30 Days in June

by Chris Westlake

  “I found Jesus Christ Our Saviour,” the man announced, beaming.

  “Oh for fucks sake,” I muttered.

  I thought I said the words under my breath, but clearly I didn’t, for the whole room turned to look at me. I swear the words came out of my mouth involuntarily, that I just couldn’t keep them in.

  “You got a problem with that?” the guy asked. I noticed for the first time that he was a large man, much bigger than me.

  “Not at all,” I replied. I really didn’t. Horses for courses, that's what I say. This one just wasn’t right for me. “I was just hoping,” I continued, holding my hands up, “that you were going to come up with a practical solution.”

  “Practical?”

  I never did find out whether I was the first person to be punched in a group session, but it was agreed by both myself and my counsellor that the environment was probably not the best fit for me. I suspect the whole room released a long sigh of relief when they spotted an empty seat at the meeting the following week.

  I hadn’t expected much the first appointment with Richard. Previous disappointments had sucked the optimism right out of me. My last counsellor had been a nice lady but she was happy enough to just let me talk and look at me sympathetically as I told her my woes. I'd go into the meeting thinking that maybe my life wasn’t so bad, all things considered, but I’d leave feeling the pits. The letter didn’t give much information. It didn’t explain why they’d decided to change my counsellor.

  I liked Richard as soon as I saw him. For one thing, he made me feel a whole lot better about my own appearance. I'm naturally drawn to ugly people for this very reason. He held my gaze as he shook my hand and I noticed that he had one bloodshot eye. Richard was as wide as he was high, but he was mainly comprised of soft cushion. Suddenly I felt tall and I felt lean and I felt beautiful. I knew that he was the right counsellor for me.

  I glance over Richard's shoulder now, through the window. A sparrow sits on the branch of one of the trees, eyeing the fish in the pond. I know that the fish are safe, for I have stood by the window and looked outside on many occasions when Richard has gone searching for something or other, and I know that the pond is covered with a green net. The garden is small and shaped like a triangle, narrowing at the tip, but the lawn is flat and the grass is bright, fresh and green. I often think it would be wonderful to sit on the wooden bench in the garden in the middle of the day with a book and a cup of coffee. The magnificent pine bookcase behind me, just a few steps on the wooden floorboards away, always looks like it is only one hardback book from toppling over. The leather sofa I lay on just over a week ago is pressed tight against the wall to my left. In front of the sofa is a fluffy burgundy rug that I often long to curl up and fall asleep on.

  "Ah," Richard says, puckering his rubbery red lips into an enormous smile. "That is where the little blighter got to. Now we can really get started, Marcus. Now we can really get this show on the road."

  Glancing at the tip of the black biro he has finally located, I suspect, after all that, the pen probably won't work. I am convinced Richard puts the pens that don't work back in his bag, for hardly any of his pens actually manage to write. Richard's cheeks become unusually rounded when he smiles. Richard has an unusually rounded face, for he is usually smiling. His skin is so alarmingly smooth and free of creases that he is almost boyish, and yet I am sure the man sitting in front of me is in his fifties. His black hair is shaven close to his scalp on the sides but it is frizzy and wild on the top. I look down on him when he stands up. His perfectly round belly reminds me of a Buddha. Richard is far from being an attractive man, but his face is so amenable I often gaze at him with sheer fascination.

  "So how have things been with you since our last session, Marcus?" Richard asks. His red, watery eyes glance at the blank pad. He scribbles with the pen, then sighs when nothing comes out. Richard puts the pen down and rests both elbows on the table. He knows I've noticed that the pen doesn't work but decides to ignore this. He rubs the thick stubble on his chin with the underside of his thumbs.

  "It has not been a great week," I say. "I have given into some temptations that I would normally resist-"

  I am about to tell Richard more, when he interrupts me and says, "Tell me more."

