I was aware of my rising heart rate. ‘What did you do that for, Gregg?’ You completely ignored me. I tapped your arm. You turned to me as if to an annoying child.
‘What?’ you said under your breath.
‘Why did you say I didn’t want any more wine? Speak for me?’
You smiled at me, then at the prim-looking lady across from us. ‘Because you’ve had enough.’ You attempted to turn your back on me, so I pulled at your arm. My head told me to back off, my heart urged me otherwise. I was pushing my luck. But sometimes it was so unbelievably testing to follow your path.
‘One glass, that’s all I’ve had. I’m not driving, so why not?’
You regarded me as if I were a simple-minded idiot, and you needed to spell meaning out to me. ‘For Christ’s sake, Eve. Stop drawing attention to yourself…’ you slunk closer to me, lowering your voice ‘… making a fool of me. Keep your voice down. You have Jack to look after later. Remember Jack, your son? The child you left at home?’ You tapped my arm gently, as if consoling me. ‘Stop creating a scene. You’re downright embarrassing,’ you whispered.
Causing a scene to embarrass you was exactly what I felt like doing, self-important idiot. I pushed back my chair, placing my napkin on the table, avoiding eye contact with my fellow diners. Counting in my mind, zigzagging my hurried way through the room towards the ladies. Passing the raucous laughter, drunken slurring and people generally enjoying themselves. A glass screen between them and me. Self-loathing swatting at me all the way. Did I imagine the look from the other diners as I left?
Poor Gregg, his wife really is a handful. He’s so lovely too. Shame. Did you see how she reacted, all over a glass of wine. Maybe she has issues. Maybe she has a drink problem? I do feel sorry for him – she’s clearly out of control. That poor baby they have. How can she possibly be capable of looking after him? Poor Gregg.
I freshened myself in the ladies. Why was I bothering? I was merely a decoration in the guise of a wife, a disliked one at that.
I returned in time for dessert, which I pushed around the plate. Strawberries felt so incongruent to my mood. A flashback, of a time strawberry-picking and abundant eating with Sam, reminded me of how far removed I was from me. Later that night we’d made summer cocktails with frozen strawberries for a pop-up barbecue with friends. The laughter and carrying-on. I sipped at my tepid water. Sober, and sad. You, on the other hand, downed liquor and became merry and merrier. I wished I could up and leave. To add insult to injury, the balls of my feet were pulsating – one thing to wear uncomfortable heels when having an amazing time, another altogether when your experience was soul-destroying.
Eventually, you were beckoned over to another table. I recognised one of the men; he’d visited our house in one of the several after-work congregations. I’m sure he introduced himself as a bank manager, or did he work with you? I decided I didn’t care. He clearly worshipped you, whoever he was. I reached for my bag, took my chance and absconded. Funny, I thought, I’d believed we were at Wimbledon to enjoy the tennis, but no one else seemed to be budging. Intent on mingling and consuming as much free alcohol as possible. Anyway, polite small talk was very overrated.
I perched on the edge of my Centre Court seat, with dejected empty seats to my left and right. Another waste. You and your cronies stayed in the marquee, by then probably downing whisky shots. The atmosphere on Centre Court was thankfully as I’d imagined. Exhilarating and upbeat. It crossed my mind, if I could, by observing the ball pace left to right, de-traumatise myself with a little EMDR therapy. Or maybe hypnotise myself into believing I was happy, having a great time. I remained until the very end, half watching, half dreaming of what ifs, should haves and wish I hads. Still empty seats surrounded me.
I stood as the sweaty players left the court. I had no excuse but to try and find you; assuming you were still prowling the marquee. I fought my way through the inter-court passage, wondering why I always seemed to be travelling in the wrong direction, pushing against the swarms. I pressed on through until someone stopped abruptly in front of me, blocking my way. His entire face smiled softly, an ordinary male with benevolent eyes. I couldn’t help but return his smile. An amiable voice asked me for the time; I glanced at my Rolex, a gift from you on our wedding day. My pulse upped a pace – God, I’d been missing in action for ages. Too long, you’d be furious again. Hopefully you were too blotto to realise. I shared the time with the stranger, he thanked me, smiled then sauntered away. I rotated to allow my eyes to follow him, touched by his apparent gentleness.
