by A J Waines
As my supervisor, she’d never meet Aiden, but she’d be an additional experienced mind in the wings, making sure he was getting the most appropriate treatment.
I was five minutes late, but she was talking to the barman and didn’t seem to notice. As usual, she was dressed as though she was on her way to an awards ceremony at which she was about to receive the most prestigious honour. Her hair was always immaculate; tied up into a soft grey roll at the back, all the pins invisible. We found two comfy chairs on a balcony overlooking the dock and ordered open sandwiches and cappuccinos. They arrived with extra pistachio nuts and olives. I gave her the full picture, covering everything I knew of Aiden and his symptoms.
‘Sounds like typical Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,’ she confirmed. ‘Lack of sleep, nightmares, flashbacks with agoraphobia and depression.’
‘That’s pretty much it.’ I explained how he was unable to speak or draw, but had used the sand tray.
‘As you know,’ said Petra, ‘with this kind of trauma, victims usually go over and over the telling of an event, trying to understand it, make sense of it, integrate it. If Aiden can’t do that, he must be exploding inside. He’s probably mentally and emotionally exhausted.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, pausing to chew a mouthful of cheese and tomato. ‘He’s lethargic, listless, like there isn’t enough energy in his body to hold him up. He’s unmotivated, socially withdrawn and doesn’t want to see people. He’s jumpy, too, he can’t watch the news or read a newspaper. He can watch certain films, mainly cartoons, maybe because he knows they’re not real.’
‘Okay, so what’s the way forward with this guy?’
‘The police want a sketch of the killer by Friday.’
She gave a prim snort. ‘Forget it. Out of the question. In any case, your first and only allegiance is to your patient. Let the police do their own work.’ She stabbed an olive vehemently with a toothpick.
I looked down and took my time over what I had to say next. ‘There’s one thing I need to mention.’ She turned to look at me. ‘I’m staying on his boat with him.’
‘You’re what?’ Her reaction sent a teaspoon spinning to the carpet.
‘I had to make a decision and it seemed the right one, based on my therapeutic assessment at the time.’
‘O-kay…’ she dragged the word out waiting for more explanation. A waiter came over to pick up the spoon. ‘We need two brandies,’ Petra told him.
‘Just the one,’ I called after him. Much as I would have loved to join her, I needed a clear head for the rest of the day.
‘You’ve had problems in the past.’ She folded her arms, giving me a knowing look.
I swallowed. ‘Only once.’
But once was enough. I’d allowed a patient to get too close to me and it had led to all manner of complications. ‘It’s different this time. Let me explain,’ I said tentatively. ‘The world used to be a rational and safe place to Aiden. We know that, right? Bad stuff only happened on television. And now that’s all changed for him. The attack – it’s murder now – will have shaken his entire belief system about security and normality. Life is suddenly intensely hazardous for him and in his mind, it’s best not to go out or get involved with humankind at all.’
Petra nodded, but slowly, waiting to be convinced.
‘He’s only nineteen, with no immediate family in the area,’ I went on. ‘In his closing down, he’s likely to act as if he’s younger, to need consolation, comfort, reassurance. You agree?’
She pulled a maybe face, not entirely persuaded.
‘By staying with him, I can give him continuity and support. I’ll be undemanding company for him; he knows he doesn’t have to entertain me. I won’t get upset when he doesn’t speak. I can help him express his fear, shock and outrage about the tragedy when he’s ready. I’ll be there to catch the moment he starts to let it out. If that happens to involve drawing a picture in the next few days – then everybody’s happy.’
Her brandy arrived and she inhaled its fumes then set it down in front of her like a trophy. ‘Fair enough,’ she said unexpectedly. I felt a sense of relief wash over me. I thought I was going to have to work a lot harder to win her over. ‘But you must keep your distance from him.’
I nodded vigorously. ‘Of course.’
‘I can see you know what you’re doing,’ she said, rolling the stem of her glass between her fingers. ‘You said he’s not communicating with anyone else–’
‘He’s not really communicating properly with me, as yet,’ I corrected her.
‘Do some desensitisation work with him on leaving the boat, so he can reintegrate. Just stand on the threshold with him at first, then let him watch you go to the end of the landing strip, or whatever it’s called. Take it in simple stages.’ She took a small sip of brandy and savoured it. ‘And make high energy foods and fresh juices for both of you, bump up his vitamin intake, especially if he won’t take medication.’
‘That’s one big advantage of being with him on the boat,’ I said. ‘I can make sure he eats well. I found stacks of halloumi cheese in his fridge. Can’t bear it myself, but never mind. He’s vegetarian, apparently,’ I said, nibbling on a pistachio.
‘Even better,’ she said. ‘Fresh vegetables. Cook him spinach pasta, rice dishes – be creative. Get him planting seeds, using soil…’
‘Coax him back into the basics of nature, you mean?’
‘Exactly. Work with things he can control. Let him see that the world is still working as it should. Sounds like a bright boy. He’ll come round. You’ll see.’
