‘It’s not too late to run,’ Jules whispers loudly, staring at the treatment table as though it is a medieval torture contraption. I shush her, aware that Mr Henderson can probably hear her from the hallway, where his footsteps echo and the tea tray rattles.
Mr Henderson kicks the door closed behind him. ‘Help yourself.’ He rests the tray on the polished-to-perfection mahogany coffee table. The room is sparse but spotless. There’s not the thin layer of dust that often coats the photographs in his living area.
He sits on the high-backed chair opposite me, crosses his legs and picks up a clipboard and pen. Today he’s wearing a tie, and this is a formal side to him I’m not used to. The dynamics of our relationship has changed, and I take my time spooning sugar into tea, splashing in milk, to mask how uncomfortable I am. I’d thought I’d be sitting in his squashy armchair in the lounge I’ve sat in a hundred times before, that it would be almost like a social call.
Jules, on the other hand, has no qualms about saying what she thinks. ‘I don’t believe in all this.’ She sweeps her arm around the room dramatically.
‘You don’t believe in hypnotherapy?’
‘Any of it,’ she says firmly. ‘It’s like homeopathy. How can it be that you can dilute something with water and it becomes a cure?’ She shakes her head as she stretches for a shortbread. ‘Or that reiki thing. Healing coming out of hands. Please.’ She leans back, her gaze challenging as she crunches her biscuit, but Mr Henderson’s response is calm and measured.
‘I can’t speak for other therapies, or other therapists, but hypnotherapy is a very powerful tool when used correctly. There are hundreds of research studies demonstrating the effects. I can show you some reports if you’d like?’ He addresses Jules, not me, and I think how patient he is. How kind. It’s not like this is her session.
‘It’s okay. I can see you believe it.’ Jules sweeps crumbs from her lap. ‘So you just do what? A session, and Ali is magically better? She’ll remember what happened and recognise faces again?’
‘Unfortunately, Ali has sustained damage to the temporal lobe of the brain and hypnosis can’t repair that. I can’t help with facial recognition. But for the memory loss there’s no telling at this stage how many sessions Ali might need. Brains are like fingerprints, they’re all unique and everybody responds differently. Amnesia is a complex psychological condition. In localised amnesia, which is what you are suffering from, Ali, you’re unable to recall the events of that night; although the memories are still in there somewhere, it’s a matter of finding them.’
‘But I will remember?’
‘Possibly. You could remember today, next week, next year or perhaps never. Often, when we experience something so shocking that our mind cannot process it, we either blank things out entirely or pretend they never happened by doing something completely normal.’
‘This isn’t normal,’ Jules mutters loud enough to be heard.
‘What do you mean, “normal”?’ I’m trying to equate everything he says with my own experiences.
‘For instance, there was a case where a woman, after years of domestic abuse, killed her husband, and her children, but rather than killing herself she cooked them a meal, as though nothing had happened.’
‘That can’t be true.’ I am horrified. How can you not know you’ve murdered your entire family?
‘Her mum called round and caught her stepping over bodies to lay the table, the walls splattered with blood. She had no conscious recollection of any of it. You were at a bar?’
‘Yes. Prism.’ I try to push away the image of that woman, her poor children, what she must have gone through to have snapped like that?
‘It’s very possible going back to the bar could trigger your memories, or hearing a song that was playing that night, smelling the same perfume someone was wearing, tasting the same drink. We’re often transported back to certain events through our senses. The smell of cinnamon, for example, always reminds me of the Christmas cake Jeannie used to make. We’d throw in a five pence piece and make a wish.’
There’s a wistful expression on his face and I wonder whether he is recalling his children, wondering what they wished for, wondering if they came true.
‘Coconut always reminds me of the beach,’ Jules chips in. ‘Suntan cream.’
All at once it’s as if I can hear the shrieking of gulls. The fabric of the picnic blanket against my skin as we’d lain on the clifftops, outside the crumbling cottage, Matt’s hands on my body, firmly massaging lotion into my shoulders, my breastbone which always burns, dipping into my bikini top, brushing my nipples.
‘Ali? Are you okay?’
Jules’s voice jolts me back to now, my face as blazing hot as the sun I’d imagined I was lying under.