Stupid. I hadn’t realised I was being surveyed. Was I set up? I now wonder.
Once, I’d never have believed such an innocent interchange could have consequences, would require me to be taught a lesson. The flame to ignite the noted list for all my other evident indiscretions during the day. I continued along the passage, oblivious. Moments later I was jolted back in my tracks; a sharp pain in my small wrist, squeezed tightly as if to crush my delicate bones, my arm yanked at the socket. I spun around in a flash, twisting my ankle over my heels, creating a burning-hot sting. I didn’t need to ask; I didn’t need to face you or look into your eyes, I already knew. I knew what I’d done wrong, in your sick eyes. I understood, tomorrow I would ache with the marks of tonight. Something told me the wounds would no longer be superficial. Something in your eyes had changed.
Why did I have to wear my watch? But then I was unaware I was being stalked.
Why did I need to smile at the man? He only needed the time.
It was a quiet journey home from Wimbledon, despite the full car; a little civil conversation but you struggled to hide your icy intentions towards me. Your dark eyes attempted to catch mine from time to time. I deliberately avoided them, choosing to natter quietly to Sue instead. All the time the knotting in my stomach squeezed further, a slight shaky feeling seeping through my limbs. The two-hour journey flew by. Before I knew it, we were back at our gates, then imparting goodbyes to our babysitter. I was informed Jack was fast asleep, but as I trod my way up the stairs to check in on him you summoned me to the study.
You lingered at the foot of the stairs. ‘Before you go upstairs, Eve…’ You nodded towards the study and made your way there. Why did I follow? Because it had to happen, one way or another; I would rather have it over and done with. It was dark outside; only the hall light illuminated the room, the air we shared thick with trepidation. Daggered shadows scattered the floor as I stood on unsteady legs, facing your back. Waiting for you to turn. Your dark frame, deliberately facing out of the window. Casual, hands in pockets. Black was all you could see. The whiff of alcoholic fumes burdening the attitude.
Silence deafened the tone as the clock ticked intrusively, fixed to the wall. I observed the second-hand circle, until I could no longer cope with the slow torture.
‘Gregg?’ I appealed.
‘Shush.’ You stamped your foot.
I understood; I must await my fate.
Were you smiling to the outside world? Waiting for the perfect moment? Not wanting to begin, for fear it would be over too soon? Pure excitement pouring through your blood. Your moment to be in control. Finally, you slowly revolved. Deliberately. Calculated. Ominous opaque eyes sought mine. You had decided on my next lesson. My punishment. Just a few premeditated steps forward, you stood in front of me, not uttering a word. There was no point in my running. Where would I go? Jack was asleep upstairs. It was too late. Your hands reached out in slow motion. I was frozen to the spot. I did not protest; I had already shut down. Aware of being walked backwards.
My head whacked hard against the intolerant wall, as I magically slid up it, defying gravity. Defying my self-worth.
Your masculine hands at my throat. My feet floating.
I still did not speak. I couldn’t.
I gasped; fighting for air.
You smiled, then dropped me. I fell to my knees.
Not long now.
A crushing pain gored my ribs, your shoes making the
strikes all the harsher.
I dropped flat, then curled up like a fallen leaf, so as to protect my head with my arms.
Blow after blow. Thinking only of Jack and our new life to come.
Then hush, as you inspected your work, looking down on me. You crouched down, to whisper to the child you reluctantly disciplined. ‘When will you learn, Eve? Why do you insist on doing this to us? Take some time, think long and hard. Consider your behaviour. I should not have to do this, but you leave me no choice. You are sick. You do realise this, don’t you? Sick, Eve.’
Hard-done-to footsteps departed the room, the door steadily closing behind them. Darkness but for the moon watching over; I was alone.
My heart banging on the floor, I urged it to keep quiet; it was not the time. I lay listening as the clock ticked on. Then the footsteps trod down the stairs. I hadn’t heard them go up, I’d thought you were still lurking in the hall, listening for my next move. The front door slammed, vibrating shock waves through the floor as the realisation dawned: had you taken Jack? I lay immobile, curling into the shape of a kidney bean to let the blackness take me.