On my way back to the boat I jotted down a few notes so I wouldn’t forget the points Petra had made. Normally, I’d leave them in my ‘supervision’ file at work, but I’d have to keep them folded in the bottom of my bag for now.
Then I rang the first number on my list of Aiden’s friends and got through to Jessica, a young woman his age who’d known him before he went to art college. I’d caught her at work, but she gave me a few minutes over the phone.
‘Have you been in touch with him recently?’ I asked, explaining I’d got her details from the police, but there was nothing to worry about.
‘I left a comment on his Instagram and he said he’d be in touch, but that was a few days ago.’ Her tone changed. ‘What’s this about exactly?’
I gave her a sketchy overview of the situation and once she was assured Aiden was unharmed, she told me more.
‘We both went to the same sixth-form college in Ealing,’ she said, ‘Aiden was really good at his art, he won loads of competitions and awards. We met at the pub, went for walks, that kind of thing. I never went to his house. I got the impression he was living with a relative. He didn’t say who, but I don’t think it was either of his parents. He didn’t talk about his family.’
‘What was he like at sixteen, seventeen?’
‘Humble… very unassuming… in fact he was always surprised when people were interested in his work. People either admired him or were jealous of him. He was on a bit of a pedestal, although he didn’t do anything to rub it in anyone’s faces. Everyone else put him there; the tutors, the press. We knew he was destined for great things; you know how some people just seem to shine above the rest? They look good, they’re articulate about what they do, they’re talented, modest, really secure about themselves. That’s Aiden.’
‘Can I ask if you were his girlfriend?’
‘No,’ she chuckled. ‘I must admit I quite fancied him, but he wasn’t into me in that way, more’s the pity. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’ She moved on swiftly when she could tell I wasn’t going to respond. ‘There’s a side to him that’s completely unavailable. I mean, he’s a real sweetheart; open-hearted and funny, but it feels like the real Aiden is hidden all the time. Sorry… am I making any sense?’
‘Absolutely. He sounds like a very private person.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Did he seem emotionally stable to you?’
‘Oh, yeah. H
e’s the most together person I know. Totally committed and so clear about his ambition. The rest of us faffed about, not knowing which subjects to study, which career path to follow, but Aiden had it all sorted out. He’s super sure of himself – quietly confident, I’d say.’
I could hear a phone ringing at her end. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go,’ she whispered. ‘Ring me back another time, if you need to know any more. I’ll try to call him, but send him my love anyway, will you? Just in case he doesn’t pick up.’
I ended the call, a leaden feeling in my bones. I couldn’t quite explain it. Something like the kind of dull heartache that hits you when you’ve just heard that an old friend you lost touch with has passed away. With everything I knew about Aiden, Jessica’s description made complete sense, but that simply wasn’t the man I’d met. That man; passionate and driven, was gone and in his place was a feeble imposter.
I wanted to meet the man she’d known. I wanted nothing more than to find him and bring him back.
Chapter 13
Aiden was up when I got back, standing by the washing machine in his bare feet staring at nothing in particular, his eyelashes flickering constantly. He’d boiled a kettle and was now filling two mugs, though his hand was shaking so much that the boiling water splashed onto the surface and dribbled down the door of the cupboard.
Had someone told him that Kora had died? Was this a further reaction to hearing he was now the sole witness to a murder enquiry? Aiden had been avoiding the news and the police still had his phone, so perhaps that was yet to come. Anyway, now wasn’t the time to bring it up. He’d need to be more robust than this to handle the shock.
I didn’t make a sound, I simply reached for a cloth and mopped up the mess.
His hair was awry and his shirt was half-tucked into his jeans. Jessica’s description of him came into my mind. A young man with panache and verve. Here and now, he looked positively wretched, more like someone living on the streets.
‘Bad start this morning?’ I asked, giving him the hint of a sad smile.
Aiden looked perplexed, biting his lip and breathing hard, like he was desperately grappling with a complex mathematical calculation. He was expecting, like we all do, to have a thought and translate it instantly into words, but no sounds were coming out. The skin crumpled between his eyebrows.
Until then, I’d assumed the police psychiatrist – Dr Herts – had explained all about post-traumatic mutism to him. Now, faced with Aiden’s bewilderment, I began to think otherwise. Perhaps Herts had been ‘too busy’.
‘I might be repeating what you’ve already heard,’ I said, ‘but I want to make sure you know as much as possible about what it is you’re going through.’
Aiden set down the mug of mint tea intended for me beside his own on the galley table. It was an invitation to join him, a step in the right direction. Progress between Aiden and I might have appeared non-existent to an observer, but there were tiny shifts and I was aware of each and every one of them.
He sat opposite me, stiff and uncertain, pressed against the back of the seat as though forced back by a ferocious wind. ‘It’s an anxiety disorder – a reaction to the traumatic event you’ve witnessed; called Reactive Mutism.’ I didn’t say that it was extremely rare in adults, but then Aiden was only nineteen. ‘The inability to speak is a temporary reaction. I think the psychiatrist will already have mentioned that to you.’
Aiden continued to sit bolt upright. I searched his expression for any sign of recognition, but nothing changed. There was nothing to suggest he was even hearing what I said. I pressed on regardless.
