Trauma: a gripping psychological mystery thriller

by Dylan Young

  Spring sunlight makes me squint as I leave the North Greenwich Tube station and head east towards the river again. The address is on Teal Street. A tall, newish building with a newsagent, coffee shop and a dentist’s office sprinkled around a little courtyard at ground level. I look for names on the bell push panel but realise I don’t know who Nicole’s friend is. It doesn’t matter as the panel is numbers only. I press number seventy-eight, something clicks, there’s a static hum, and I say, ‘It’s Cam.’

  ‘Come on up.’ Nicole’s voice, but it sounds strained. Hardly surprising under the circumstances.

  The door lock buzzes, and I push it open. There’s a foyer and a second door which swings open on a big green push button release. The lobby is small, with a door leading to some stairs and a lift. The foyer smells new; a chemical mix of plastic and fresh paint. I breathe it in and press the number seven. A soft female voice tells me to mind the doors closing and then I’m moving slowly upwards. Ads for a gym and the dentist sit in panels near the buttons. Above that is the maker’s sign – Schindler. I know they’re a big company because I’ve seen the name more than once. Josh says they’re Swiss. He said that only he, being Jewish, could make a joke about Schindler’s lifts without being offensive. I had no idea what he meant. When I asked him to explain he said it would take a teensy bit more time than travelling up three floors in an elevator would allow. He told me he’d get around to it one day. I’m still waiting.

  The lift whispers to a stop on seven and I step out into another white-painted corridor. This one has light-grey carpet flooring and two abstract prints on the walls.

  I look at the numbers next to the wood-panelled doors. Two, numbers three and five, have little plaques. One in opaque blue acrylic says Restoor Facial Aesthetics, one in brushed aluminium announces Astor Wireless Security. Clearly, there are businesses on this floor as well as residential properties. Number eight has a plaque too, but this one is stuck onto the door itself and says Cogni-Senses. I pause, wondering if I’m in the right place. I press the button and from within chimes tinkle in answer.

  I wait in silence. But then a lock clicks, the handle turns, and the door opens.

  Nicole’s face peeks around the door edge.

  But she looks different. Not the same Nicole I’d seen in the Snapchat image the night before. She’s made-up, clipped her hair back and there is no sign of the bruises. When she steps back and opens the door fully, she smiles, and all is well with the world.

  ‘Come in,’ Nicole says.

  I walk forward a few steps into a little ante room with tasteful grey walls and wait for her to close the door. When I turn to look at her, I do a double take. She looks… much better than I expected. And she’s dressed in what looks almost like a uniform. Pale pink with shaped top and scrub trousers. Like a hospital nurse, but smarter and more fitted. She wears white Supergas on her feet. There’s even a name badge. I glance at it. Lots of letters, too many for me to focus on, and a surname I’m sure begins with B not G, as in Grant. I glance at the first name again. Six letters. But they don’t spell Nicole either.

  ‘Are those your friend’s clothes?’ I ask.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ she answers.

  My expression must show that I sense something’s off.

  ‘Please,’ she says, showing the way. She walks past me. I want to touch her, but her body language is formal. Too formal. I’m anxious now so I follow her into an unfamiliar room. This one is much bigger with a fabric sofa and two armchairs, flowers on side tables and enormous windows of the type that fold open. One of them already is and leads onto a terrace with a roof garden and a patio set on artificial grass. The sun blazes in from a cloudless sky and I squint against the sudden brightness.

  Someone is standing in the open doorway looking out over the London skyline. He’s dressed in olive chinos and a pale-blue shirt. Nicole walks over to him and says, ‘Cameron’s here.’

  ‘Ah, good,’ says a voice I’m familiar with. A jarring memory of a phone conversation stays frustratingly on the edge of recollection in my brain. He turns around and something slides deep in the pit of my stomach. A wet swooping thing that sends icy tendrils out into my arms and legs as cogs mesh in my brain. The man doesn’t seem to notice and smiles like a model in a toothpaste advert.

  I don’t smile back. Because from my own research and from what I’ve learned from Harriet and the police, I’d quickly decided that if I ever met him, I’d never smile at Mathew Haldane.

