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Edge

Page 2

by Blackthorne, Thomas


  Shit. She'd have to invoice him anyway because she'd booked the room in Elliptical House for the session. Billing a client for a no-show was necessary but might create a setback. Damn it. The voicemail gave few clues to Hall's mood. She listened to her other messages, all trivial, then put her phone away as the train slid into Westminster. She followed the other passengers off, filing past the kevlar-armoured guards, onto the escalator.

  Out on the Embankment proper she watched the stately vanes of wind-turbines. Sailing boats moved along the steel-coloured Thames, the Houses of Parliament glittered in the hot sun, while somewhere a vendor was selling roast nuts and cicadas – she caught the smell, and then it was gone.

  "Peter Hall," she told her phone. "Ring him."

  She waited.

  "Unavailable. Would you like to leave a message?"

  Whether he was offline to her specifically or to the world, there was no way to tell. She formed a gesture with her fingers, a simple neurophysiological trigger to create a resourceful mood. Then she held up her phone, smiling at the beady lens.

  "Hello, Peter. How much better are you doing? I feel confident that now you'll make the changes you want to make, and it doesn't matter whether you ring me this morning or tonight, because you'll feel better when we talk. Go well, Peter."

  Good enough. Through careful tonality, some of her words were covert hypnotic suggestions, combining with the results of the previous sessions to give him a confidence boost as soon as he watched her message, or so she hoped. It was funny because, as a little girl, she had dreamed of being an actress, except when she imagined herself as a scientist or doctor; and now she got to be all three. At least that was the way she saw her life now, so much better – I'm lucky, really lucky – than the old days. As she walked, her fingers touched the inside of her opposite sleeve: always long sleeves, not just for her clients' sake. But it was mostly fine, not a case of "Physician, heal thyself," for in many respects she'd done just that.

  Keeping the phone on, she set off parallel to the stone balustrade. The glass barrier beyond was translucent turquoise, the finest of Dutch engineering to keep the capital dry, to ensure that everyone was safe.

  So enjoy the day, right?

  She made herself smile as she walked.

  Stag Place was a plaza in Victoria, its shape irregular, surrounded by sweeping glass buildings. The wind tugged at Suzanne as she stopped near a tall steel sculpture, a shining tree whose leaves were big, bright plastic panels: tomato red, egg-yolk yellow, apple green. Elliptical House was another five minutes away, but there were coffee shops inside the mall, and where better to relax and prepare her–

  A ripping sound preceded a woman's scream and the shocking twang of steel cable parting; then came momentary silence, as if something had sucked away the air. And then a maelstrom of dust and flying shards – red, yellow, green, all with edges like knives – filled the world, became the world, while all around were people were throwing themselves down, trying to escape, some plucked upward by the air, levitating for a second, then flung aside like old socks.

  Vortex.

  This was a snap whirlwind, and dangerous. Suzanne dropped to the pavement, holding her head in her hands, imagining all that glass in flying pieces, sharp and deadly, and even as she had the thought, windows shattered overhead. Then percussive wind was beating on her, slamming her down – no, please no – and was gone.

  Just gone.

  She was on elbows and knees, head hanging, gasping. Was this the centre, the stillness at the whirlwind's heart, or had the whole thing passed? She dared to look up, then squeezed her eyes shut at the awfulness – no, deal with it – and forced them open. One person was a butchered mess: man or woman, she could not tell, only that the carcass was ripped open and all was soft and slick and glistening, bathed in redness, and none of this was helping. Act professional. As Suzanne hauled herself up, she focused on the ones who needed help: here a blood-soaked face, there a white-haired man, supine and groaning, his arm twisted beneath him. Off to one side, a woman whimpered, trembling, in the throes of seizure. Someone, calm-voiced, spoke into his phone, calling for medics. Others got into motion, crossing to the fallen. One man gave orders: "I'm a nurse. You, press here on his shoulder – yes, there, you've got it, keep pressing – while I help this person over here." All around, like snow in the aftermath of blizzard, shards of glass reflected sunlight, almost pretty if you had not seen the blood. They crunched beneath Suzanne's shoes as she made her way to the shaking woman.

  "Look at me."

  But the woman's attention remained locked on the bloody mess that had been a person just a few breaths earlier, a living person thinking about the day ahead, a thousand small concerns and perhaps the meaningful events of life, images of lovers, children, parents, all of it shut down in an instant. Suzanne stepped between her and the corpse, blocking the view.

  "Are you hurt?"

  The woman couldn't speak, but she was flapping her hands, staring through Suzanne as if the body were still in focus; and in a very real way it was, but Suzanne dared not deal with that until she was sure the woman was not bleeding. She ran her fingertips down the fragile neck, the narrow torso, while checking by sight. Physically, everything seemed intact.

  "Let me help," said a man's voice.

  "We need to get her inside." Suzanne reached under the woman's armpit. "Come on."

