wedged in the back of the painting, in the top-left corner of the frame. It was jammed in tight.”
So that’s where she hid it, I thought. The back of the painting that I hated. The one place I didn’t look.
The inspector stroked the creased, faded black cover and smiled.
He opened it and looked through the pages. “Fascinating. The arrows, the confusion.”
I nodded. “A portrait of a disturbed mind.”
Inspector Allen flicked through the pages to the end. He started reading from it aloud:
“, . he was scared—of the sound of my voice. .. . He grabbed my wrist and stuck a needle in my vein.”
I felt a sudden rising panic. I didn’t know those words. I hadn't read that entry. It was the incriminating evidence I
had been look- ing for—and it was in the wrong hands. I wanted to snatch the diary from Allen and tear out the
pages—but I couldn’t move. I was trapped. I started stammering— “I—I really think it’s better if I—” I spoke too
nervously, and he heard the fear in my voice. “Yes?”
“Nothing.”
I made no further attempt to stop him. Any action I took would be viewed as incriminating anyway. There was no
way out. And the strangest thing is, I felt relieved.
“You know, I don’t believe you happened to be in my neighbor- hood at all, Inspector.” I handed him his tea.
“Ah. No, youre quite right. I thought it best not to announce the intention of my visit on the doorst ep. But the fact is,
this puts things in rather a different light.”
“Tm curious to hear it,” I heard myself saying. “Will you read it aloud?”
“Very well.”
I felt strangely calm as I sat in the chair by the window.
He cleared his throat and began. ““Theo just left. 1 am alone. I’m writing this as fast as I can....”” As I listened, I
looked up at the white clouds drifting past. Finally, they had opened—it had started to snow—snowflakes were
falling outside. I opened the window and reached out my hand. I caught a snowflake. I watched it disappear, vanish
from my fingertip. I smiled. And I went to catch another one.
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