One Click

by Andrea Mara

  “I’m so sorry, Jonathan. When did this happen?”

  “A few months ago. I suppose I’m still in shock.”

  My mind rolls back over his intake interview, the notes and the forms – there was nothing to suggest we were dealing with a grieving widower. How did I not spot this? But then, he never said it – not once. He’s always spoken of her as though she’s very much alive.

  “Was she ill? Was it sudden?” I ask, scrambling to understand.

  “It was very sudden. An accident at home.”

  A rash of goosebumps breaks out on my arms.

  “What happened?”

  He crosses his legs and leans back in the chair, half closing his eyes.

  “She was taking a bath one morning, and she had her radio in the bathroom with her – she used to plug it into a socket in our bedroom with an extension cord. I told her over and over there’s a reason bathrooms don’t have sockets, but she still did it.”

  He pauses and opens his eyes wider. My skin is prickling cold, though the heating in my office is on high.

  “And that morning, she must have been trying to change the channel and something went wrong – it slipped into the bath water, and that was it.”

  He clicks his fingers, and I jump.

  “She was electrocuted, there and then in her own bath. There was a burn mark on her stomach – they reckon she dropped it on herself. The doctor told me it would have been quick, but I don’t know if he was just trying to make me feel better.” He gazes at me. “I don’t think it would have been that quick, do you?”

  My hands are on the arms of my chair and I’m sitting rod straight, trying to take it in. I swallow. “Jonathan, again, I’m so sorry to hear this, it sounds traumatic. So if she was still living with you when this happened, does that mean there was no marriage break-up and no affair?”

  “Oh, there was an affair all right – all of that was true. I think telling you she left me was my way of coping with her death – it was easier than saying she died. I’m still having trouble with those words: she died. So horribly final.”

  “I understand,” I tell him, though I’m not sure I do. “Of course it changes things here for us too – we’re dealing with bereavement and not a marriage break-up, but I didn’t know. In a sense, we need to start over now. Do you see that?”

  He smiles. “I’ve got all the time in the world, Dr Elliot. I can keep coming to see you every week forever.”

  “Well, ideally you’ll feel better after treatment and you won’t need to come forever,” I tell him with a small laugh that comes out sounding nervous.

  “I know, Dr Elliot, and I trust you to get me better. I’d trust you with anything. I know you. And everything we discuss here is confidential, isn’t it? Anything I tell you about Sorcha?”

  “Of course, Jonathan, you can speak freely.”

  And as he goes on to talk about Sorcha, and how he felt coming home that day to find her electrocuted body in the bath, I wonder if any of it really makes him feel better, and I wonder too if it damages me, to sit here taking all of it in. If reducing his pain somehow increases mine – if it’s stacked up inside me, like a deck of cards, growing taller as his grows shorter, until it’s so big inside my chest I can no longer breathe.

  It’s later than usual when I get home from work, and the house is dark and quiet. Ava is in her bedroom studying, but there’s no sign of Rebecca.

  “She’s gone down to Dad’s house to do her homework,” Ava tells me. She turns back to her history book, and I go downstairs to phone Rebecca. She doesn’t pick up and I try again, but still no answer. Memories of her drinking session down at the pier flood back and my stomach tingles. She wouldn’t, would she?

  I have to ring Nadine’s bell three times before Rebecca answers, and when she does she looks at me as though I’m interrupting something important.

  “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” I ask, trailing behind her as she walks through to their kitchen.”

  “It’s on silent. So I can study.” Innocent eyebrows arch.

  “You know your dad’s in Bristol, right? He’s not even here?”

  “Yeah, what difference does that make? He’d still be at work if he wasn’t away. Anyway, Nadine always says I can let myself in whenever I want. I told her it’s usually freezing in our house.”

  I dig my nails into my palms but say nothing. And it’s hard to argue – it’s a lot warmer here than our house, and her books are spread out all over their big kitchen table – she really does seem to be studying. As I’m searching for reasons to bring her home, I hear footsteps behind me in the hall.

  “Oh, Lauren. I didn’t expect to see you here?”

  Nadine looks me up and down, like a spider who’s just caught a fly.

  “Sorry, I was just worried about Rebecca – she wasn’t answering her phone so I called up. We’re going now.”

  I step towards the table and start to gather Rebecca’s books.

  “I’m fine here, Mum, I’ll head home in about an hour.”

  Rebecca has her arms folded, and her eyes meet mine, waiting for me to push back. I can feel Nadine watching and I know she’s hiding a smirk even without turning around. I’m not taking the bait. Not today.

  “If that’s okay with Nadine, then I’ll see you at home for dinner at six.”

  Rebecca deflates a little and Nadine fake-smiles at both of us – sorry perhaps to have an unexpected visitor now that the gauntlet lies untouched. It’s a bittersweet win, but I’ll take it.

  Chapter 49

  “I was surprised you asked him to come back so soon,” Susan says when I walk into the clinic on Friday morning.

