Seven
‘It’s good to see you, Morag. You’re looking better than I expected. Tell me about this morning.’
Morag glanced round the familiar room. It always impressed her. Dr Lockhart must have put a lot of time and energy into achieving just the right level of calming bland-ness. Pale colours—beiges and creams everywhere. The surprisingly comfortable couch, the inviting easy chairs, the tasteful paintings—all originals—and the soothing herbal teas. She let her glance drift back to the therapist and met her gaze with confidence. Not something she always felt able to do. Dr Lockhart, tall, slim, plainly but elegantly dressed in a trouser suit, looked back expectantly, waiting for a response. Morag scrutinized the woman’s carefully considered attire, appropriate for her late middle age and her job. Finally, she slid down into the comfortable chair, trying to relax.
‘This morning? The court papers had to come one day and now they have. I’m actually feeling much calmer, even relieved. The sword of Damocles has finally fallen. But I don’t particularly want to dwell on that today. I’d far rather talk about the hypnotherapy. You said you wanted me to see Professor Beattie.’
Dr Lockhart pulled a sheaf of papers towards her, shifting her glasses back on to her face as she bent to examine a page.
‘Okay. I’ve sent him everything that I told you I would. That’s the outline of your court case and surrounding circumstances. And…where is it? Oh yes. ‘With reference to hypnotherapy I have, on several occasions, attempted to work with Morag in this way but we have been unable to establish the necessary rapport. However, her psychotherapy with me is progressing.’’
Dr Lockhart looked up. ‘I have, however, done as you requested, Morag, and withheld a full report about you. Professor Beattie rang me yesterday. He remarked on this and I told him you were…reluctant to divulge everything about yourself at this stage. He said that might make things difficult, but he has at least agreed to read and assess the file and get back to me tomorrow. I hope he can be persuaded to see you very soon. You do still want to try it?’
Morag nodded and shrugged simultaneously. ‘Maybe. But I still don’t know why you think he can do something for me that you clearly can’t.’
The statement could have sounded insulting or petulant, but she knew Dr Lockhart was used to her difficult ways.
‘Morag, I’ve asked you to work hard these past months and I know it hasn’t always been easy. You have anger, anxiety and fear. All of these have been exhibited here, with me, and we can continue to work that out, face to face in psychotherapy. But, as regards hypnotherapy, it’s my opinion that you are blocking, resisting me in some way. It may be an issue of trust, even though we’ve worked together for a while, and you have been open with me about your past, both recent and distant. But still, some part of you may not wish to go where hypnotherapy with me might take you. Like any therapeutic relationship, success depends on the two individuals working well together. And we do in psychotherapy. But with hypnotherapy, I think it’s time to try a fresh approach.’
She knew Dr Lockhart was trying to engage her with one of her kind smiles. But she wouldn’t return it. Instead, she shifted her gaze to rest on the floor between their chairs as she struggled to control her rising anger.
Dr Lockhart continued. ‘I can’t promise that Professor Beattie will be the answer to you remembering events on that day. But he is one of the best in the country at dealing with trauma and memory. As such, he’s worth a try. I think there is hope, real hope. However, I sense a hesitation in you. I wonder. Is it that you actually don’t want to try and recall that day? That would surprise me. You’ve said repeatedly that is your main driving force in working with me. Or, is your hesitation to do with other aspects of yourself you may reveal to Professor Beattie?’
Morag groaned inwardly. She knew what was coming and raised a hand.
‘All right, let’s do this again, shall we? One more time with feeling. I can say it, I can ‘own’ these things about myself. Right. Eleven years before I met Craig, I fell apart after a particularly shitty relationship breakdown. And yes, I turned to drugs and drink, as I had before when in a crisis. And yes, I had episodes of violence, mainly towards inanimate objects but on occasion towards myself, which the fading scars on my thighs and stomach will attest to. And finally, yes, I have had treatment on and off for that lovely duo, anxiety and depression, for as long as I can bloody well remember. Would that be enough for the good professor?’
She barely noticed the silence. It was the uncontrollable trembling enveloping her entire body that was worrying her.