  51

  I can hear my breathing, my heart booms in my ears. Haldane stares back with a troubled, almost pitying expression. He, too, wears a name badge pinned to his shirt.

  ‘What is this?’ I breathe out the words.

  ‘This is nothing more than a regular follow-up, Cameron. You missed the last two, and we can talk about that, but you’re here now. That’s all that matters. Good to see you.’ Haldane steps forward and extends his hand.

  I recoil. To his left, Nicole watches impassively from behind one of the big armchairs.

  I send her a desperate glance. ‘Nicole?’

  ‘Cameron,’ she replies. Calmly, reassuringly. ‘Why don’t you take a seat.’

  ‘Wha… what is this?’

  Haldane’s hand drops and he narrows his eyes. ‘Tell us what you think this is.’

  ‘A sick joke.’

  ‘In what way?’ Haldane is clean-shaven, hair styled short, the hooked nose lending him an imperious, Roman emperor air. He looks professional and very calm. It’s this calmness that disturbs me the most.

  ‘In every bloody way,’ I yell. ‘Nicole, tell me this is some godawful wind-up, please?’

  Haldane turns to her, giving her permission, or perhaps an unspoken order. She turns her face – wearing as serious an expression as I’ve ever seen – towards me.

  ‘Cameron, my name isn’t Nicole. It’s Selena. You know that. I’m a trained therapist and Dr Timpson’s assistant.’

  I glance at her badge. Focus in on the Selena and the surname that begins with a B not G. But I don’t read it all. I can’t because my brain refuses to. A mirthless noise that’s a scathing half laugh bubbles through my lips. ‘No, you’re not. And his name isn’t bloody Timpson. It’s Haldane. Mathew Haldane.’

  But the man looking at me doesn’t flinch. He stays composed. ‘Okay. That name must mean something to you so why don’t you take a seat and tell us why you think we are… Nicola was it? And uh… Mathew Haldane?’

  ‘Nicole,’ I snap.

  ‘Nicole. Right.’

  I don’t sit. I’m too angry. Too completely terrified. ‘Why the hell should I explain myself when you two are the ones who are lying.’

  Neither of them moves, but Nicole answers. ‘Why would either of us lie, Cameron?’

  ‘Because…’ I shake my head. Suddenly I’m hot. My fingers are tingling and despite myself I get an abrupt urge to sit down.

  ‘You’re overbreathing,’ Haldane says. ‘Try cupping your hands over your mouth.’

  I shake my head, but the tingling is worse and an orchestra of white noise tunes up in my ears, loud above the heaving of my chest as I suck in air like I’ve run a mile. Except I haven’t run anywhere. I cup my hands over my mouth and rebreathe my exhalations, haul in carbon dioxide and slow my breathing down. After half a minute, the pins and needles in my fingers subside.

  ‘May I speak?’ Haldane asks.

  I don’t say yes, but I don’t say no either.

  ‘We, that is Selena and I, work with Adam Spalding. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Of course I bloody remember him.’

  ‘He referred you to us privately for continuing targeted cognitive therapy when you were discharged from rehab. You’ve been coming to us for four months.’

  ‘No. That’s not true.’ I stare at Haldane through gaps in the spread-out fingers still covering my face.

  ‘It is, Cameron. But lately, over the last month, you told us that your fugues were changing, becoming more erratic.�
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  I pull my hands down, more pissed off than I was before. ‘This is absolute crap.’ I get back up to my feet.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ Nicole asks. ‘You generally prefer camomile. We recommend it. Or I can even do coffee if you like. But only instant.’

  ‘Tea?’ I glare at her. ‘Nicole, how can you do this?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You know damn well what. Us. I’m here because of what Aaron did to you.’

  ‘Who is Aaron?’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ I’m shouting, but neither of them is fazed.

  Haldane turns to her. ‘Tea sounds like an excellent idea. Put the kettle on, Selena.’

  ‘Her name is not Selena.’ I grind out the words through clenched teeth.

  Nicole ignores me and leaves the room. I’m alone with Haldane, anger burning my cheeks. ‘What did you do to her?’ I step forward, my index finger the accusing barrel of a loaded gun.

  ‘What is it you think I’ve done?’ he says and does so without flinching. Once more, I’m struck by how composed he is. How can he be so bloody sure of himself? ‘Selena is–’

  ‘Her name is not Selena. Her name is Nicole. She and I… we’ve shared my bed.’