‘Is it dangerous?’ I ask. If one simple trigger can make me recall, so vividly, the feel of Matt’s skin on mine, do I really want to be back in that night? Fingertips bruising my arms, tights torn. My throat raw from screaming.
‘No. There has never been a credible report of anyone being harmed through hypnosis. You’re the one in control. You won’t do anything you don’t want to do, and you won’t remember anything you can’t cope with.’
‘But what if she does?’ Jules says. ‘I find it all really worrying.’
‘Ali must be imagining all sorts.’ Mr Henderson’s words are slow and patient as he addresses Jules, and I want to point out that I am still in the room and I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions, but I know Jules is just worried about me. ‘It’s only natural. And sometimes those imagined fears keep shouting for attention until they are prevalent in the forefront of consciousness all the time, impossible to ignore. The truth will set you free, the saying goes. It’s far easier to deal with the black and white rather than the shades of grey lurking in the darkest depths of our minds. Know your enemy as it were.’ His eyes meet mine as he says this, and I can’t help the shiver streaking down my spine. ‘Memories can be dangerous and not just for the person affected.’
‘Can we just start?’ I say. ‘The sooner I know, the better.’
‘Unfortunately, I can’t just reach into your head and pluck out the memories you want, so you might not find anything out today, but I’ll do my best. Jules, if you’d like to wait outside.’ Mr Henderson stands and gestures to the door.
‘Not a chance,’ Jules says. ‘I’m staying here to see what you do to her.’
‘Jules!’ I’m mortified. ‘He’s not going to do anything to me.’
‘You know what I mean. If it’s all above board there’s no harm in me staying, is there?’
‘It’s not usual,’ Mr Henderson says. ‘Having someone else in the room can be a distraction.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I say, as I head towards the therapy table. We’ll be all day at this rate.
‘Right.’ Mr Henderson says and this time there’s a tightness to his voice. I settle down on the cold couch and cover my lower body with a fleecy, bottle green blanket. Music floods the room – pan pipes – I can imagine Jules rolling her eyes.
‘Are you comfortable, Ali?’ Mr Henderson asks. I tell him I am, even though my muscles are tight, my body as stiff as a stick.
‘Good. First I’m going to guide you through a visualisation, and you’ll go into a trance. This isn’t as scary as it sounds. We go into trance multiple times a day, often referring to it as autopilot. Do you ever drive and find yourself at your destination, yet you can’t remember your journey?’
‘All the time.’ The blood on my bumper.
‘That’s a form of trance. We’re physically present but our subconscious has taken over. You’ll still be aware of your surroundings, to a degree, and be able to stop me at any time. Ready?’
No.
‘Yes.’
‘Then we’ll begin.’
18
At first I am self-conscious as Mr Henderson talks me through his visualisation. My eyes are screwed tightly closed but I feel a flush to my cheeks as I imagine him a
nd Jules watching me. Waiting. In truth I’m both scared this won’t work, and scared it will, in equal measure. What would Mr Henderson do if I confessed to hurting someone? Would he be duty-bound to report me to the police, morally bound? I’d wanted to ask but I didn’t know how. My mind buzzes while in the background I am guided through a garden, down some stone steps, deeper and deeper. Mr Henderson’s voice is a soft and soothing balm on my raw and jagged nerves. In spite of my reservations, little by little I feel my body getting heavier, seemingly sinking into the hard surface I am lying on, even though I know it can’t be.
‘You’re walking over to the flower beds now, Ali. Picture the colours. The smell.’
Yellow roses on my wedding day.
The sky is clear and bright.
The warmth of the sun on my skin.
‘Feel the ground beneath your feet.’
Grass tickling my bare toes.
It’s a gorgeous summer day.
Birdsong.
I drift. Indecipherable words dance around my ears. I feel content. Relaxed. Half-a-bottle-of-wine hazy.
‘We’re going back to last Saturday. Back to Prism.’
I want to shake my head, but I can’t summon the energy. I want to stay in the garden, where it is safe. I want to say no but thirst has dried my lips. Slowly the garden slips away, and it’s like the sun passing behind a cloud. I shiver and feel goosebumps spring up on my arms, but my body is heavy and I can’t will my hands to pull the blanket up around my chin.
‘No. No. No.’
