His Frozen Heart

by Georgia Le Carre

  It didn’t make any sense. Why? Why would the heir of the vast Swanson fortune prostitute herself for money? I slumped back in my chair, shocked and oddly hurt by the revelation. And yet it made perfect sense. The word association game had exposed her glass-like fragility, and an inner world filled with secrets.

  For a few seconds I debated what to do next. The answer was obvious. The hypnosis had been a success. It had retrieved her memories, albeit an unpalatable one with it. My duty was not to judge or solve any mystery. All I had to do was bring her out with her memories intact and send her on her way. I had paved the way and any hypnotist could take over now.

  I looked down at her. Her blonde hair glowed a silvery blue in the light from the metronome. A thought flashed into my mind—I would never see her again—and I was suddenly overwhelmed by an irresistible crush of curiosity. Perhaps it was wrong to give in to that impulse, but I could not stop myself. It was as if I, too, was helpless and in a trance set by her mysterious alter-ego, Velvet.

  What happened to her? What did she do next?

  ‘What happens next, Velvet?’

  ‘I crawl towards the man.’ Her tone is robotic and flat. Devoid of excitement, pleasure, or joy. ‘When I am in front of him I lie back on my elbows and open my legs. He inserts his finger into me and I—’

  ‘Freeze,’ I said, and she stopped mid-sentence.

  I had ripped myself out of my own trance. I was chillingly wide-awake. This was wrong, wrong, wrong. I had badly overstepped the mark, but inside my trousers, my cock was rigid, the erection so powerful it throbbed and pulled painfully against the material. I shifted to ease the tension.

  Never before in my professional life had I done something that was not beneficial to my client. This was the first time. I had been put into a position of trust and I had just abused it. My initial instinct had been spot on: under no circumstances should I treat her. She was in transition. She was trouble. Especially after this. I could never be impartial. I had never been.

  I decided to take her through one more memory, a pleasant one, then I would bring her out and terminate our relationship. I wanted no more. I could not afford to get involved.

  ‘Leave that scene now, Olivia,’ I said quietly, but my voice throbbed with emotion. ‘Let’s go backwards, back to your childhood. Let’s travel to when you were five years old. It’s your birthday. What are you doing?’

  Her face changed—that same creepy, child-like face came back. ‘My birthday. There’s a bouncy castle and a clown. There are a lot of kids around, but I don’t know most of them. I start walking away from the garden. I am opening the kitchen door. Blanca is there. She beams at me.’

  ‘Who is Blanca?’ I asked.

  ‘She is the housekeeper.’

  ‘What happens next?’

  ‘She holds out a wrapped box. “I’ve a present for you,” she says. “What is it?” I ask. “I can’t afford anything expensive, but I got you this,” she says with a huge smile and gives me her gift. I tear it open. It’s a doll with blonde hair. I feel nothing inside me, but I smile at her and open my arms for a hug. “Thank you, Blanca. I love it.” She hugs me tightly and smiles happily. “Off you go then and enjoy your birthday,” she says and I move through the kitchen holding the doll to my chest. I go up the servants’ stairs and walk along the corridor. It’s cold and dark.’

  ‘Where are you going, Olivia?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m going up to my bedroom in the tower.’

  ‘Your bedroom is in the tower?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘Yes. I wanted it that way. I wanted to be a princess in a tower.’

  Her face changed suddenly. ‘Oh no,’ she gasped. ‘Someone has come into the corridor. It’s going to happen again,’ she moaned. Her eyelids fluttered and she whimpered anxiously. Her mouth twisted into a grimace of terror.

  ‘You’re safe, Olivia. You’re completely safe. Nothing can hurt you. You’re not there. You can watch it all from a safe distance. There is no danger now. Stay calm. Stay relaxed.’

  She breathed out through her mouth.

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘No,’ she breathed.

  I stared at her. ‘Who is there with you?’

  She shivered. ‘Can I go back?’

  ‘Just tell me who is there with you?’

  ‘I don’t want to look,’ she cried feebly.