‘What people often fail to grasp is that it’s not a wilful refusal to speak. You might find yourself wanting to communicate, but nothing is coming out. It can leave you feeling distressed and disempowered.’ I sat forward, keeping solid eye contact. ‘I need to stress that it is temporary. Your voice will come back; we just don’t know when that will be.’
I became aware again, in that moment, of the potential hornet’s nest I’d been brought into. The conflict of interests. The police wanted Aiden to divulge everything he knew about the attack as a matter of urgency. My concern, however, was first and foremost with Aiden’s recovery. What made things even more complicated was that I couldn’t treat Aiden’s situation as straightforward mutism. I also had to consider his other symptoms; agitation, anxiety, hypersensitive to noise, as well as withdrawal and depression – a huge bundle of malfunctions all at once. Normally therapy would take place over at least twenty weeks. I had seven days. Down to six, by now. Get his treatment wrong and it could push Aiden further away from us into his silent isolated world.
‘I’m not going to trick you or push you into reliving what happened. We won’t be going there until you’re ready, I promise,’ I said. ‘We’ll go at your pace – forget about the police. They can wait.’
I got up and placed the sand tray on the table between us. He’d already used this medium to ‘send’ me a message; it was worth trying again. At the side I set up a small cardboard doll’s house from one of my boxes, showing a traditional family with mother, father and two children standing in a line outside the front door. Aiden didn’t react, nor did he shift his gaze from the spot he was staring at in some distant place. But, the fact that he hadn’t got up to leave was a good sign. He was totally still apart from a faint tremble, as though he was sitting inside a van with the engine running.
I placed the opened tubs and containers to one side of the tray. At some point Aiden had already cleared away the figures he’d used last night, so I smoothed out the sand, ready for us to start afresh.
I decided to jump a few stages. I had the feeling that with his artistic prowess, Aiden would be able to make sophisticated use of this method without much practice.
‘Can you find any object or objects that could represent any members of your family?’ Jeremy had said they were having trouble tracing any relatives. It was as good a place as any to begin. ‘Use anything here that you think symbolically fits a brother, sister, your mother or father. Try to find items to embody them as closely as you can.’
There were plenty of figures to choose from; small plastic superheroes, soldiers, a doctor, miner, farm worker. There were figures dressed in ordinary clothes of all ages, from a baby in a cot to an elderly man in a wheelchair. Aiden suddenly moved. He abruptly reached forward and held up the female figure from the doll’s house, then put it back.
‘Okay, so was that your mother? You’ve put her back.’
He reached into another tub and pulled out three small flat pebbles, balancing them in the sand in the middle, one on top of the other.
I took a chance. ‘So this is your mother?’
Aiden adjusted the stones, placed them unevenly on top of each other. They looked like they were about to fall over. Was that the point?
‘She’s right in the centre of your life…’
In this kind of play therapy, the idea is to simply explain what I see. Interpretations needed to be tentative and I’d normally avoid them, but I was aware of how little time we had to get the ball rolling.
He scooped the stones into his hand and reset them again as they were.
‘Ah – so your mother is wobbly, unstable, about to fall over any moment…’
Gradually, carefully, my job is to creep under the surface of the obvious towards the hidden.
Aiden reacted to my words with an inconclusive sniff.
‘How about your father?’
Aiden dipped his hand randomly into the same tub and took out a pebble without looking. He hid it in his hand before burying it in the sand, so neither of us could see which one he’d chosen. He straightened up.
‘So… we don’t know which pebble is for your father…’ I said hesitantly, ‘any pebble will do for him? And he’s hidden? You don’t know who he is?’ I was taking a huge leap of faith with that notion, but I hoped I’d be able to read his body language if I’d got it badly wrong.
He took a sip of tea
and stayed still. Perhaps I wasn’t too far off.
I pointed to the pile of pebbles. Time to risk another interpretation. ‘Your mum was a single parent?’
He nipped his lips together and rocked back and forth a little. If I’d got it wrong would he correct me? I could only assume he’d stop playing ‘the game’. Surely he’d even walk off if I was wide of the mark.
Aiden proceeded to put a figurine of Snow White in front of the small tower of pebbles. I smiled at the choice, given Aiden’s predilection for shades of white in his work.
‘Snow White is kind, gentle, yeah? So, that’s how you see your mum?’
Another sip of tea.
‘Any brothers or sisters?’
He looked down, folded his arms, his face hidden behind his hair. Maybe he was an only child.
‘What about you? What will you choose to represent you, Aiden?’
In front of Snow White, he placed an empty cot from the selection of doll’s house furniture. He pulled a scrap of tissue from his pocket and thumbed it into a tiny bundle which he carefully placed inside it. He patted it gently and pushed it close to Snow White.
‘Your mother looked after you – she cares for you very much,’ I said in a whisper, a sudden wave of tearfulness bubbling up inside me.
Aiden removed the cot and put a figure of a nurse next to Snow White and, using plastic segments, built a castle wall around the two of them. I was astonished at his psychological awareness. He’d got the knack of this, straight away.