I think the words are in my head, but Mr Henderson gently asks why I’m saying no, and I don’t know whether I’m saying no to now, or no to then. Music blasts in my eardrums. A thudding bass. Flashing lights. All I know is that fear has slid into the places where relaxation had nestled moments before. The images keep coming. Dancing. Laughing. Drinking. A sense of wanting to run. Run from what? My date? This session? Back to the garden. Pick a daisy. Pluck away the petals. Let them flutter in the wind like confetti. Will you take this man? He loves me, he loves me not. Not. Matt doesn’t love me, even though he slipped a ring onto my finger.
Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?”
‘Where are you, Ali?’
Bedroom. Ben’s bedroom. Reading to him. Lying on his racing car bed but it’s shaking. Shaking. Someone is shaking me. Gripping my arms hard. Too hard.
‘Go back to the bar, Ali.’
The garden. I want to go back to the garden, but instead the cold, bony fingers of the past are dragging me back. Dragging me back to where I don’t want to go. But I have to. Tick Tock, the note had said. I have no idea what the time limit is or what might happen when it runs out. Sand running through the egg timer in Chrissy’s kitchen. Sand running through my fingers as I pop the lid off the Tupperware and offer Matt an egg mayo sandwich, sprawled on the picnic blanket outside the crumbling cottage on the clifftop. Focus. Tick Tock, Ali. I can’t think! Talking. So much talking – Mr Henderson – I want him to shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP. I’m screaming it in the bar, my voice barely discernible over the pulsing base.
‘Ali, who are you with?’
Cold, it’s so cold. I’m outside. Rain is hammering down but, even so, the booming music is still audible. The smell of rotting food from the industrial bins is overpowering but it’s not that causing my stomach to churn with sickness. The alley is black except for a soft green glow emanating from a fire exit sign and a rectangle of light framed by an open door.
‘We shouldn’t be out here. I want to go inside.’ I turn, but fingers digging tightly into my elbow drag me back and I slip on my heel, my shoulder scraping against the slimy bricks.
‘I don’t want…’ I begin but the light begins to disappear as the brick is kicked away and I am left with nowhere to go as the fire door crashes shut.
I. Don’t. Want. To. I am shouting now. Shouting then. Shouting now. Panic gripping me tightly. I. Don’t. Want. To.
‘Who are you with, Ali. Look.’
‘Stop!’ A hand on my shoulder. Jules’s voice. ‘That’s enough. Ali, you’re okay. You’re safe.’
‘You shouldn’t have woken her,’ Mr Henderson says. ‘We were on the cusp.’
‘Just look at her,’ Jules snaps.
I’m blinking. Blinking and crying. Crying and blinking. Back in the room. Back where it’s safe. Except it isn’t, is it? Now more than ever I know someone hurt me. But I still don’t know who.
* * *
The engine hums as we wait for the traffic lights to change. I rest my cheek against the window, feeling the tiny vibrations all the way to my toes. Jules taps on her phone. A car pulls up beside us and the driver turns to look at me. It could be him. It could be anyone. As we’d left Mr Henderson’s he suggested I come back next week to try again. Alone, he’d stressed, and I knew he was annoyed that Jules had interrupted our session, and somehow, I feel I’ve let him down. Let everyone down. I’m shaken by the indeterminate flashes that had come back to me, but I can’t piece them together. The shouting. The anger. Someone must know who I was with.
‘Where do you think Chrissy is?’ I ask Jules, as I release the handbrake and accelerate, the wheels of the car turning as fast as my thoughts.
‘Probably off with some man or other,’ Jules says. Since Chrissy revealed one of the men she had dated once was married, Jules has taken the moral high ground.
‘It’s women like her who break up marriages,’ she had said, draining her glass of wine, after Chrissy went to the loo.
Now I wonder if she’s glad Chrissy is away so that she gets to be the one supporting me, but that’s unfair. No one is enjoying this, least of all me.
I indicate left and pull cautiously out of the junction. ‘She’s not replying to my texts.’
‘Stop worrying.’
‘I need to find out who my date was, and she was the only one, other than me, who saw him.’
‘Christ!’ Jules shouts, and automatically I screech on the brakes. ‘Sorry, I thought that dog was going to run into the road. Let it go, Ali.’ She touches my arm. ‘Move on.’