‘Morag? Here.’
She forced her eyes to refocus on the paper tissues that Dr Lockhart was holding out to her across the gulf between their chairs. Why did she never know when she was crying?
‘You’re angry, Morag. You’re frightened of anger and you have so much of it. That’s understandable. But what we’re talking about here is trust. If you go to Professor Beattie, you will be giving him your trust. That includes being open with him about your past. And trust is something that you find difficult, isn’t it? You shy away from admitting it, but we all need to be able to trust others.’
Morag turned her eyes away from Dr Lockhart’s scrutiny. ‘It’s not about trust. I…I’m just getting fed up with us not getting anywhere. I’m not sure this Professor Beattie is such a good idea now. I feel you’re pressurizing me into seeing him.’
‘Okay, Morag. We can go back to that. But I want to stick with trust. Trust and relationships, friendships. We’ve talked before about your inability to trust others. Something that has led you, not so much into friendships, but into…acquaintanceships of convenience. Tell me again about them.’
She didn’t like the way Dr Lockhart had repeatedly put that to her over these past weeks and months. But she’d play along. She assumed a sing-song tone of voice, as if telling a children’s story. ‘Well…once upon a time I had lots of friends. In the past, my job and my wider interests gave me the opportunity to go out every night of the year if I wanted to. I liked to travel and would jet off for weekends, give parties, go to parties. Then things started to quieten down after I met Craig.’
‘Why was that?’
‘You know why. I wanted him to myself. And why not? Yes, I had less time for other folk and started turning down invitations. And then, I suppose my world contracted a bit, without me even noticing it. I still socialized with one or two people from work but, like I say, I didn’t notice it when it was happening. By the time I had, my world had shrunk. Until there was just the river crowd. And that was fine. It was no big deal.’
Dr Lockhart nodded. ‘But, as it turned out, none of them were true friends, were they?’
Morag crossed and uncrossed her legs. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Dr Lockhart knew only too well the answers to these questions.
‘No, but so what? I knew the river lot were fair-weather friends. I mean, none of them exactly invited emotional intimacy. I suppose it was just a matter of synchronicity. We all met at the ‘right’ time, had something in common. Some of us were fighting off encroaching middle age, while others were catching up on missed opportunities. That was particularly true in Fraser’s case. He’d married young and was definitely having a second flush of youthful hedonism. lona and Ally could be…well, ‘difficult’ doesn’t go near it. But when they were on form, it was good fun. Bonnie was agreeable enough, though she had her limitations. Bonnie and I are very different people.’ She let out an overdramatic sigh. ‘Look. My friendship with that lot was never about trust. And I was never one to do ‘friends’ in that soulmatey kind of way. Nauseating concept. Some people have to do that. I don’t. With the river lot, I had a laugh. I wasn’t looking for anything more.’
‘Except it wasn’t quite that straightforward, was it?’ Dr Lockhart was leaning forward now, her face serious, almost stern. ‘When you introduced Craig to the group, he did bond with them. You’ve already told me how you and Craig had rows about that. You
felt left out. Worse, you suspected Eraser and Ally were encouraging Craig to leave you. The murders of Craig and lona were shocking to you, to everyone. The final straw in a life that had dealt you so many blows. Your distant relationship with parents you believe don’t love you, your problems with drink, drugs and self-harm going back to adolescence. It hasn’t been easy for you. But matters had reached crisis point before that, hadn’t they? You weren’t really that shocked to know Craig and lona had been together. Some part of you had acknowledged it already. Subconsciously, semi-consciously, you knew, didn’t you?’
At last she felt able to meet Dr Lockhart’s scrutiny. The release of volcanic anger came as a blessed relief.
‘What! All these months of me coming here. You claiming to help me, care about me and what is this you’re saying? That I did it? That I killed them both because I was jealous and that I’m nothing but a bloody cold calculating liar!’ The urge to wrench one of Dr Lockhart’s no doubt criminally expensive paintings from the walls and throw it through the nearest window was almost overwhelming. ‘I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again. I did not know what they were doing behind my back. I was the last to know! Trust? You go ask them about trust. The ones that are still alive, anyway!’