  “Who?” I ask, but even before she answers I know.

  “Jonathan Oliver.” She nods towards the door to the waiting room. “He’s there already.”

  I close my eyes briefly, too cross to speak, and take a deep breath in through my nose.

  “Lauren, are you okay?” Susan asks, standing up from her seat. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  I open my eyes. “I’m fine. Send him in.”

  If Susan is surprised at my abrupt reply, she doesn’t show it, and I make a mental note to run out for coffees later.

  Before I can shrug off my blazer, Jonathan is standing in my office.

  “Jonathan, I didn’t ask you to book for today. Was there some confusion?”

  He takes his usual seat and crosses his legs.

  “Oh sorry, my mistake. It’s just we made so much progress yesterday, I thought you wanted to keep going?”

  “I think it’s best if we discuss decisions like this together and let me decide on the schedule – is that okay?”

  “Of course.” He smiles. “But you want to hear the rest of the story, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I could see it in your eyes yesterday. You know that wasn’t the full story, and there’s a part of you that’s horrified, but there’s part of you – the voyeuristic part – that really wants to hear it. You’re not so different to the rest of us.”

  “Jonathan, I have no idea what you mean.” But I do.

  He looks around the room, his eyes roaming over walls and ceiling.

  “Everything I say here is confidential, isn’t it? You can’t tell anyone – like the guards for example?”

  “Of course, everything is confidential,” I tell him, keeping my voice steady.

  “So will I say it, or do you want to guess?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me?” I say, feeling strangely calm.

  “How about I tell you what I did, then you guess how I got away with it – play detective. I suspect you like having a little mystery to solve – trying to work out how people know the things they know. You do, don’t you?”

  “Go ahead, Jonathan.” I don’t take my eyes off his.

  “You see, Sorcha didn’t want me any more. I was an interesting toy she played with for a few years – something she used to annoy her dad. But then she g
ot bored, and she met someone else, who was even better fun – a personal trainer in a gym. I can’t imagine what her dad would have said if things had gone as far as a meeting. Which would have happened – she was going to divorce me. And that would have meant losing everything – not just her, but the house, the two cars, the holidays, the bank accounts – everything. Her father made me sign an agreement before we got married – little good it did him in the end.” He stops to smile, then goes on. “But I couldn’t let her take it all away, so I put a stop to her before she could leave me. You should have seen her face when I arrived up the stairs that morning, wondering why I was home from work. And how her face changed when I picked the radio up off the bathroom floor and held it above the water and waited for her to understand. The realisation crossing her face – it was profound. I’ll never forget it.” His eyes glaze over for a second, then he shifts in the seat and starts again. “The next part wasn’t very nice. At one point I had to look away. But it worked, and she’s gone, and I still have everything. Everything except a wife to share it with me.” He stops again and smiles at me.

  I’m rooted to the chair, my eyes fixed on his, aware that on some level I knew this was coming.

  “Are you okay, Dr Elliot, have I shocked you?”

  My mouth is too dry to answer. I shake my head, just a fraction of an inch.

  “Now it’s your turn,” he goes on. “You have to tell me how I did it without being caught.”

  I see triumph in his eyes – he’s thrilled at having shocked me, and desperately wants to show me how smart he is.

  I swallow and think about the bottle of water in my bag, but my limbs are deadweight.

  “Tell me,” I manage eventually, in a hoarse whisper.

  “Ah, come on. Won’t you even try?”

  “I guess maybe you got someone to lie for you? Someone at your work?”

  He shakes his head, a playful smile on his thin lips.

  “They’d hardly lie for me to cover up a murder – come on, Dr Elliot, I work in medical sales, not the CIA.”

  “I don’t know then – you have a friend in the Guards?”

  “Ah listen, you’re not even trying. Give me something more creative.”

  He leans forward and is just inches from me now. I can smell the aftershave and toothpaste and a hint of stale coffee breath.

  “Why don’t you just tell me, Jonathan.” My voice is stronger now. “I’m not as creative as you, it seems.”

  He sits back and folds his arms again, stretching out his legs, so I have to move my feet to avoid his.

  “So, I was due to host a webinar that morning at eleven. There were customers dialling in from all around Europe – fifty-seven of them, I think. At a quarter past ten, I slipped out of my office carrying a stack of files, as though I was going to the photocopying room. I left my coat on my chair in my office, and closed the door behind me. Our receptionist never notices internal staff coming or going, so it was easy to slip out. I went home, surprised Sorcha, and well, you know what happened next – I’ve explained that.”

  I nod, wondering if this is really happening.

  He continues. “This is the smart bit. I went back downstairs and brought in my stack of files I’d taken from work. Inside one of them was a picture that normally hangs on the wall behind my PC at work.” He grins. “I took down a picture in our kitchen, and put my work painting up instead. It’s a painting of a rowboat emerging from the sea.”

  He stops, and I nod, though I’m not sure why.