I wondered, did that man understand how much his request would cost me? Did he know his smile would punish me? Why did people have to be nice? Why couldn’t they leave me alone? Through the silent tears I could see the remains of time, my watch; silver crushed to hundreds of tiny pieces. Elements sparkling in the moonlight on the floor next to me.
The gift of our marriage smashed forever.
Time was a great healer, they said.
But time was a parasite of my sanity.
Chapter Twenty
Cornwall 2016
The adrenaline pumps subaquatic sounds through my ears. I’m conscious of heat illuminating my cheeks and aware of Ruan’s eyes spearing my back. But time seems to stop, for a moment, as we all remain immobile without words. Frozen in time. Eventually, he returns my forged smile. I’m unsure if his is a genuine one. My ability to read people’s intentions momentarily deactivates. I watch as his eyes search my face. Deliberately checking off my features as if from a list. A mental detailed list he prepared earlier. It’s a while before he opens his mouth to answer me, closing it again. Instead, he holds out his tanned hand to greet mine, looking so small in comparison.
I do not know this man; but I suspect he knows me. A disconcerting awareness shrouds me as I wrack my mind. Who are you? A strange unidentified atmosphere fills the room. Then a cough from behind breaks through as I feel the eyes of Ruan moving between us.
‘William?’ I tender again, shifting my feet to steady myself.
He shakes his head as if waking himself from a trance. ‘Yes. Hi, sorry. I was miles away.’ He steps closer to me as my feet automatically step back one. He still has hold of my hand; he’s also invading my personal space.
My heart is still pumping wildly; I was sure this was you. From behind the resemblance is uncanny. ‘Not to worry.’ I step forward again. I’m hardly behaving in a welcoming manner. ‘I’m Eve, by the way.’ I pause for a moment, waiting for him to say, I know, but he doesn’t. I am as certain as I can be he’s thinking it. Am I just being paranoid again? This could be a genuine case and my distrust is stripping me of any composure or practised etiquette. He smiles at me knowingly; he is self-confident yet there is something so unsettled about him. So many unsaid words sitting on his shoulders. But not in the usual fidgety, anxious manner I’ve become so accustomed to.
‘Please, come on through, William. It’s lovely to meet you,’ I lie, wishing I’d refused to take the referral whilst I still had the chance. I’m also aware as I say this, he hasn’t yet released his grip of my hand. His clasp is firm, touching my skin, almost trying to communicate something. I cannot shake off the uneasy feeling, but then, given the recent rush of stress hormones, it’s to be expected. Perhaps it has nothing to do with this William, and I’m simply filtering down again from the battered boxes.
I slowly pull my hand from his and spin round to face the room. So conscious of each footstep he takes behind me. ‘Come on through.’ My shoulders tense ready for action. I glance at a perplexed-looking Ruan and try to transmit to him: I don’t even know where to begin but please don’t leave the clinic, please stay close; just for the next hour.
We step into my room, and I shut the solid wood door behind us. There’s no glass in this door, to protect people’s privacy. But with no way for Ruan to observe and without the reassuring alarm buttons I had in the hospital, I feel decidedly vulnerable. I watch him glance around the room. Most people avoid averting their eyes from me, their feet or the floor. Next, he regards my desk and I realise he’s looking at the brown A4 envelope containing the newspaper articles. Why is he looking at it? I’d meant to hide it, not that he appreciates what it contains. Or does he? I notice a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes before he returns his eyes to me. Did I imagine it?
I direct my hand towards his chair. ‘Please, take a seat, William.’ We both sit. For the first time, I realise it’s me who sits awkward and with apprehension of what’s to come, rather than my client. He slouches back into the depth of the chair, spreading out his legs as far as he can without touching mine, as he alternately flexes and taps his feet. Self-certainty emanates from him but it’s not arrogance. I feel a little bad – he’s come to me for help, and so far he hasn’t received the best of my attention. He’s been referred through a professional body, but something is not right.