  Haldane’s gaze is steady when he says, ‘Selena and I are partners, both in business and emotionally. We have been for the last five years.’

  I drop my head and laugh. It makes a hollow sound. I lift my eyes and they catch his name badge.

  Dr EDWARD TIMPSON FRCPsych

  I snap my eyes back up to challenge him. ‘I can prove it,’ I say. I reach for my phone, punch in numbers and scroll to Snapchat. The app clicks open. Empty. No messages. No photos. The Snapchat curse.

  Haldane watches me fumbling. ‘Last time you were here–’

  ‘I’ve never been here before.’

  He ignores me. ‘You told us that your fugues were evolving. Becoming more… troublesome was the word you used. Is it possible that–’

  ‘Don’t. Don’t even think about it.’ I turn away, my mind spinning, a terrifying murky shadow of doubt seeping into my thoughts. I don’t look at Haldane. I daren’t. Instead, I half stumble to a chair and throw myself down, convincing myself that if this man wanted to attack me he would have done it by now. I sit, half turned away from him, hunched in on myself like a gargoyle, listening to the incessant chatter inside my head.

  Is it possible? Could it be?

  I’m still sitting like that when Nicole comes back into the room with a tray. She puts it down on a coffee table and removes three mugs, a small jug of milk and a sugar caddy.

  ‘One, isn’t it?’ she asks.

  I don’t answer but she spoons in the sugar anyway, adds a splash of milk and stirs the brown liquid. I watch her deft fingers and those small, exciting, adventurous hands. The ones I remember so well. Haldane sits on the sofa opposite and picks up his tea. Straight, no milk or sugar. I notice a notepad and a pen on the armrest. Haldane takes a sip, replaces the mug on the table and picks up the pad.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us about Nicole and this Haldane.’

  ‘Jesus.’ My eyes flick around at the sterile grey walls of the room. The wall art comprises seascapes and landscapes. Muted colours designed to calm the soul.

  ‘If you feel overwhelmed, you’re free to leave whenever you want. As always,’ says Haldane.

  Or is it Timpson?

  Silence fills the space, bounces off the grey walls, flows around the seascapes like an invisible mist in which I founder.

  ‘When I saw you last, you were about to take some driving lessons,’ Timpson continues. ‘A refresher course now that you got your licence back. You were looking forward.’

  I realise I’m calling him Timpson in my head. That a part of my brain is already admitting defeat. I don’t answer. I can’t because my mind has frozen. A wild animal trapped in icy water, unable to move, desperately looking for a way out as the cold slowly snuffs out its life. He senses my distress and carries on in that smooth, controlled way he has. ‘And the driving? Go well did it?’

  I turn to Nicole. She’s studying me intently with a mildly concerned expression. As if nothing has ever happened between us. Nothing at all.

  The world tilts for me then. It tilts, and I’m sliding off the deck of a sinking ship. I reach for the camomile tea to steady my trembling hands. Somehow, the warmth of the tea and the solidity of the cup are strangely comforting. My ears are buzzing. Timpson is still talking, but I can’t hear him. His voice is more white noise. The room and everything in it swims in my vision like a distant building on a heat-hazed road. I may be overbreathing again. I can’t tell. But I can feel. And what I feel is a cold and blooming fear. An awareness that a terrible enemy is about to attack me. Except my enemy is not external. It’s internal. Has been all along. I’ve been hiding from it. Running from it. Scared to turn and face it.

  I clasp the mug in my hands.

  Inordinately, pathetically pleased that it is real.

  I lift it to my lips and, despite myself, unable to help myself, between sips of the warm liquid, I talk.

  52

  At first I can only stutter. I start and falter. Start again. I can’t maintain eye contact with Nicole – Selena – when I regurgitate the visit to the surgery. Because that’s how it is. As if I’m vomiting up bile. I tell them about how we met, went for coffee, talked of Emma’s supposed infraction with an anaesthetist friend. About the photograph of us and how she told me we’d been lovers.