  With the man's help – she had a glimpse of blonde hair, a suit: a thin, thirtyish man – she got the woman moving slowly towards the mall. The entrance was mostly undamaged. All I wanted was a coffee. They led the woman into Seattle's Finest, then Suzanne sat her down while the man fetched bottled water.

  "I'm Adam," he said.

  The woman did not respond.

  "And I'm Suzanne." To the woman: "What's your name?"

  "You saw him?"

  Her eyes focused on a point in space, seeing the same thing in her mind, over and over. From the pupil dilation and involuntary twitch, she was recreating the mental picture in vivid, moving colours. It was a textbook precursor to post-traumatic stress, but this wasn't a case study – it was a suffering person, in need of help. So help her. Usually Suzanne met clients long after the traumatic event when the memories had been laid down – and replayed over and over before finally seeking help. This should be even easier to deal with, except that she herself was shaking in reaction. Or perhaps she could help herself and the woman at the same time: the point wasn't to kill the flooding emotions, just dampen them enough to prevent future nightmares.

  "Just breathe," she said. "Concentrate on blowing the breath out."

  The man, Adam, looked at her, then slowly put down the unwanted water. He gave a nod, seeming to recognise that Suzanne knew what she was doing. At least I'm supposed to know.

  Synchronising her breathing with the woman's, Suzanne began to alter her mental state. In a coffee shop at normal times, you would see friends chatting, their gestures tending to phase-lock, performing a subliminal dance, its intricacy obvious only to trained watchers. Now, Suzanne was using the process deliberately, entering physiological rapport, before leading the way to a different neurological state. She raised her hand before the woman's eyes.

  "Look at my hand," she said, her voice a living thing, every nuance of pitch and rhythm and timbre keyed to some aspect of the woman's physiology. "See the changing focus of your eyes and in a moment you might blink, that's right, and before you enter trance now" – the woman's eyelids fluttered – "you can hear the silence between sounds like time to sleep and my voice will go with you as you close your eyes… now… and sink deeper… and deeper… into a soft relaxing daydream state… That's right."

  The woman slid into trance.

  She went fast and deep, while Adam's jaw dropped. In Suzanne's office, the portable fMRI would have shown the brain's activity profoundly altered: the anterior cingulate diminished, the precuneus nucleus in spectacular, multicoloured overdrive on the monitor display. Even to an untrained observ
er like Adam, the effect was obvious. He remained riveted as Suzanne completed the induction, taking the woman back in time, inside her mind, to situations where she felt secure; and each time the state was at its deepest, Suzanne touched the woman's shoulder.

  "Now in the whirlwind, step outside yourself, like watching a screen, then drain the colour out and push the image off into the distance–"

  Recoding the recent memory to remove trauma, then using the shoulder pressure to trigger confidence and calm, she left an instruction for ongoing improvement in the woman's life – "Just fixing the problem isn't good enough," her teachers used to say, "so leave them better than before, better than they thought possible" – before leading her back to normal consciousness.

  "And you can come awake as I count backwards. Ten, nine…"

  Finally she snapped her fingers, and the woman's eyes snapped open.

  "My God."

  "Bloody hell," said Adam.

  "I…" The woman stopped, then: "I remember that poor man, but I'm not terrified by it. How can I–? That was amazing, thank you."

  Blinking, she pulled out her phone and checked the time.

  "You have to go," said Suzanne. "You've a life to lead, after all."

  "Yes." The woman stood up. "I don't–"

  "You're welcome."

  "Oh. Thank you. Just… thank you."

  Suzanne hugged her. Then the woman turned and walked out, her posture straight.

  "Did she just grow six inches taller?" asked Adam. "Or is that an illusion?"

  "Illusion," said Suzanne. "A natural one."

  "So can I get you a cappuccino or something?"

  "Perhaps I should check whether–"

  She was intending to say, whether anyone else needed help, for she had already checked his hand and seen that he was married. The ring was white gold.

  "I know someone who should see you," said Adam. "You're a professional therapist, I take it?"

  "Yes, but my client list is…"

  "My friend is very rich." Adam grinned. "If that helps."

  A vision of her bank balance swam before Suzanne.

  "I'd love a cappuccino."

  Seven hours later she was back in the same Seattle's Finest, having passed through a cleaned-up piazza – the sculpture bare of colourful plastic, but still standing – to find the same seat as this morning. Her last session had finished at four, and this was a good time to wind down and review the day. Over the counter, a thin monitor displayed a weather map, with today's statistics scrolling down one side. Nine flash whirlwinds around the country, four fatalities in all. British summer at its finest.

  "Suzanne."

  "Hi, Adam."

  "And this is Philip Broomhall."

  Obviously Broomhall liked gold, from the four rings on each hand to the glimpsed knife hilt as he unbuttoned his jacket. When he shook hands, she noted the way he turned his hand palm-down, seeking to dominate. Alpha male, primate behaviour. No challenge at all for someone with a brain who kept calm.