  We normally avoid specifics. For me, today, this is just as well. I don't particularly want to tell him that I woke in the middle of the night, my fists sprinkled with my girlfriend's blood, that a dark cloud has been following me since the first day of the month. For me, today, I want to be as general as possible and just hope he doesn't probe deeper.

  Our sessions focus on three key things: thoughts, behaviours and feelings. We discuss how our thoughts and behaviours directly affect how we feel. The events of the previous week - however unexpected and interesting - can usually be broken down into these three things. There is usually no need to delve into specifics.

  This week has been different, though, hasn't it? This has not been like any other week.

  I tell Richard that, after all these years, he has re-entered my life.

  "And you let him in?" Richard asks, leaning forward.

  This was the question I just knew Richard was going to ask. I know him just as well as he knows me. This time it was the obvious question to ask, though. I lower my eyes. I don't want to see his reaction when he realises I let him down. "I opened the door," I say.

  "Why did you open the door? What was different this time? What thoughts brought about this behaviour?"

  "I think I opened the door mainly out of uncontrollable curiosity. It has been so long, so many years. I think that, initially, and possibly only for a few moments, the curiosity was just too much. I opened the door just enough to look outside and see him-"

  "And what did you think?"

  "So many different things. I felt fear and I felt hatred. That was clear. That was expected. But there was something else..." I theatrically dangle my fingers like I'm playing an imaginary piano. "There was a sense of familiarity. Of a time that I used to know, that no longer exists."

  Richard's face gives nothing away. "We are drawn to familiarity. It makes us feel safe, however dreadful it may be. We fear things we don't know, of course, even though they often excite us, too. The allure would have been strong. You know what the crucial question is, though, don't you?"

  I nod my head.

  Richard sits back in his chair. He folds his arms across his chest. "So, did you?"

  I shake my head. "I only opened the door wide enough to take a good look at him. I longed to open the door wider. I had to forcibly push the damn thing shut. But I did. I didn't open the door wide enough for him to come in, for him to enter."

  The effect of my words is instant. His dark skin glistens. There is a brightness to his glassy eyes. "You're not telling the truth, Marcus," he says.

  "I am," I reply. "I swear to God I am."

  Richard smirks. "I believe in your story, Marcus," he says. "And unlike you, I actually believe in God. But you are deceiving yourself when you say you haven't had a great week. Sure, it sounds like you've had an awful week. My knees are wobbly just from listening to it, and I'm supposed to be a big, strong man. But you cannot worry about things that are outside of your control. Those AA guys did have at least one thing right. You were tested. Who wouldn't be? You are human. If I stuck a needle in your arm then you would bleed, just like every human. You think. You act. You feel. But you had the courage and the sanity to amend your thoughts. And then you acted on them. You resisted the initial destructive thoughts. You beat the temptation. You closed that door. You didn't let him in. Do you not think that is good, Marcus?"

  I just know, from the tingling in my cheeks, that my face has reddened. It takes a lot to make me blush, but I am blushing.

  "You got me there. I accept that is good. Of course that is good."

  Richard nods his head and raises his eyebrows in unison. It is rather distracting. "You know what it means?"

  I shake my head and l
ook away from his eyebrows.

  "It means," he says, "that now you know you can beat him. You thought you could before. But your belief had not been tested. Not for a long, long time. You've developed and grown from an introverted teenager into a strong, confident man. The transformation has been dramatic. This should give you even more confidence. Before you were like an elephant. You were big and strong and respected, but not really doing a great deal. Now you are like a lion. You are King of the Jungle. How does that make you feel?"

  I feel like hammering my fists against my almighty chest. I rock back and forth in the chair. "I feel good," I say.

  "Do you think you could have beaten him the first time you sat opposite me in that chair, all those years ago? Ten years ago now, is it?"

  "No way. He would have beaten me down and spat me out."