But I can’t. I can’t move on. I thought pushing everything to the back of my mind, the way I had before, would help me forget. But not being able to properly remember, somehow that’s worse.
‘You coming in?’ Jules asks, as I slot the car into my driveway. ‘James is working from home. He’s eager to hear all about it.’
‘No. I’m going to have a hot shower.’ I’m still shaking with cold. With shock.
* * *
After I’ve eaten and rinsed my plate and cutlery I can’t ignore the pleading looks that Branwell is giving me any longer, his eyes pinballing between me and the door. A soft whine escaping his lips. Sometimes I’m convinced he can tell the time. I only work five minutes away and always come home in my lunch break. After I’ve eaten my sandwich and put my plate in the dishwasher, Branwell tears down the hallway, ears flapping, tongue lolling, turning happy circles, and I have to wait for him to calm before I can snap his lead onto his collar. Although I’m signed off sick I want to stick to the same routine. It seems important somehow, pretending everything is normal even though it so obviously isn’t.
Rain is splattering against the window, so I shrug on my waterproof and pat my pockets, checking for poo bags.
I’m ready to go but I’m hesitant. Reluctant to unlock the front door. A cold, sharp fear rooting me to the spot. The hypnotherapy treatment has made me feel worse, not better. The flashes it revealed. Unease has burrowed deep under my skin, tiny creatures hatching eggs.
Branwell cocks his head to one side, hope written all over his furry face, and I know a walk will do us both good, but still I have to take a deep breath before I can step outside.
The wind is bracing. The naked branches of the trees are shadows against an iron sky. Drizzle flings itself in my face and I bow my head, pushing forward
as the weather pushes me back. Branwell tugs the lead, racing to the end of the path, turning left and stopping at the patch of turf he always sniffs before having his first wee. Traffic passes slowly. Tyres sloshing through puddles. Headlights slicing through the dreariness. A jogger passes huddled in a hoodie, catching my eye and nodding as he passes. Black trainers slapping against the concrete and as I see those trainers something stirs in my subconscious. I concentrate until I remember the man outside my house, fussing over Branwell when he escaped through my open front door, and I watch him until he rounds a corner. I’m soaked to the skin, paranoia and rain clinging to my clothes. Branwell lurches forward, dragging me over to the bright red postbox, as though it is an old friend, nose twitching, before he cocks his leg once more.
My nose and fingertips are numb with cold. The lead grows slack and I realise we are at the crossing. Branwell is sitting patiently on the kerb, waiting for me to press the button, standing as the beep-beep-beep sounds, his paws click-clacking over the sodden tarmac.
The seafront is deserted. In the summer there’s always a throng of tourists, ice-cream smeared children carrying crabbing nets and buckets, dads with lobster pink shoulders, mums fishing coins from purses for the penny arcade that flashes like a beacon, drawing families inside when the sky clouds and showers fall. I rarely come here then. Locals know about the nooks and crannies that visitors don’t. The cove that’s only accessible on foot; the clifftop walk accessed through a rutted track that doesn’t appear on any map. That’s where I used to walk Branwell, ignoring the sign that spelled danger, picking my way through the crumbling ruins of the cottage that once stood tall and proud until that stretch of coastline eroded. Mum, Ben and I used to picnic at the cottage, high above the crowded beach. Later I’d taken Matt there and shared my memories, told him what a special place it was, and that was where he proposed. We’d made love inside the old building, up against the bare brick wall. As I think of it, I remember something from the hypnosis. A picnic with Matt at our special place. I feel a pang of something I can’t identify deep in my belly, but I push it away. Perhaps when spring approaches and the town bustles once more I’ll go back there, but today I stick to the seafront. It’s bleak, waves roaring in a pebble grey ocean, the wind numbing cheeks and ears, but I like the solitude. No one takes a holiday at this time of year. I unclip Branwell’s lead and watch as he races off on our usual route, ears flapping in the wind. It isn’t until I’ve straightened up, salt spray dampening my face, that I notice someone sitting on the bench, staring out at the sea. It strikes me as odd that someone would sit in this foul weather. Immediately I check out his shoes. Black trainers.
The Date_An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist Page 9