  He's a potential client, that's all.

  Adam fetched drinks while Broomhall sat down and told Suzanne that she had a good reputation, with several respected clients recommending her. He'd obviously trawled the Web to check her out. In contrast to Broomhall, Suzanne noticed the lack of a bulge at Adam's hip as he rejoined them. Weaponless but confident.

  "It's my son Richard," said Broomhall. "He's scared of everything."

  "How old is Richard?"

  "Fourteen. And a damned sight softer than I was at that age."

  Adam's mouth made a stretched sideways S. "That's what all the old guys say."

  "Well, in this case it's true. Anyhow, your clients, Dr Duchesne, say you make phobias disappear like that. A few minutes, and bang, it's gone."

  "That's right," said Suzanne. "I maintain total confidentiality. Some clients post open reviews regardless, which is very kind of them."

  She had her own downloadable statistics, digitally verified, identifying no one by name, to show the effectiveness of her work. For phobic behaviours, it was ninety-seven percent success in one short session. Broomhall had either read the results, she guessed, or employed someone to do it.

  "My son needs help. From someone like you."

  Adam's grimace was outside Broomhall's peripheral vision.

  So the boy needs saving from his father too.

  Perhaps there was something worthwhile here, more worthwhile than the fee.

  "So what's his problem specifically?" She didn't believe people were broken like damaged toys – disliking the word problem and hating cure – but she framed her questions on Broomhall's terms. "You say he's afraid?"

  "He's…" Broomhall's eyes shifted to the side. "He's hoplophobic, for God's sake."

  "Hoplophobic?"

  I so don't want this.

  "Yes. It's embarrassing." Broomhall wiped his sweating face. "Excuse me."

  What's embarrassing? His condition or your prejudice?

  But she said "You can feel confident it's OK to talk about this. It really is all right."

  "OK."

  Adam leaned forward. "You want me to go?"

  "No, no." Broomhall took a swig of iced coffee. "It's fine."

  "So what happens to trigger his reaction? How does he do his fear?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I know it's a strange question." One she'd anticipated. "If you were about to draw your knife, at

  what point would he look fearful?"

  "The second I walk into the room, if I'm wearing it. He cringes if someone just mentions the word blade."

  Suzanne understood that reaction. "I guess that is a problem, but I'm really not comfortable with–"

  "I'll offer you ten thousand if you can fix him up. Another ten if he improves in school."

  "Then I'll do it," she said.

  If you couldn't accept the need to pay the rent, you were hardly an integrated personality, not as a grownup. She helped people for free at times – like the woman this morning – so perhaps it was her turn to get rich, doing what she loved to do. Maybe with a wealthier level of clientele, starting now.

  She wondered what young Richard Broomhall was like.

  "Glad to have you on board, Dr Duchesne."

  They shook hands.

  Marvellous.

  Had she joined Broomhall's non-nautical crew voluntarily or been press-ganged? Was this a mistake, the arrangement she'd just committed to?

  "It would be good to see Richard the day after tomorrow, if that's possible."

  "I'll bloody well make sure it is."

  [ THREE ]

  The turrets and courtyards of St Michael's Academy were two centuries old and looked much older. Some of the boys lived in, but Richard's father wanted a "normal" upbringing for his only son, so a chauffeur-driven car took him home every evening, to their enclosed manor house in deepest, richest Surrey.

  Grandfather Jack had been a merchant marine and an East End trader. There was an old family story about a dinner party when someone, hearing Jack was a trader, asked whether he was in bonds or derivatives, and Jack said: "Nah, mate. A barrow in the market." But that barrow had carried imported Japanese calculators, and over the next decade the barrow became a store on Tottenham Court Road, then half a dozen more around the country with an expanding mailorder business, before flourishing on the Web and diversifying into a dozen different sectors, from fashion to phones, continuing to boom.

  Richard missed his grandfather, while knowing he himself was nothing like the tough old man. At the funeral, Richard had cried – his father called it blubbing – which caused embarrassment among the business associates at the graveside, and earned him more disapproval from Mother and Father. They dealt with the matter afterwards in the usual way: getting drunk on port from the cellar and shouting at each other. Mutual blame for their son's softness and other failings.

  "Broomhall, you done your maths assignment?" It was Zajac who called out, coming across the quadrangle, swinging hi
s bulky arms. "You have, haven't you?"

  He made it sound as if Richard had been up to something dirty, whereas he was really after a copy-and-paste of Richard's work.

  "I can't help you, Zajac."

  "Help? Why would I need your bastard help? Just for that, I'm going to–"

  But Richard had taken another step, into view of the courtyard cameras. Mr Dutton, the Head of Geography, was across the way, looking at him and Zajac, frowning. Zajac muttered something in Slovakian, then walked off.

 

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