Dr Lockhart was leaning even further forward now, practically out of her seat.
‘Morag, I am not saying that you killed anyone. What I am saying is that if you truly want to have some chance of revisiting that day, you will have to release, admit to, some of your authentic feelings of that time. You are a sensitive person and, like any sensitive person, you have intuition. You might want to deny that, but I believe some part of you knew or suspected what Craig and lona were doing. And yes, it was a betrayal of trust. You were let down by everyone. By your lover, by your friends. Just as you’ve been let down before.’ Dr Lockhart was looking at her, but not waiting for a response this time. ‘We’re opening up new ground right now and I want to make a suggestion. Why don’t we admit you here as an inpatient? Just for a few days. Let’s really do some intensive work, and then we’ll talk again about hypnotherapy. What d’you think?’
Morag stood up, control gone at last. ‘No. Absolutely not. I don’t want to be put anywhere. I want to be in my home. While I’ve still got one.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Thank you for the appointment but I’m going to cut it short. You’re, right. I am angry. With you. Angry that you don’t seem to trust me. Goodbye.’
As she marched down the soft carpeted corridor, half hoping Dr Lockhart would come racing after her, she felt relief and fear. Relief that she was away from the all-seeing gaze of the therapist who could read the rage within her. And fear? At last she was ready to admit a simple yet unsettling truth.
She was frightened of herself.
Eight
Kirstin was aware of Glen sliding two pages of A4 paper across the desk to her. His voice was low, the tone apologetic.
‘This stuff must have taken him hours to compile. If he wasn’t out and about on patrol, then he was at home in his study at the computer, typing up his logbooks into these neat notes. It took over his life. Please, read on.’
Sun 30⁄7⁄06
18.51 hrs—arrived at Cauldron. Evidence of empty wine bottles, cigarette butts (fire hazard), torn Rizla paper—indicating cannabis use? Heard laughing from other side of Cauldron. Crossed footbridge to search wooded area. Caught sight of the back of a female scurrying away from my approach up towards the Gallery of Modern Art. Looked like lona (bitch!) Sutherland. More laughter heard. (V frustrating!) 19.12 hrs—cleared up mess. Finished patrol.
Action: recommend letter(s) be sent to at least I. Sutherland—no, to ALL re: littering and (again) fire hazard. Query—check with police re: lewd behaviour issue (and swearing?)—legal aspects?
Sat⁄Sun 5 & 6⁄8⁄06—no patrols. Indisposed. (Hip) .
Fri 11⁄8⁄06
19.55 hrs—late finish at Cauldron. To my surprise met one of the problem group—Morag Ramsay—there on her own.
Went through my most recent log entries (inc those above) and discussed the latest difficulties presented by her friends. She was apologetic but raised question of the letters they had received from Glen Laidlaw⁄WLRA. She understood why I might be so annoyed but thought it unfair to include everybody. I replied that I had no choice and she quickly dropped the subject.
Ms Ramsay went quiet for a short while, then told me that she and her friends were thinking of having a ‘sort of party’ this Sunday! Said it was probably the last ‘bit of fun’ they would be having by the river together for a while as most people would be away for the rest of the summer. With that in mind, she asked me if I would ‘turn a blind eye’ for just once if she promised to keep everyone ‘in check’.
I nearly exploded but managed to hold my temper. Said I would think about it. Told her to watch herself on Sunday and think carefully whether she really should go.
I have no intention of letting them get away with this! The scum! Morag has no idea who she is mixing with, but I fear she will not listen to me. It will all end in tears. But, whatever else happens—THEY MUST NOT HAVE THEIR PARTY!!!
Action: V worried. Will take advice from Glen.
Sat 12⁄8⁄06
Called Glen. Told all, reminding him that I was not going to do patrols this weekend as the doctor had suggested a bit of rest for my hip. (No golfing either—shame!)
On his advice, rang round all volunteers. No one available. Summer holidays or work commitments apparently. (V frustrating!) Rang Glen again. Said he’d do the patrols himself but that he too had commitments. (V, v frustrating!) Hip hellish. Please let it be better by morning. THEN I’LL CATCH THEM!!!