  ‘There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of. I want you to relax and go deeper into the darkness. Nothing there can hurt you. And when you are ready just take one little look.’

  Her lower lips trembled and her legs began to paddle as if she was trying to swim out of her situation. I realized that she was in danger of being torn out of her hypnotic trance, which would be very dangerous. It would drop her into a deep depression, but I simply could not leave it be.

  ‘Nothing can hurt you,’ I insisted, my voice trembling. ‘Tell me what you see.’

  ‘I don’t want to. I don’t want to.’ Then she went rigid. Her face was like a mask. ‘The white owl is here,’ she shrieked, her voice so thin and eerie I felt dread like cold water down my back.

  ‘What is the white owl doing?’

  Her eyelids twitched and she began gasping for breath. ‘Watching me. Always watching me.’ Her fingers trembled.

  What the hell is going on? I knew memories that were too traumatic and frightening were hidden away and covered over with less frightening images. Even in hypnosis this was the brain’s final attempt at protecting the individual from the trauma or the suppressed memory. The secret that must be protected at all costs. In order to avoid seeing the perpetrator the patient conjures up dream material or animals.

  ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to go forward. You can go back to the darkness to where the owl cannot see you.’

  I waited until she had stopped trembling.

  ‘Can the owl see you now?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Good. Describe the white owl to me.’

  ‘It is big and white with staring eyes. It sees everything… Everything.’ Her teeth showed her lips drawn back in an odd grimace. ‘It hates me.’

  ‘Why does it hate you?’

  ‘Because I exist.’

  I froze, stunned. It was not at all as I had thought. There was something terribly wrong here. All my assumptions were turning out to be a lie. There was a world of secrets going on behind the façade of wealth, glamor and respectability. She lived in a world of mystery.

  It was far bigger, by far bigger than my fatal attraction to my patient. I glanced at my watch. Our time was almost up. I stood at a crossroad. Did I take her on or set her adrift? She was a prostitute. Of that there was no doubt, and yet she was calling out to me to help her. If I made a mistake with the Swanson heir another humungous disgrace awaited me. But I had survived that once and I could do it again.

  My life was ruined anyway—this was my chance to do the right thing. There was a cloak of malevolence that enveloped not only her, but me, too. That sin had touched me and if I did not do something I would be responsible for its total and complete warp of her. It was not by accident that she had come to me. Once before I did not see what was in front of me, but this time I would not fail.

  The mind buries memories that are too traumatic for it to cope with. It was a mechanism of sanity, preservation. Letting her remember what she had seen under hypnosis could bring harm on two fronts. First, she would have to deal with something she had no idea about. Her prostitution. Second, and perhaps more important, I would almost immediately be accused of nurturing false memories. I needed time to work on her properly. I knew what I had to do.

  ‘Walk away from the corridor, Olivia. Walk back to the party. Walk back to where there is cake and sweets and jelly and the bouncy castle.’

  A smile came into her face. In the blue light she became a child again.

  ‘At the count of five you will wake up relaxed and feeling wonderful, feeling so much better than you have done for a long time. A
nd you will remember nothing of your journey back into the past. Remember, when I have counted to five you will wake with no memory of what happened during your hypnosis session.’

  I paused to let it sink in and then I spoke again. ‘One… You are returning into your body… Two… Sensations are coming back… Three… Feel all of you return… Four… You feel wide-awake, happy and energetic… Five.

  She opened her enormous eyes and looked directly at me and I felt an electric current run through me. For interminable seconds we stared at each other. I could not tear my eyes away. My ears buzzed. And then I remembered myself. I pulled my gaze away.

  ‘How do you feel about your first session?’ I asked, standing up and touching the light switch.

  Harsh yellow light flooded into the small room. The space was no longer intimate and bristling with sexual tension.

  She blinked in the strong light and licked her lower lip. ‘I think it didn’t work. I think I dozed off,’ she said slowly. When her eyes had become accustomed to the light she looked at me with a quizzical, puzzled expression.