  I don’t know if Richard is aware, but we tend to have the same conversations again and again. We have for ten years now and there is a decent chance we will do so in another ten years. Sometimes I wonder whether he has the same conversations with all of his other clients, too, or if I’m the chosen one. Richard doggedly sticks to the same approach. His belief is unfaltering and borderline irrational. But unlike that guy in the group session all those years ago, I don’t question it.

  Richard guffaws. And then he snorts. He sniffs through his impressive nostrils. "You know what that is?" he asks.

  I shrug my shoulders.

  "That, my friend," he says, "is the scent of progress."

  His laughter is thunderous, and it fills each corner of the room.

  I thought that I was supposed to be the crazy one. I should have known that Richard would try and take all the credit. I break into a smile and give him a high-five.

  DAY ELEVEN

  11TH JUNE 2018

  I stand still, on the spot, and it feels like the rest of the world is moving around me in fast forward. My feet remain motionless but my thoughts are racing, moving faster than any of the people that surround me. I have a decision to make. An important one. This can't be rushed.

  My fingers rub against the card in my hand. I considered throwing it in the bin, hoping I wouldn't need it, but then I kept it, just in case. I eye the building, large and intimidating. I imagine DCI Reeves sat in his office, watering his plants or polishing his desk, maybe sipping his herbal tea. I picture his reaction when he sees me. He will be polite but brisk, making sure he does what is expected of him but at the same time bristling with irritation. After all, I'm a waste of his invaluable time. Picture his face when I brief him on the developments. Things have changed. I have something more substantial for him.

  I think back to the library. I pressed my hand to my mouth when I saw the words on the mirror, felt bile rise up my throat. Then I pulled my hand away and grabbed my phone and took a photo. It was my gut reaction, the first thing that came to my mind. My second thought was that he'd left evidence. His blood was smothered on the mirror. Forensics would have a field day. The last thing I wanted to do was go anywhere near it, for it repulsed me - but I had to, didn't I? But as I stepped closer, I realised something: it wasn't blood, it was lipstick. What did I feel? Disappointment? Or relief? Right then, I wasn't quite sure.

  I thought about wiping away the writing with some toilet paper and water, for it made me feel exposed, that a dirty secret was up on the wall for the world to see. But then, it didn't actually mean anything, did it? So, I just ran, partly to get out of there and partly because the library was about to shut. My senses were on red alert, looking around, expecting him to spring from behind a bookshelf. Nothing. And there has been nothing since. Four days.

  I wonder what Reeves will say when I tell him. He'll probably get hung up on the trivial details, smirk that I sneaked into the cubicle for a cheeky read of the newspaper at closing time, roll his eyes when I show him the photo. I know what he'll think, though: somebody is messing with me. He'll reassure me that they take harassment very seriously. He'll take a statement. Ask some questions of the library staff. Maybe check the CCTV.

  But what he won't accept is that it is him, that this is the work of Spartacus. He'll fire out a comprehensive list of reasons why it isn't him, deliver a longer list of alternatives. I don't want him to half-heartedly investigate a possible stalker, tick the boxes to show he's doing his job. I want him to hunt down and slay one of the most notorious serial killers of recent times.

  That's what Baldwin would have done. He would have rolled his sleeves up and taken whatever means necessary - fair or foul - to catch the evil bastard.

  Another memory from the library plays in my mind. It is an alternative. Another way.

  I make my decision.

  I turn from the building. Start walking away.

  Somebody knocks into me. I'm surprised they didn't see me; I'm walking slowly in a straight line. The man raises his cap, smiles, and then continues walking.

  I only see the face briefly. I turn around, and he has disappeared amidst the crowd of people. I have a nagging thought, though, one that only develops and gets stronger, that the polite, smiling man with the cap was him.

  DAY TWELVE

  12TH JUNE 2018

  Richard's disapproving face sits on my right shoulder. He doesn't say anything, just widens his eyes and raises his eyebrows. I know he'd cast out a line and reel me back in like a fish if he could.