Sun 13⁄8⁄06
Indisposed all day⁄evening. No patrols.
Kirstin let the pages drop on to the desk and slid them back towards Glen. Two things had hit her. First, the language. The heat of his anger seeping out of those fury-laden words. Language he’d never used in her company. Language he’d been known to vehemently disapprove of. And second, the dates. He’d wanted to go to the river party on that day. But couldn’t. Thank God.
‘Kirstin? You okay?’
She realized that she’d been staring, eyes unfocused, at the pages now lying beneath Glen’s hands.
‘I…I’m sorry. I just don’t remember him being like this, ever. And the language. He’s got utter contempt for these people. Perhaps with good reason but…it just doesn’t seem like him. These read like…well, they’re almost ravings at one or two points. I just don’t recognize him here. Do you know what I mean?’
She knew her look was pleading. Please agree with me, but help me too. I need to understand.
Glen offered her another sympathetic smile. ‘Yes, of course I do. The Jamie I first met and knew was, I think, the one you so fondly remember. What’s here is not what I thought Jamie was doing at the time he was working for me. I knew he had issues with lona Sutherland and the others. But I didn’t realize how far it had gone. I didn’t realize it had become so personal.’
Kirstin flicked her hand towards the pages. ‘I don’t understand. Didn’t you see these? Weren’t they written for you?’
Glen shook his head and moved a palm over the typed sheets as if trying to hide them from her eyes. ‘Not exactly. You see, it seems he had two sets of logs. The official one, and a set he called ‘alternative’ logs. Two sets of notebooks, two sets of transcriptions. A double life. It seems he began the practice sometime in the early summer when he’d become increasingly incensed at the group’s abuse of the river. I suppose it was a way to vent feelings he couldn’t share with anyone else.’
She frowned. ‘So, how come you have these now? Are you the only one who’s seen them?’
He sat back, glanced out of the window. ‘Yes, I am.’ He sighed. ‘Jamie handed them over to me, along with his laptop and the disks. I suppose he could just have disposed of them. That wasn’t in his nature, though. I don’t have to tell you that Jamie was an honest man. He
was in a dilemma and he chose to put his trust in me. He asked for my help.’
‘Help?’
‘As you can see, Jamie knew about the party that was planned that day. Intended to go down there and catch them. Luckily, very luckily for him, his hip let him down. But he was worried. After the killings he came to me in a panic. What if the others in the group told the police about their feud with him? What if they started looking at his logs? I calmed him down. I doubted very much that the police were going to look at a seventy-year-old overzealous volunteer. Apparendy Ross had reassured him in much the same way. Jamie was feeling guilty about being horrible to horrible people. And now some of those people were dead. Also, I promised that should the police ask me about any of it, I would support him unreservedly. I wouldn’t divulge the existence of these. He was, after all, in the right, even if he’d gone way over the top about things.’
Kirstin leant over the desk, trying to get Glen to look at her. He seemed transfixed by the view of the hills and river.
‘So, did you have to lie to the police?’
At last, he tore his eyes from the view and looked direcdy at her. ‘An officer came to see me about the lona Sutherland letter. It wasn’t anything heavy. They were looking at everything then. The group hadn’t raised hell about Jamie. I imagine he wasn’t on their radar. They were all too traumatized by the killings, I suppose. I told the officer the truth. That lona Sutherland and her friends had been a pain in the neck and that I, on behalf of the association, was drinking of taking some legal action against them. I praised Jamie’s work, showed the officer a sample of his logs. The official ones. And that was that. I wasn’t asked anything more. I didn’t have to lie.’ He paused to finger the file again. ‘But had tiiey dug any deeper, I would have. You see, there are more notes. Notes that Jamie didn’t transcribe. I think the reason for that is clear.’
Kirstin felt a stab of anxiety. She watched as Glen flicked back through the file. He passed a sheaf of Polaroids across the desk to her, then flicked back through the small notebook. Stopping at the page he wanted, he handed it over. ‘Brace yourself.’
2007 - The Dead Pool Page 5