30 Days in June

by Chris Westlake

  DAY TWENTY-ONE

  21ST JUNE 2018

  Clasping his large hands together, Richard leans forward in his chair. Pausing for a moment, he takes a deep breath before posing his question, as he always does. I watch, open-mouthed, admiring his poise. "So, Marcus, how have you been since our last meeting?"

  Just where do I start? So much has happened. There has been so much temptation and, on the whole, I've resisted most of it. There have been moments when I could have self-destructed, but I didn't. Just. Yesterday was the closest I came to breaking. I thought I had my man, thought I had him caught, but it was a false trail. Realising it wasn't him was a heavy blow. But then I talked to Simon, and that gave me some hope again. It drained me physically and emotionally, but it did give me some hope.

  Regardless, I decide to muster all the energy I can to take a rambling approach to answering his question.

  "It's been my most challenging period since I've been coming to see you, Richard," I say. The raising of both eyebrows indicates he knows there is a 'but' coming. "But," I say, and he smiles, "I've risen to the challenge. My nerves have been ripped to shreds and, on occasions, I've been paranoid to the point I've doubted myself and everyone around me, but I've still come out the other side fighting. I'm still here, aren't I, sat opposite you, telling you this? That surely has to count for something, doesn't it? I'll be honest, the fact I'm still here kind of proves to me just how strong I actually am...”

  Richard smiles. It truly is a wonderful sight to behold. He leans back in his chair and then decides against this and leans forward again. "That is fantastic, Marcus. I am proud of you. I'm fully aware that this has been a traumatic time. That was clear as day the last time I saw you. You were putting on a brave face, but there were cracks under that mask, let me tell you. You can only keep a mask on for so long before the cracks appear. But this time your emotions are heightened. They are at stretching point. Your positive energy, though, is genuine. It is not a mask. And that, my friend, is music to my ears."

  He puts a hand to his ear. Sometimes I wonder what the point of certain body language is; I know, for example, where his ear is. I wait for Richard to take all the glory for my progress, to tell me how much I have improved since I first sat in front of him, how his techniques must be working. I'm already grinning, waiting for the inevitable. Bizarrely, this is the calmest I've felt since I sat in that board room, acting the brute, interrogating the poor girl who bravely stood up and delivered a presentation to her colleagues. It was all part of the workshop, of course: there to challenge and test. Part of me thrived in those sessions, though: loved playing the role.

  "I think now is the time we should try a different approach, Marcus..."

  I double-take. My rapid thoughts rebound in so many directions that I think somehow they've tangled together, taken the wrong direction.

  "What did you just say?"

  His broad, white smile vanishes. Suddenly, his face is an ordinance survey map of lines and creases. I've always admired my counsellor's youthful glow, his baby-face, but now Richard appears different: he looks every single day of his age. "I think we should try a different approach to the one that we have been employing," he says.

  I sit back in my chair, creating further space between us, a divide. "Why? You just said you're proud of me. Said it is music to your ears. Listen, if the music is too loud then I'll turn the volume down. This is the approach you've been drumming into me for years, over and over. It is working, so why change now? Why change something that is working? How does that make any sense?"

  I grip the underside of the swivel chair; I want to keep my trembling hands out of sight. Richard glances around the room. I try to catch his eyes, to see what they're telling me, what secrets they expose, but they just won't stay still, not for a millisecond. He clears his throat. "From what you have said, this is a massively tricky period for you. He has returned. The seed has been planted. Your circumstances have moved onto a totally new playing field. I don't think you can keep ignoring him, and if you do, then you're a sitting target, there to be shot. I don't think he is going to go away. Not yet, anyway. This time he isn't going to go away just because you are ignoring him. He is going to keep on knocking on that door until it drives you insane. This time, the noise will be too much for you to cope with. You are nothing without your sanity, Marcus, nothing..."

  The room is shrinking. Reminds me of when the walls start coming together in the trash compactor in Star Wars. I want to - I need to - get out of here before the walls crush me, turn my skull and bones to dust. Somebody is squeezing my temple so hard it feels like it will explode.