  I shouldn't be here, just as I shouldn't have been snooping around in the library five days ago. These stones are best unturned. Let sleeping dogs lie. He'd come out with all the lines, for sure. But I either go through the official channels (which, of course, is what I'm expected to do) or I do it myself. So here I am, on the outskirts of London, passing the identical houses with freshly cut green lawns (fading yellow from the relentless sun) and then stopping to glance at the piece of scrap paper in my hand. The hairs on my arm bristle as I wipe my forehead.

  Don't be that one. Please, don't be that one.

  I glance again at the number on the piece of paper. It is that one. Of course it is that one.

  The lawn has been dug up and replaced with tired , grey concrete slabs. An old, rusty bicycle with a punctured tyre has been discarded on the floor. I glance around for an abandoned washing machine or a stained mattress, and I'm surprised when I can't locate one.

  Somebody appears through the glass panel of the front door and, although their outline grows larger, they don't appear to be in any rush to actually answer the door.

  "Oh," I say, when the door is finally opened, "I was hoping to find Simon here."

  An elderly lady looks me up and down and then narrows her eyes, as if to see me properly. Her face is wrinkled and rubbery, like a pair of testicles that have sat in the bath for too long. "We all have hopes, dear," she says. "But when you get to my age, you're old and wise enough to realise hardly any of them ever come true."

  She stands to one side to let me enter. I'm befuddled by this. The woman hasn't even asked who I am, or what I am doing here. I'm not hot on health and safety, but even I can identify some potential risks. Before I can put my words in the right order to make my point, the woman shouts at the top of her voice. "Simon! There is a man here for you! I have no idea who he is, but he's a middle-aged white guy, if that helps?"

  I tell her my name on the assumption this will help identify who I am.

  "And my name is Janet," she replies, without a flicker of a smile. We remain looking at each other in the hallway until, frankly, it becomes a bit awkward. It does not appear to cross Janet's mind to give Simon the name of his unexpected visitor. I bounce on the tips of my toes. There is a light bulb moment. "Downstairs, dear. Silly me. Head straight down to the basement. I gave him advance warning that you were coming; you never know what he might be up to down there now, do you?"

  I brush away some cobwebs with one hand and clasp the stair rail with the other. I can just about make out the brick wall through the darkness as I continue my descent. The wooden steps audibly creak under my weight. I am relieved whe
n my feet touch the bottom. There is light. I look around. My mouth opens. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. Even my lowest expectation wasn't of something quite this weird.

  The basement spans the length and breadth of the house. It is a bat cave. Lights flicker and fade on computer screens. Disbanded books lie on the concrete floor, UFO posters cover the walls. I spot a dartboard in the far corner. Breathing in, I 'm greeted by the odour of dirty socks and two-day old pizza.

  A chair swivels around. My first thought is of the Timotei advert, the one where the beautiful young woman seductively flicks her long luscious hair to appreciative gasps from viewers in their homes. This young man sat in front of me, though, has greasy, straggly hair down to his waist. He adjusts his black, horn-rimmed square glasses and looks up at me. Takes a second look. Perversely, I suddenly feel important. The man springs out of his chair and walks soundlessly towards me, holding out his hand.

  "Nice to meet you," he says, grinning. "It is kind of odd, you know? It feels like I already know you and yet we haven't actually met. It is kind of like having a best friend you only know from the internet. You know?"

  I don't know, and so I'm not sure what to say. Instead, I nod my head and deliver a reassuring smile. After all, I'm an uninvited guest and, more importantly, it is in my interest to be on my best behaviour. Simon looks around for a chair that is not covered in clutter. This is mission impossible. Failing to find the desired chair, he settles for the one that has the least clutter and flings a pile of books onto the floor with one wild sweep of his hand.

  "Mind the mess," he says. "I'm not used to guests in my dungeon, and so I probably don't keep it as tidy as I ought to. This place is hardly a hub of social activity, if you know what I mean?"