  “Then I switched on my laptop and hosted the webinar, with the painting behind me. On a plain white wall, it looked exactly like my office at work. And I was wearing a suit, and looked like I was sitting at a desk. So when the Guards asked me where I’d been at eleven o’clock, I could show them a recording of the webinar. I have fifty-seven witnesses who all dialled in to it and saw me do it from my office. Smart, right?”

  I nod again, aware that it’s a million miles away from the correct response, but it’s exactly what he needs me to do.

  “And nobody even questioned it. Everyone believes what they see in front of them. It looked like my office, so it was my office. So what do you think, Dr Elliot? Are you impressed?” His eyes are wide now and his hands are gripping the arms of the chair. There’s something manic about him as he waits to hear my reaction.

  I choose my words carefully.

  “To be honest, I’m shocked, as anyone would be. But as a counselling psychologist, it’s not my place to judge – I’m here to help you get through this. In time, you may find that the best way to heal is to tell the truth yourself. But it’s not for me to make you do that – I will do my best to help you get to that place yourself.”

  The short speech takes it out of me and I just want him to leave now. The clock shows we have four minutes left.

  “Perhaps you can think about that between now and our next session – I’ll book you in for next Wednesday. Don’t worry about stopping with Susan on the way out – I’ll take care of putting it in the book. Does that sound okay?”

  “You’re one of the good ones, Dr Elliot. I feel bad now for some of the stuff . . . well, for messing with your head a bit. You were spooked at times, weren’t you?”

  He doesn’t look like he feels bad; he’s almost salivating. I swallow and nod, unable to summon up any more words.

  He smiles, pulling himself out of the chair, and as he turns towards the door I quietly, quietly let out a breath. He waves and smiles as he leaves, like someone saying a casual goodbye to a friend. I’m still sitting, unable to move, but when the door closes, it’s like a spring, and life comes back to my limbs.

  I rush across the office and open the door again, just a crack. There’s another client at the desk talking to Susan, and Jonathan is hovering behind. Just go, I tell him in my head, and he must hear me, because he turns and walks out of the clinic.

  Darting out to reception, I go to the window beside the front door, and look out. Jonathan is getting into his car, and I watch as he pulls out and onto the road. I sag against the window then, conscious that Susan and the client have both stopped talking.

  “Are you okay?” Susan asks, standing up.

  “Yes, but I have to do something urgently. I’m sorry, but can you cancel my next session?”

  In all my years, I’ve never cancelled anyone at such short notice but Susan must see something in my face because she just nods and sits back down. Back in my office, I stop only to grab my bag, then I’m out in the early November sunshine, wondering if this will finally bring it to an end.

  The ice-cubes crackle as the gin hits, loud in the quiet kitchen. The ring-pull makes a satisfying snap when I open it, and the tonic fizzes as it fills the glass. The first gulp hits the back of my throat and I take another, not tasting anything. Drinking at luncthime? It’s a slippery slope, Lauren. That’s what my mother would say if she was here. But then I’d tell her that I’ve just spent two hours in the Garda station reporting a murder, and maybe even my mother would understand.

  Two Gardaí took my statement, one male, one female. I could see them exchanging looks every now and then, and trying to keep their faces neutral when I got to the bit about the radio and the bath. I asked them if they have any death like that on their files – someone called Sorcha Oliver from Sutton? They couldn’t confirm, they said, they’d have to look into all of it. But then one of them got up and brought in a Detective Sergeant to speak to me, and I knew they were taking it seriously. Three pairs of eyes widened when I told them about the webinar he did from home, and about the painting of the rowboat. I wished then I’d googled it before I came in, to see if it really happened. I told them that Jonathan turned up in my local supermarket car park and that he might have been outside my house on Halloween night. They asked me if I had reported any of it and I felt myself going red when I told them I hadn’t, but they didn’t seem surprised. I told them about the messages from VIN, and that I’d reported those to Dún Laoghaire Garda Sta
tion. One of them left for a few minutes, then came back in and nodded to the other two. I wondered if they’d contacted Dún Laoghaire. I showed them some of the screenshots and messages from VIN, and the blog posts, and told them about the picture from Venice that started it all, and that Jonathan knew I was there. They wanted to know if he’d admitted he’s VIN. No, I told them, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.

  “What do the blog posts mean?” one asked me, but I didn’t have an answer. Maybe it’s the true story of Jonathan’s childhood, and he’s been fixating on and blaming women in his life ever since then? Or maybe it’s all made up.

  “And why did he tell you all this about his wife’s death and his alleged part in it?” the Detective Sergeant asked, after I’d told the entire story twice. “That’s what I don’t get. Obviously we need to investigate to see if there was in fact a death such as you describe –” looks were exchanged again, suggesting they’d already checked, “but why confess, when he’d got away with it?”

  “I think he wanted to show off, to show me how smart he is. And to shock me – he got a thrill from shocking me.”

  “But surely he knows he’s likely to be investigated now? And, if it’s true, he could end up charged with murder?”