I smile at him uneasily as I reach behind to gather the paperwork from my desk. I feel his eyes wash over me, studying me. Perturbed, I shift in my chair, thrown completely as to how to begin our appointment. Why am I allowing him to make me behave in this manner? People can only affect us if we allow them to, runs through my mind. Now look at me. But he’s good, he has discreetly managed to shift the balance of therapist and client, and a bad therapist at that, one who wishes to have control. I need to break the cycle.
I feel my throat scratch with dryness. ‘Can I fetch you a glass of water? Or a coffee perhaps, before we make a start?’ Desperately hoping he’ll say yes, so I can leave the room to have a word with myself. Re-establish some self-control, and cease behaving like such an amateur.
But he smiles at me whilst pulling a bottle from his jacket pocket. ‘It’s fine, thanks. I always carry water with me.’
‘Always prepared, I see; must be the soldier in you.’ If you are one, that is. ‘Would you mind, though? I’ve such a dry throat today; I’ll pop for some water, if that’s okay with you?’
‘Sure, of course, please, carry on.’ He watches as I stand. Should I move the envelope before I leave the room? Why am I allowing him to get to me so much? I decide it would look ridiculous; I’ve already wasted enough time. Even so, I leave the door ajar behind me, and scuttle across to the water machine, listening for any possible movement. I glance over to the front-desk area where Bea has now joined Ruan; I half smile, half grimace at them. Drumming my head against my hands, I take a gulp of cold water and count to ten. Get a grip, Eve. I head back for my room. Ruan calls after me.
‘Eve, just to let you know – your next appointment has just called in. Cancelled. Said she can’t make it, her partner has insisted she join him instead, something about needing to visit his son. Said you’d understand?’
I don’t, but it will just be something else I’ve forgotten about. ‘Fine,’ I tell Ruan. I re-enter my room, leaving my anxious state outside the door, Bea and Ruan undoubtedly confirming to each other that my behaviour is becoming more insane by the hour.
‘Sorry about that. Right, so, William, I’ve received this referral—’ I flash the piece of paper ‘—and you are ex-forces?’
‘Yes, I am.’
He’s not giving anything away. ‘Okay. Let’s start with the here and now, then work our way back.’
‘Okay.’ He settles further into his chair.
‘Okay, this referral states PTSD. What is your understanding of this, or, more importantly, can you tell me w
hat your symptoms are? How they affect you on a day-to-day basis. I mean in today’s terms.’
‘How long do you have?’ He smiles. Almost teasing.
I return his smile. ‘As long as you need.’ I note, despite mentioning his diagnosed condition, he’s so together and calm. ‘It’s perhaps easier to start with – how you believe your life has changed because of any symptoms. So, if we were to look at yesterday, what did you do or not do, feel or not feel, in comparison to perhaps twelve months ago, two years ago or, if you’ve been suffering for some time, ten years ago. Go back as far as you need to.’
He spends time relaying debilitating symptoms: sleepless nights, panic attacks without warning and the most lucid flashbacks and anxious tendencies – these he keeps well hidden, except for the obvious. A constant wired feeling, always feeling on the edge. Clearly, this isn’t going to be a one-off appointment. Despite empathising with this man who sits in front of me, who has been through experiences which would force you to turn away from a TV screen, I still feel quite uneasy about him. Something doesn’t add up, but I can’t put my finger on it. I admonish myself, but it wouldn’t be too difficult to research and relay typical symptoms of PTSD and trauma-related disturbances, so to manipulate a referral. He continues, composed and precise, conferring with a smooth, educated, but not a la-di-da voice. After a while, I can’t dispute this man has suffered trauma in his life. He is genuine; I’m now as sure of this as I can be. It’s horrifying learning what these servicemen go through; how can they possibly be expected to readapt, without help, into everyday society? But there is more he’s not telling me. Something buried underneath.
‘You’re from Warwickshire?’ Merely articulating the W word sends shivers down my spine.
He holds up a finger. ‘Was,’ he instantly corrects me, as if it had the same effect on him. ‘Sorry. I mean, I was from there, yes. I no longer have any connections to the area.’ This is the first time I notice a flicker of guardedness in his attitude. I watch him as he shifts position in his seat, back to the same position again. Eyes locked on mine.
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