On occasion, he took referrals from all over the world as a favour to people he knew and trusted.
Last week he’d taken one of the latter, and this morning was examining the patient referral and financial accounts. He was a doctor first and foremost, but he was also running a business. The cost of his residential treatment was high and beyond the means of most people, although the rates were flexible, determined in large part by what the patient could pay and how interested he was in their condition.
A knock at the door disturbed his scanning of the single page of notes. He turned over the thin sheet to find the back of it blank. He huffed.
‘Enter,’ he said.
Dr Henri Durand, his close colleague, a medical doctor and also the company accountant, stepped into the room, closing the ancient door with a creak.
‘I’ve been to see our new patient,’ said Henri. He swallowed, thinking hard. Dr Boucher didn’t interrupt. If Henri was thinking, the topic was important.
Henri squinted at Dr Boucher, his old eyes dancing over the top of his glasses. ‘She’s intriguing,’ he said.
‘I’ll say,’ said Dr Boucher. ‘How are her wounds?’
‘Staying shut,’ said Henri. ‘Most of them. The blade must have been clean. No sign of infection.’
Dr Boucher nodded. ‘You’ve read the notes?’
Henri snorted. ‘What notes? There’s one page of hasty conjecture.’
Dr Boucher nodded. Henri wasn’t convinced, but they hadn’t run any tests. If what was written in the notes by the English doctor could be confirmed, this would be the most exciting patient he’d had in years.
‘Have we received payment?’ he said, knowing Henri was a devil for the practicalities of running their business.
‘Yes,’ said Henri. ‘Six months upfront plus a monthly commitment if needed.’
‘What’s the account name?’ said Dr Boucher, surprised at the upfront payment. He grabbed a pen. He liked to know who was paying for his patients, particularly this one. He’d rarely get in contact with them, only in emergencies. Only if he and his colleagues failed with their treatment.
‘Dr Madison,’ said Henri, watching Dr Boucher as he scribbled it down. ‘Dr Alex Madison, clinical psychologist, resident in the UK. He is paying for this young lady as her guardian, not as her clinician. Looking at the state of her, I do hope he has deep pockets.’
Dr Boucher smirked. Henri had a way with him. ‘Shall we fix a drink, mon ami? I’d like to discuss the initial treatment plan.’
Henri agreed, sitting across from Dr Boucher on the leather sofa. Both men enjoyed these moments: fine surroundings, fine wine and a fine professional challenge ahead. As they sipped from their glasses they discussed the main points, what they could extract from the handwritten note that had been delivered with the patient in a creased and bloodstained envelope.
‘If the prognosis is correct, we have our work cut out,’ Dr Boucher said to Henri. ‘I have never seen anything like it.’
He saw Henri raise his eyebrows. His friend cleared his throat and poured another glass, tapping his pen on paper.
‘I take it you have?’
Henri shrugged. ‘Rumours, nothing more. I’ll make some inquiries. In the meantime, I have some ideas. This young lady is not lost. I think we can do a lot for her and I think she may come out of this with some semblance of normality, if not a complete remission.’
Dr Boucher leaned back, enjoying the warmth of the alcohol in his body against the cool breeze. It reinvigorated him, giving him the energy he always welcomed at the start of a new patient’s journey. He had a feeling this particular one would be long and difficult.
‘Very well,’ he said, taking a deep breath. ‘Let us begin.’
The new patient enjoyed the fresh air. Everything had been dull. The journey had troubled her, but the pain and the fog had kept her senses blunted. She’d been medicated – she didn’t know what with, but her body and mind both felt numb, distant, as though she was watching herself from afar.
Forty-eight hours passed with little change. The drone of an aeroplane, the vibration of a car, then the silent brisk air as she was carried in the dead of night into a building that smelled a thousand years old and looked older.
‘Bienvenue, mademoiselle,’ were the first words she heard. Everything smelled different, from the air to the furniture to the people. Everything was soft and calm. The voices were friendly and they cared.
She drifted at first. Her head spun and the nausea bounced around her body until she begged for help. They provided it, and her body relaxed. Her mind followed until she was in a dream. The pain disappeared and her cravings subsided.
For now, at least, she was at peace.
Her room had a window, a wardrobe and a bed. The bed was wooden and the sheets soft. The straps were loose and they allowed her to sit, if she wanted. A simple bell on the wall allowed her to summon a nurse, who would smile and tend to her demands, few though they were.
She knew what had happened, what she’d done to herself and what had transpired that day. She remembered the words of the doctors and the game they were playing. But here, a world away, her pain was tempered and her addiction, while ever present, was held at bay, caged beneath her consciousness. The soothing voices of the nurse explained what she had to do, and she smiled at them. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled.
But she remembered her saviour. He had come for her once and she had shunned him. He had come for her again and she had shown him what she was, the monster and the woman inside, desperate to escape. He’d watched her sink into the depths of her frenzied feeding and still he’d lifted her out again. If she ever saw him again, she’d offer him her life, because he’d saved it. It was his.
She’d got her answer. He’d whispered it to her as he carried her bloody body across the grass and concrete. She’d heard. She was still conscious, unable to move or speak, but she could hear what was going on. He was almost as frantic as she was, telling her she’d been abused, that her condition was not her fault. Mia knew this, but the next answer hurt more than the stab wounds. He said that her father was dead but her mother had survived. The car accident wasn’t a dream. They’d been separated and her mother might still be out there somewhere. That’s all he knew. He said he was sorry.
Dr Madison, thought Mia, as she gazed out at the snow-covered mountains under the starlit sky of a foreign land that had taken her in and offered her protection. Alex Madison, the timid man who had pursued her to the end.
Thank you, she thought.
You saved a monster, but you saved me as well.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some claim that writing the second book is more difficult than writing the first. I disagree, for the simple reason that all of the wonderful people who worked with me through the publication of my first book, Trance, were with me once again, as professional and supportive as ever.
Thank you to my agent, Julie Fergusson, who continues to be my trusted friend and advisor on every aspect of my writing – the first port of call for every one of my questions and ideas. Julie sifts through the noise and gets the absolute best out of me.
Thank you to the Amazon Publishing team, who continue to be the most fantastic and energising bunch of professionals I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. A huge thanks to Jack Butler, meticulous in his analysis of what makes a great story and steering me in the right direction. Also special mentions to Laura Deacon, Martin Toseland, Monica Byles, Harriet Stiles, Nicole Wagner, Alexandra Levenberg and Jodi Marchowsky – all of whom worked their magic on both Trance and Pain.
Thank you to my parents, Brian and Mary, and my sister, Lucy (and Tim, Charlotte, Millie and Alice), who have been so encouraging and enthusiastic throughout the process.
Thank you to my wonderful wife and daughters, Kerry, Isla and Daisy, who continue to provide the perfect home in which to write, offering patience, time and the motivation to keep going.
Lastly, to the real ps
ychologists out there dealing with real patients – your job is fascinating and hugely challenging. I sincerely hope you never come across anyone as damaged and damaging as my antagonists, but if you do, please help them. Thank you!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Adam Southward is a philosophy graduate with a professional background in IT, working in both publishing and the public sector. He lives on the south coast of England with his young family.
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