The Delusionist

by Rachel Mathias

  Epilogue

  June 2018

  I am in the back of a taxi driving down the Kings Road, on my way to a meeting. I don't like leaving the house unless I have to. It’s what I know, and the only place I feel safe. Maya and Caro keep on at me to get out and about, join a “proper” dating site, take up cycling, join a choir, but the thought fills me with horror. My mind is awash with doubt, and however much I try to banish it, anxiety follows me around like a puppy.

  If there hadn’t been roadworks at the World’s End, if I hadn’t happened to be staring out of the window as the lights turned red, I could have been spared. But it must have been meant to be like this. Jess would say that the universe needed me to know something so that I could move on.

  I almost don’t recognise him at first. He is unshaven, and a full grey beard has replaced the stubble of his charming Tinder photo. His face is ruddy, from sun or drink or both, or scarred maybe, and his eyes are small. I only see them when he pushes his sunglasses onto his head while he reads his phone. In his other hand he’s holding a can of Jack Daniels and coke. His shirt is torn, sleeves rolled up to the elbows revealing a noticeable outbreak of psoriasis on both arms. Next to him on the bench lies a grey rucksack and a couple of plastic bags filled with things of awkward shapes which protrude at angles. Suddenly he leans forwards and shouts something that sounds like “Nicky!”. Several people turn, presumably not because they were all called Nicky, but curious as to where the voice is coming from. Then one of them, it must have been her, hurries towards him, gesticulating wildly in the manner of someone in an altered state, with no concept of personal space or demure Britishness. She’s wearing tiny shorts and a crop top, too skimpy for her middle-aged body, although there isn’t an ounce of fat on her. Her hair is bleach blonde; her skin weathered. A cigarette hangs from her lips. She takes it out as she bends over him, says something I can’t hear, then stands up and feels in her pockets for something, moving out of the space between us. He sees me. Our eyes meet. He blinks, holds my gaze for another second, and then the lights go green.

  I am early for the appointment as always, checking the time on my phone at least three times as I wait in the lobby on the fourth floor. It smells of coffee and carpets. I stare out of the window at the traffic below, leaf through a dog-eared magazine but can’t take anything in. Then the door opens and Doctor Alexander beckons me in with a smile. I take my seat in the leather armchair and we begin. He asks about my journey because he knows I had to come by taxi. We discussed it last time because I was nervous of going out on my own. He is nodding and it makes me well up with tears because it’s too much attention.

  Then I tell him what I saw. My words come out jumbled, disordered. I am not making any sense. I can’t forget those eyes meeting mine, the dawning of recognition, the fear that surged through my body.

  He pushes his chair back from the desk and clasps his hands behind his head.

  “That’s a very vivid account. I can imagine you were afraid.”"

  "He's dead. I know he's dead. That wasn't real." I look up, needing him to give me certainty.

  Dr Alexander nods slowly, but he's humouring me now, pacifying the monster. "That would appear to be the case. But, as you know, the scene of the accident made it very hard for the the police to confirm..."

  Tears surge into my eyes. My knee is twitching. I try to speak, but there’s nothing more to say. He looks into my eyes now.

  “It wasn't him you saw just now Rachel. Let's start with that. And it can take time, some considerable time, for these delusions and visions to subside. The mind is a very powerful tool and is perfectly capable of showing you things that don’t exist. More often than not it’s the very things you fear the most. The medication should help with that, but there is nothing much more we can do to speed up the process. You have suffered a major trauma, witnessed something quite appalling, and the effects can be long-term even with therapy.”

  I feel flat. I want to please him. I want the treatment to work so I can get ten out of ten, a gold star, move up a level. He reads my mind. Of course he does. He’s a psychiatrist.

  “Don’t be despondent. You are making so much progress,” he says.

  “Thank you. It doesn’t feel like it.” Then, as if to prove him wrong, I add “I went to look for Sam yesterday.”

  “Okay, and…?”

  “There was a Sold sign outside her house.”

  He nodded and wrote something down before peering at me over his glasses. “And do you remember why?”

  I whisper like a child. “She’s gone. She died.”

  “And you won’t always remember that. You have created a more palatable version of the truth, one that helps you sleep at night. It makes sense, that we protect ourselves from what is too difficult to process. There will be more times that you forget, that you go looking for her, but those times will become less frequent as time goes on. You will, one day, be able to deal with it."

  I let the air out of my lungs, breathed through my mouth the way he had taught me, for a count of 5, to disspiate the stress. Somewhere down there was the real story of what happened that day in the car park. I tried saying the words. “He killed her because of me. I should never have gone there.”

  “He killed her because he was mentally unstable.”

  But I wasn't listening now. A crack in my mental armour had let the whole scene slide into view. “It was raining. Sam was hiding behind the building. I know he didn’t want us to talk because then he knew I’d find out about what he did to his little boy.” Tears try to come but can’t. The anti-depressants won’t allow it. Instead, new footage plays in my head of Harry creeping up behind Sam with a rock in his hand, crashing it into her skull, sending her flying into the rubble pit. I scream inwardly. Pain floods my body. I can't go there. I shut down.

  “It wasn't your fault."

  But I don’t believe anyone anymore.

  Maddie is waiting for me in reception, apologising for not being able to do both journeys this time, asking me how I managed with the cab. I let her lead me by the hand to the lift, and out of the heavy front door into bright daylight. We climb into her little car and soon we are driving past the traffic lights at the World’s End. I close my eyes, then force myself to look. The bench is empty. On the pavement, an empty can rolls around in the wind.