The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  But it looks as if we might continue the pretence for my remaining two therapy sessions. Ms Evans is the consummate professional, able to completely separate her work and private lives. Yet it’s starting to feel that she’s glad to be shot of Travis and I’m the one to have opened the door.

  Targeting her husband was meant to be fun, especially as he was such a suitable substitute for Scott and with a ready-made family in tow. I wanted Ms Evans to condone my ability to move on, be pleased that I’d found what I was looking for. Only when she discovered I’d stolen her husband from under her nose would her mask slip. With the jigsaw pieced together, she was meant to lash out; lose her cool and then she might understand my own actions. This now doesn’t look likely as she is one weirdly controlled piece of work.

  As I approach the hospital entrance she’s standing by her window, watching me. She’s dressed in yellow, a strange choice for someone who normally courts duty in dark colours. I think of a canary in a cage and wave back. The bright, happy attire might be to play me at my own game, no dull shades of defeat in sight.

  In the foyer I shake myself down, dripping large water globules onto the smart marbled Italian tiles, and tiptoe gently towards her door. A distinct trail of brown muddy spots, like drips of freshly spilt paint, follows me.

  ‘Come in!’ she calls out, before I knock, and then opens the door wide.

  ‘Hi. Sorry about the mess.’ I look behind me.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be easily cleaned off. Come on in but maybe leave your shoes at the door.’

  Her sunny outfit is accessorised with matching yellow shoes and white shiny pearls; an over-the-top reflection of an upbeat mood. Although we’re both playing a dangerous game, I suspect she now can’t wait to see the back of me.

  ‘Well, Beverley. We’re nearly at the end of our sessions. Take a seat.’ She indicates the armchair rather than the couch. Perhaps she thinks I’m already well on the mend, lying down no longer necessary to help me relax and encourage conversation. Or perhaps it’s her way of punishing me by keeping me upright, unable to close my eyes and soul to her beady stare. It crosses my mind that she might be preparing to confront me about Travis and wants to do it face to face.

  ‘Okay. Let’s start off by you telling me how you are. What’s your week been like?’

  Where to start? I have a lot to offload and although she’ll have guessed at most of it, she’ll listen for the money.

  ‘Not great. You see my new boyfriend, Terence, has moved in. Left his wife and kids but it’s not as I imagined.’ I stick my chin out, expression deadpan. My thespian skills are every bit as good as hers. Let the farce begin.

  ‘Oh. In what way? What did you imagine, Beverley? And isn’t his name Travis? Come on. You can be honest with me now, surely.’ She grins, all perfect teeth.

  I ignore the fact that the gameplaying regarding my theft of her husband is up, and carry on.

  ‘I thought we’d be happy. I’d been planning it for so long. Our living together, building a relationship but it’s not working out.’

  ‘Why not?’ Ms Evans is blinking hard. The pollen count must be high but at least it’s wiped the smirk from her face.

  ‘He’s not very well and I’m not a very good nurse. I’d been looking forward to the fun things. Also his wife won’t let the kids visit, she’s overly protective.’ Ha. Take that.

  I don’t mention the sword incident which led her to ban further visits to my house. In her shoes I’d probably do the same. She guesses Travis still doesn’t know who sent the weapon and he seems to have labelled both me and Queenie as likely perpetrators. He’s not sure which way to lean. He isn’t blaming either of us for evil intent but rather stupidity and carelessness where his kids were involved.

  Knowing Travis, he’s most likely to blame the person who won’t provide him with a roof over his head. Also when he learns his wife has known all along about our affair, he might consider it a possibility that she sent the sword with the intention that the outside world, the unbiased eye, would be likely to point the finger my way. After all, I am certified clinically unbalanced.

  ‘Tell me more.’ Her forefinger has lodged in her eye, stuck in situ but she doesn’t rub at it.

  ‘Also Terence, oops. Sorry, I meant Travis, doesn’t know that I’m in therapy for stalking. I’d hoped to come clean, tell him everything once he moved in but now I can’t; well, not so much can’t as can’t be bothered. I no longer see the point.’