  "You always said that if I ignored him then he would go away. I believed you. It is what I've always believed. Were you lying?"

  Richard puts up his hands. "No, no, no...no. I think you're taking things out of context here, Marcus. That was the right approach at the right time. And it worked, didn't it?"

  "Damn right it worked," I say. My voice is high and it is loud. "It has kept me alive all these years. That's my fucking point. It worked. So why the hell are we changing it?"

  Richard manages to hold my look now. With any other patient he'd ask them to tone it down, to curb their language, to keep things professional. His eyes are watery and bloodshot, his eyelids heavy and droopy. I feel his pain, but don't care because my own is so much more intense. He doesn't want to tell me this, does he? The poor sod feels compelled to do so, I can see that. "It worked for all the different situations you were in. This is different. Each problem does not have the same solution. Sometimes you need to adapt, even if that takes you way out of your comfort zone. Sometimes you have to adapt especially when it takes you out of your comfort zone..."

  "So you say we have to do it differently, I get that at a push. Just what are we going to do, though? What do you suggest now?"

  "You know about the fight or flight theory...?"

  The palm of my hand slams down against the flat of my forehead. I physically want to push these thoughts from my mind. I remove my hand and catch Richard flinching. Both my hands disappear underneath the table. Both hands resume gripping the side of the chair, holding on for dear life, just to keep them under control. "Of course I know about the fight or flight theory," I say. "You think I'm dumb? You know me, Richard. You know how long I have been coming to these sessions. You know everything I've been through, and for how long. I'm not new to any of this. I'm not in kindergarten. Please don't patronise me."

  Again, Richard holds his cumbersome hands up in protest. He does know what I'm like, and whilst he expects me to challenge and to question, I'm beginning to push the boundaries of his patience now. He is a paid professional first, my friend second. There has to be a limit to what he'll accept from me. I've been many things in this room, but I've never openly been rude. We're both in totally new territory here. I'm struggling with this new side to Richard and I can see that he sure as hell is struggling to cope with me.

  "Sorry, Marcus," he says."You know I didn't mean to offend you. I was just trying to explain the basic principle I'm adopting. I wanted to make it as clear as day, because I know right now it isn't clear at all. All I'm saying is that if you continue to ignore him then he'll continue to grow stronger. You need to stop that before he completely overpowers you. Again..."

  "How? Just how the fuck do I do that?"

  Richard remains nearly motionless as he continues talking, hands clasped tightly together, only his mouth moving, like a ventriloquist's dummy . "You need to face him. You need to stand up to him. In essence, Marcus, you need to fight him..."

  I stand up and flip over the chair in one fell swoop. Turn my back to Richard, my mentor. I don't hear him protest. Hold on to the magnificent bookshelf for support on the way out. I open the door but don't shut it. I feel the receptionist's eyes on me, curious and concerned, as I walk past her, but I don't turn to look at her and I don't acknowledge her existence. The whole building is claustrophobic, sucking the breath from my body. I ne
ed to get out.

  I stand in the car park, bent over with my hands on my knees, just like I did in the tunnel when I waited for Simon. People walk past me. I can tell that they are stopping, wondering whether to ask whether I'm alright or, alternatively, if I'm having a breakdown. Possibly, they weigh up how much time they have available to deal with me, whether they'll make their next appointment in time. It is possible that some do stop; I don't know. I stand up straight. Look around. The sky is gloriously blue, the pavements dry as a bone, just as they have been for the whole of June.

  And I am alone.

  I can deal with this. I can cope. I am strong. I have coped with everything so far, and I will deal with everything moving forward. With or without Richard. Fuck Richard. Scumbag. Traitor. Judas.

  And then, just as the clouds in my mind begin to clear, as a rainbow forms, as my thoughts start to make sense, my phone rings.

  The red phone.

  *******

  I pull the phone from my pocket and then just stare at it, letting it ring.