  I knew instantly what was troubling her. Women clients were always falling for me. It was natural for a patient to confuse their feelings of gratitude for feeling good with feelings of love. The thing that kept them at bay was my total detachment. But I had looked into her eyes just now and allowed her to see that she affected me. That something had passed between us. I had to put that distance back. If I was going to help her I had to draw the lines quickly, or I could totally mess her up.

  ‘What is important after the first session is how you feel. How do you feel?’ My voice was purely professional. A solicitous care for my client.

  ‘I feel great. Better than I’ve done for a long time actually,’ she admitted, a trace of confusion and sexual awakening in her eyes.

  ‘Good,’ I said decisively, and started to walk toward the door. ‘When you feel able to, please join me in my office.’

  I sat at my desk and pretended to make notes in her file. In fact, I was writing nonsense. I never made notes while the client was around. Especially when I had the recording of the entire session.

  She came out and sat opposite me. ‘Tell me the truth. That was a failure, wasn’t it?’ she asked.

  I looked up at her. ‘Not at all. It was exactly what I expected. I was laying the groundwork. We didn’t do any regression yet. We will be doing that during your next appointment. The important thing is how you feel.’

  ‘I feel great,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Then the session was a success,’ I said and smiled politely. Awkwardness quickly stretched between us. ‘This will be the end of our first session,’ I said and standing up, started walking toward the door. It must have looked strange, but I just wanted it to be over.

  She followed me out.

  ‘Let me get your coat,’ Beryl said, jumping up from behind her station. She came back holding up a long dark coat, its discreet silk and cashmere tag showing.

  ‘Thank you,’ Lady Olivia said, and slid her arms into it.

  ‘Well, I’ll say goodnight,’ I said.

  ‘Goodnight and thank you, Dr. Kane,’ she replied softly.

  I nodded and, turning away, went back to my office.

  I closed the door and for a moment stood leaning against it. Damn it. What the hell was the matter with me? Why was I so affected by her? I walked over to my desk drawer and, taking my bottle out, poured myself a large drink. I brought it to my lips. The liquid hit my roiling stomach like petrol taking fire.

  Fuck! I needed that.

  Chapter 5

  Marlow

  Beryl knocked on the door and opened it. Her eyes were shining brightly. Obviously she was hoping I’d throw her some little gossipy tit-bit.

  ‘Forget it,’ I told her before she could even come in.

  ‘She is beautiful, though, isn’t she?’ she said, coming in and perching on one corner of my desk.

  I sighed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have any success at all?’ she tried again.

  ‘Beryl,’ I said warningly.

  She clasped her hands to her chest. ‘It’s me. Beryl. I’m not about to run off and sell the story to one of the tabloids.’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything. Just nod or shake your head.’

  I looked at her blankly.

  ‘All right. Be like that then,’ she said sulkily and flounced out of the room. She popped her head around the door again wearing her apologetic face. ‘Oops, it appears in all the excitement I forgot to mention that your cleaning lady called. She couldn’t make it today. An emergency of some kind. She has to go up and see her sister in Brighton. She’ll be around tomorrow.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’

  ‘Well, I’m off then. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, see you tomorrow.’

  I heard the front door shut and the place took on the waiting silence of abandoned houses. I poured myself three fingers of whiskey, and took a large swallow. Soon everything would become mellow. I leaned back in my chair and swiveled it around to face the window. People were hunched into their coats and hurrying home. Sitting here alone, I had watched this scene so many times. Until the streets emptied, and then I would pack up and go out for a solitary meal. Usually the Italian around the corner. They knew me there. Il Americano—the American—they called me.

  I always had the same. Penne arrabiata to start and then Franco would bring out the day’s special, whatever it was, fish, rabbit, pig’s trotters, sweetbreads.

  After a few meals Franco had said, ‘Always you eat alone. Big, beautiful man like you. Why?’

  ‘Nobody wants me,’ I joked.