  ‘Why’s that, Beverley?’

  Her manner is starting to rankle, like the first time I came. Short, pithy questions are loaded with sarcastic innuendo and she’s playing the ‘let’s pretend’ game with increasing aplomb. She’s emphasising that all I am to her is a patient, not the mistress of her errant husband. Ms Evans knows that Travis and I have no future together, that I’m already bored in my new role but I’m sensing that she doesn’t really care. If I’d hoped to rattle her, I’ve failed. She’s no interest in her husband, probably hasn’t done in a long time and she’s definitely coming across as the star of our two-man show.

  ‘I think he’s got too much baggage. Also he doesn’t trust me.’

  I recap on how we met, the sexual attraction and my hopes of a happy ever after. I think it only fair she knows the truth, it’s what she advocates after all. She listens carefully and tosses out a few random questions as if she’s been rehearsing how to approach the session.

  I came prepared for anger and even a measure of vitriol should she decide to bring the subject out into the open but it’s a relief that she wants to carry on with the charade. For now it’s easier. It’s what we’ve being doing for weeks anyway, pretending, so why open up now?

  ‘Should he? Trust you, Beverley?’ Her eyes have shrunk to slits and she peers at me like a stuffed unpurring Siamese cat.

  ‘He doesn’t believe I have a stalker. He thinks I’m making it up to cover tracks of things I’ve done that make him uncomfortable.’

  ‘Do you really have a stalker?’ She cocks her head to one side with a mildly patronising look.

  ‘Yes.’

  40

  Ms Evans has been waiting for me to talk about my own stalker. So far we’ve only touched on it, yet it would seem central to my case considering we’ve spent the last few months trying to unravel my inclination to stalk and torment my lovers. She’s never really got to the bottom of my behaviour so how could she understand? The only thing I felt might make things right, give my life meaning and bury the past was children, but Scott killed that chance. I don’t really expect Ms Evans to get it, although taking her husband out from under her nose was meant to give her a better handle on emotional abandonment.

  I want to lie down and run through the possibilities and talk about my fears. I’m still finding it hard to pinpoint who hates me sufficiently to keep me awake at night with all manner of silent phone calls and online threats, not to mention the red paint sprayed across my car.

  It’s most likely to be Scott, after payback for my collusion with Cosette. He’s still convinced I’d something to do with Danielle’s accident and the loss of their baby, so certainly he’s got motive.

  Then there’s Ms Evans herself. She must be furious that I spent so long enticing her playboy husband into my bed and then into my home. On the outside, she seems a caring hands-on sort of mother. But I wonder what she’s like behind closed doors and what she might be capable of; especially with two small children to protect. She’s plenty of reason to send threats, get up at night and torment me with nasty emails and phone calls. The problem is that, face to face, my instinct tells me she’s little feeling left for her husband. Why waste her energy on someone who seems to have done her a favour?

  Danielle’s a possibility. Maybe I’ve been too introverted, too distraught over my own inability to have children, that I haven’t given her enough attention. Now Scott is playing happy families with Cosette, I’ve kept my distance from Danielle. But perhaps she still blames me for the death of
her baby and might not be so motherly towards children in my care.

  Then there is Cosette who is as obsessed with Scott as I was, determined to keep him at all costs. She could be looking out for him, keeping his fear of me alive, to feather her own nest, but I can’t see it. She’s too nice.

  Lastly, I want to ask Ms Evans about Bob Pratchett. I know he’s a paranoid schizophrenic, believing in a world conspiracy that is out to kill him. He follows people around, attaches himself to the most unlikely candidates. A lover of pretty women, he fantasises about sexual conquests. The whole of the Abbott Hospital has heard of the famous movie stars that he’s bedded, but it’s not his boasts of impossible exploits that bothers me. It was seeing him with Queenie that day at the hospital and the red paint along the side of my car. Could it be possible he is my stalker? Or is he working hand in glove with Queenie; Ms Evans? It’s not impossible they could be having an affair.