  ‘And now you’re going to tell me none of that happened,’ I say. I throw these bitter words at Nicole. No, at Selena, because, like Timpson, I must make a call here, decide who it is I’m going to believe. But I have decided. What is the point of me pretending otherwise when the living evidence of my delusions are sitting here in front of me?

  Selena speaks. ‘It didn’t happen, Cameron. I have never worked at Mulgrave Surgery. I did not know Emma Roxburgh.’

  ‘And what happened after the meeting at the coffee shop?’ Timpson asks.

  I look away.

  ‘Cameron.’ Timpson adopts an encouraging, slightly cajoling tone. ‘We’re here to help you. Whatever has happened, whatever you believe has happened, we can only unravel it if you tell us. Only then can I try to analyse your situation. See if there is anything we can do to remedy this little slip.’

  ‘Little slip?’ My reply is bitter.

  ‘Yes,’ says Timpson with the kind of earnest encouragement that dissipates my anger. Because I want to be angry. I want to rail at Timpson and Selena. But all they do is sit and wait in professional listener mode.

  So I tell them the details. About my visits to the police and their reaction to my implication that Emma might have been involved with an anaesthetist who was a drug user. About contacting Stamford. About Nicole’s visits to my flat, her boyfriend, her suggestion that we meet here because she’d been attacked. It sounds made-up. It sounds insane and humiliating and I keep my eyes averted. I can’t look at Selena as I regurgitate it all.

  ‘And what about Haldane?’ Timpson asks.

  ‘I looked him up. I rang him. Spoke to him. It was your face I saw online. Your voice I heard on the phone.’

  Timpson shakes his head. ‘You did speak to me. Or rather I spoke to you, to encourage you to come to your appointment.’

  I study the tea and take another sip. I’ve drunk almost all of it, yet I can barely swallow what’s left because it’s become unpalatably cold. Like drinking muddy water.

  ‘You understand that much of what you’ve told us is confabulation?’ Selena says.

  I study her face. Nicole’s face. One that I am so sure has lain on the pillow next to me. ‘No need to be embarrassed. Patients frequently channel attachments towards therapists, both positive and negative.’

  Something inside me squirms.

  Timpson leans forward. ‘Adam has been experimenting with your medication, trying to find the right dose of quetiapine and modafinil. That’s why I’m interested
in what you’re telling me about the fugues. How they’re changing. So I can feed back.’

  ‘They hadn’t changed for months. Always the same scene. The rooftop bar. The faceless girl that I assumed was Emma,’ I mutter.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘It’s still the bar. That’s the constant. Still high up. But the barman has changed. It was a play on words. His name sounds Russian, but he’s Dutch. The owner of the beach bar Emma and I used to go to. And now there are others. A woman, a statue. And a man, or something in the shape of a man. But more a shadow, like smoke. These two figures appear when Emma falls. Are they the ones who push her?’

  Please let it be them, not me.

  ‘But you realise this is a hallucination,’ Haldane says.

  My voice is a low rumble, like a man finally confessing his sins. ‘Yes, but partly memory too. Jumbled up and misinterpreted. The fugues are much more vivid. Previously, they’d take place while my body was engaged in mundane tasks that I would not remember doing. Like walking or packing a bag. But now, I’m much more active. Once to a rooftop and last time–’ I pause.

  ‘Go on, Cameron.’

  ‘Last time I was on a viaduct.’

  ‘A viaduct?’

  ‘It was somewhere Emma and I liked to go. I wanted to see if it might help me remember. But I had a fugue when I was there. I ended up standing on the parapet.’

  ‘It sounds dangerous,’ Selena says.

  ‘Perhaps. But it doesn’t feel dangerous. And I didn’t fall off.’

  ‘Are you scared of heights?’

  ‘No.’

  Timpson stands. ‘I’d like to try something, Cameron.’ He walks over to the balcony doors and slides the other half open. A March sun is shining. Cool air wafts in, but Timpson steps out to a wooden deck. A sizeable space marked by raised concrete beds in which a few low shrubs have been planted under decorative gravel. It has a vaguely Japanese aura. One edge of the beds has wooden seating and there are wicker seats and a low table. Bordering the airy space is a hip-high wall of opaque safety glass topped by a steel barrier. It’s an impressive penthouse terrace. Timpson stands with both hands on the barrier in the space between the raised beds and looks down.