  He had jerked his head back with exaggerated violence as if recoiling from a striking snake. ‘Nooooo,’ he cried. It was the longest, most horrified no I’d ever heard. ‘Big, beautiful man like you. Not possibile.’ He pulled a chair out and sat beside me and with a conspiratorial nod said, ‘I have beautiful girl for you.’

  ‘Just the penne arrabiata tonight, I think.’

  He moved away toward the kitchen with a wounded air. It was a few weeks before he forgave me and I became il Americano again. But I like Italians. Everything is so dramatic. They behave as if they are in an open air opera. Everything can be solved with a passionate declaration of love.

  On the days I did not go to Franco’s I would go to the gym and work out for two hours then end up somewhere more glamorous.

  But one thing never changed. I always dined alone. I always went home alone.

  Tonight my dick felt heavy and turgid. I was not in the mood for food. I phoned Jenny. That’s not her real name by the way. Her birth name was unpronounceable.

  ‘Marlow,’ she answered immediately, her voice husky and full of promise. It never failed to strike me, every time I heard it at the end of a phone, how deceiving it was. In truth she was a simple, uncomplicated girl to whom life had been horribly cruel.

  ‘Can I come around?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Can you come in…say, one hour?’

  ‘See you in an hour.’

  I placed the phone on the table and watched the pedestrians go by while I worked my way down the whiskey bottle. This was me unwinding after an awful day at the office. The whole time I kept my mind obstinately blank. I never allowed myself to think of her.

  When the telephone rang I was already half a bottle deep and starting to feel a little sloshed so I ignored it. The answer machine clicked on. A woman left a message. She wanted to make an appointment to see the resident hypnotist. ‘That’ll be me, darlin’,’ I slurred to the empty office. She left her number and her name.

  Twenty minutes before my appointment with Jenny I slipped into my coat, and moving through the shadows of my office walked down the stairs and out into the corridor I shared with the other practitioners in the building. It was as silent as a morgue. Everyone—the dentist on the first floor, the jiu jitsu master masseur and the ch
iropractor, along with their staff—had gone home. I locked my office and walked the short distance to the thick, black main door. I stepped outside and a cold blast of wind hit me in the face. I smiled. Just what I needed.

  I left my car in the underground car park and took the Tube to Paddington.

  Jenny opened the door wearing a tight, V-necked, deep pink blouse and a pair of white shorts with frayed hems. ‘Hello, stranger,’ she drawled, leaning seductively by the door frame.

  I offered up a smile.

  ‘Come in,’ she invited, opening the door wider.

  I walked in and took my shoes off in the hallway. It was an Asian thing. Everybody had to take their shoes off before they could enter her apartment.

  ‘You haven’t been to see me for a long time. Have you been away?’

  ‘No. Just been busy, you know?’

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said.

  Ah, Jenny. Poor you. I walked in my socks through her scrupulously clean home to the room where she conducted her business. It had a bed, a dresser, a well-used armchair and a basin and paper towel dispenser attached to the wall.

  ‘Is it still the same price?’ I asked.

  ‘You don’t have to pay,’ she replied.

  ‘Jenny,’ I said tiredly.

  ‘It’s still the same,’ she said quickly.

  I took out my wallet, counted out fifty pounds, and put the notes on her dresser. Then I took off my coat, my jacket, my pants, my socks, and my boxers, and went to sit on the armchair. I laid my head against the backrest and closed my eyes. I felt a tight sensation in my body and my brain was wired. I needed to blow off steam.

  ‘How have you been, Marlow?’

  ‘Good,’ I said briefly. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ve been well.’

  There was a pause. Her apartment was warm and the armchair was comfortable. I wanted to relax.

  ‘Something about you is different today,’ she observed.

  My eyes fluttered open. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said sadly and went out of the room. She came back in with a basin of water with a few drops of perfume. Flower petals were floating on the surface. She put it on the floor and I slipped my feet into the warm, slippery water. The sensation was heaven. After she had washed my feet she massaged them with warm oil. She did not try to make conversation again.