  ‘Beverley?’ Her voice jolts me back. I’ve been so deep in thought it’s as if I’ve been hypnotised again.

  ‘May I have a glass of water? Sorry, I’m really parched.’ My throat is scratchy, stress threatening a summer bug. Ms Evans hands me a filled glass from the chilled plastic water dispenser by her desk.

  ‘It’s nothing concrete, but sometimes I think someone is watching me. Got it in for me. A bit like I had it in for Scott.’ The past tense here is good, confirming it was the old me who trailed my ex-lover. I need to be signed off.

  On the spur of the moment I decide it wisest not to say any more. An inkling of relapse, of a greater unbalanced state of mind, and I’ll be enrolled for another six weeks. It crosses my mind that Ms Evans is enjoying the session and might be consciously using the time to make me squirm. She might never let me off the hook and might even use her authority to have me sectioned.

  ‘Go on. I’m listening.’ She’s nudging me towards the landmine.

  ‘Oh it’s nothing. Just my imagination.’

  Ms Evans sighs and sets her pen down. ‘Okay. But if you change your mind, I’m here.’ She pauses. ‘Anyway, we’ve nearly reached the end of the road. I think it’s our last session next week. Then we’ll be out of each other’s hair. Why don’t you tell me how you think the therapy has gone?’

  She’s disappointed that I’ve clammed up but she’s letting it go. She’s got that fed-up look of a mother, unable to stifle the leaden sigh of disappointment in her child. For now the caring façade has been replaced by a look of resignation. My first impression that she’s plain nosey hasn’t been dispelled. She’ll be wondering why I targeted Travis, especially after I knew they were a couple, and won’t be certain if it was deliberate or coincidental. She might even be wondering if she was my choice of therapist after I met her husband or before.

  ‘I think it’s been really helpful.’ This is what needs to go in her professional report.

  ‘I need to let Mr Hoarden, and the police, know that you have your stalking habits under control and won’t be bothering Mr Barry anymore. Can I assure them of this, Beverley?’

  ‘Definitely.’ I smile. Bright and breezy. La-di-da-di-da.

  I don’t voice my opinion that it’s all been a colossal waste of time and taxpayers’ money, as Ms Evans has probably come to the same conclusion. But I can’t back off from Scott, especially if he’s my tit-for-tat stalker and sharing this information would likely put me back to square one. I’ll only leave Scott alone when the punishment fits the crime.

  ‘Well, it looks as if next week will be our last meeting. I hope it all works out well with Terence-slash-Travis. Whatever his name is.’ She gives a wry smile but keeps her head buried in her notes and scribbles furiously.

  ‘Thanks. It feels good to be moving on.’

  We stand up at the same time, like a couple of business colleagues who have concluded a satisfactory, if relatively unproductive, meeting. Ms Evans extends her hand, clasping mine in a conclusive gesture of solidarity, but then she tightens her grip until my bones rebel with a faint crunching noise.

  ‘Well done, Beverley. I think we’ve covered a lot of ground. Till next week.’

  ‘Thank you. Maybe we’ll open a bottle of champagne and toast my progress and the end of the road. Bye for now.’

  With that I am gone.

  41

  When I get back from my therapy session, an empty, desolate feeling engulfs the house. As soon as I step into the hall I know he’s gone.

  ‘Travis?’

  There’s no reply and no pungent smell of coffee which was his calling card and the lingering smell of rank roll-up tobacco has faded.

  ‘Travis?’ I check the rooms on the ground floor, one by one. He’d been up and about when I left, so I don’t bother going upstairs. Once Travis came down in the mornings he didn’t venture back up until bedtime as the steep stairs made him breathless. By the time I reach the kitchen I know I’m on my own again and relief mingles with anticlimax.

  A white envelope is propped up against the scented candle in the middle of the table. I rip it open and one of Travis’ business cards falls out, a message scribbled on the back.

  Sorry, Beverley. I can’t stay as I need to see the children. Leaving is my only chance that Queenie will mellow. I’ve booked into a B&B for the time being but will be in touch.

  Thanks again. Travis x

  I drift towards the kettle, wondering at the illusion of it all. So much effort and planning and what for? Perhaps playing happy families is not the answer, and Ms Evans has a point, that it’s time to move on, face the demons on my own.

  The sight of the dead plants through the back window makes me shiver. Project Travis was never meant to end so suddenly and the scattered wilted flowers and decaying greenery mirrors the shallowness of our relationship. The roots had been weak, nothing to bind them together. My relationships all seem to skim the surface. The new plants are still sitting by the back door in their plastic containers.

  I turn on the radio, inviting the noise of upbeat melodies to smother the sadness. I think Ms Evans would prefer to hear about misery, let down and neuroses following on from her husband’s departure so it’s hard not to laugh. What a wicked web we weave.

  I carry my coffee through to the store room and pick out a new tin of green paint from the rack, holding it up to contemplate the colour. My eyes scan the array of shades lined up in both gloss and matt.

  With my tin of choice, I trundle up the stairs with the small ladders, winding my way up three flights of steep rickety stairs and past three landings towards the attic. As a child I was a mountaineer, each step inching towards the summit, careering backwards more than once.

  The attic needs a complete revamp. It sits on top of the world, my world. It was a good hiding place, a place to be alone where the noise couldn’t reach. Farther away from my warring parents than the cellar, distance drowning out the toxic decibels.

  With the long window pole I push open the skylight, blinking away a dust shower that cascades over me. Cleansing away the memories of the past will be the way forward and I’ll tell Ms Evans next week; she’ll be proud of me.

  I trundle back down the stairs again, having forgotten the brush and paint tray, and, as I walk past, can’t resist the temptation to open my laptop. I’m not expecting any new messages but it’s a habit.

  I’m soon staring at the computer screen and wonder what’s going on. There are three new emails from someone purporting to be from a website called thejokesonus.com. The website is like YouTube for the illusionist. Impossible magic tricks are paraded on the home page. Passing coins through glass. Walking on water. Climbing skyscrapers side on and levitating rogue pieces of paper into the air. I’m mesmerised by each clip even though I’ve seen them all before. The site is trying to convince the watcher of magic powers, rather than sleight of hand. Seeing is Believing is their motto which is printed large, in bold red, as a strap line which moves continuously across the top of the home page.

  The first email is inviting me to join up. It’s not cl
ear at first what I’d be signing up to other than having the chance to watch online videos of weird and whacky illusions free of charge. But it seems to be some sort of a club. Become a magician, become an illusionist. They’ll show you how.

  Hi Beverley

  Now is your chance to join our very exclusive club, thejokesonus.com. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity not to be missed. Learn the tricks of the trade; perform in public and line your pockets. This is a personal invitation extended by one of our team of Master Tricksters.

  Reply today or lose the chance.

  The email is signed from JY at Master Tricksters. I’m not sure why the email didn’t hit my spam box but I click delete and move on to the second message.

  Hi Beverley

  I wonder if you’ve worked out who I am. I know your love of tricks and illusions, and as we’re recruiting, you were obviously my first port of call. Go on… join us. What fun it’ll be.

  Master Trickster

  At this point I’m feeling uneasy at having been addressed by name in both messages. The personal touch encourages me to read the blurb.

  It’s the third email though that really grabs my attention, and as I stare at the content I wonder, for a second, if it could be genuine. My stomach does a somersault.

  Hi You

  Don’t you recognise who it is? Come on, it’s not been that long, surely? I just couldn’t resist getting in touch. You see, I’m back in England. Yes, I am a Master Trickster but have decided to continue my trade back home.

  If you’ve forgiven me (????) then I’d love to meet up. Have a few drinks and grab a bite to eat? Let me know. Send me your number and I’ll know I’m in with a chance. Where are you living these days? Back at the family home? Anyway, hope to see you soon.