  Is my mind playing tricks on me? Again? Maybe I am paranoid? I pine for insanity. No. It is the red phone. It is the phone he gave me. There is a number. I could just put the phone back in my pocket, let it ring. I could turn the phone off. I could throw the phone on the floor and stamp on it until it crumbles into tiny, broken pieces. I have choices. He can only speak to me if I decide to speak to him. I am in control. Richard's words taunt me. He whispers them in my ear. You can't keep ignoring him. He is only growing stronger.

  I press a button, pull the phone to my ear.

  I don't say anything. I am in control here. I am in control here. Could just be a wrong number. Some old dear or a prank caller. I wait for whoever is on the other end of the line to speak. I keep waiting. They don't say anything. Somebody breathes into the receiver. It is gentle and rhythmic, rather than heavy and deliberate. I need to know who it is. I need to reassure myself that it is not him.

  "Hello?" I say, breaking the silence.

  The silence returns. It is just somebody playing games,. It is just a prank caller. I'm ready to put the phone down.

  He speaks.

  "Hello, Jeffrey," he says. "Or should I call you Marcus now? No, I think I'll stick with Jeffrey. Seems so much more suitable for the real you. It has been a long time and, I must say, it has been absolutely glorious to catch up with you over the last few weeks..."

  It is the voice in my head, the voice I've been hearing more and more frequently recently. It is the uninvited voice that has got into my head and stayed there. I tell myself that it might not be him. It could be somebody imitating him. After all, whoever it is wants me to believe they are Spartacus.

  "What do you want?"

  "Want? Why do you think I want anything, Jeffrey? Haven't we had a splendid time recently? Have I not added some fun to that dreadfully dull and predictable life of yours? You should be thanking me. Okay, but you've got me. The days are passing till the end of the month and I think it is time I progress things to the next level, don't you? Before I lose interest..."

  "I want you to lose interest."

  "But if I lose interest, Jeffrey, then you know I'll just kill you right now..."

  I look around. Is he watching me? A stretch of lawn runs along the edge of the pavement, and every twelve feet or so there is a tree with a wide trunk. On the other side of the road is a row of terraced houses. He could be anywhere. The quiet laughter builds and builds until I pull the phone away from my ear. He can see me looking around.

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Now you're getting the idea, Jeffrey. I need to make sure you are committed, that's all. The first thing I want you to do is to tell me what the time is. I do have such tedious problems with my watch. Frightful thing. It has this terrible tendency to speed up, completely unannounced, with no prior warning..."

  I look at my watch. "10:50," I say.

  "Fantastic. That is the time I have, too, give or take a minute or two. Listen to these instructions very carefully, Jeffrey, because it could be the difference between life and death, for you or somebody else. I give you until 12:00 today to tell that lovely DCI Reeves what you failed to tell DCI Baldwin in that interview room all those years ago. That little something that was really rather important when you think about it-"

  "Or else...?"

  "Tick-tock, Jeffrey. Tick-tock..."

  And then the phone goes dead.

  ********

  Pacing the car park, the soles of my feet burn against the hard, hot concrete. I check my watch. 10:55. The minutes are passing, and I'm doing nothing.

  Tick-tock.

  I have to make a decision. Now. I can't tell Reeves. I just can't. But he said it was life or death. It was worth dying for. I am prepared to give up my life. That is my choice.

  I sink my face into my hands. My eyes close and my mind opens. I know it is not as simple as that. He knows I'd make that choice. He is not talking about my life. He is not talking about my death. He mentioned others. Who is he talking about?

  I pull the other phone from my pocket. The blue one. I stab at the buttons with the tips of my fingers.

  "Hello?"

  "Dad."

  "Hello, son. It is wonderful to hear from you. I have been thinking-"

  "Dad," I interrupt, trying to keep my voice calm; failing to keep my voice calm. "Please, please, stay indoors until I say everything is safe. Lock yourself in. Don't let anybody in your house. Get a weapon. Be alert..."

  "What is the matter?"

  "Dad. Please. Just trust me."

  "Okay, son."

  I hang up the phone. Every second counts. I check my watch. 10:57. I can't stop the passing seconds. I phone my wife - my ex-wife - and then I phone my girlfriend. I give them the same hurried, frantic message: stay indoors, keep safe. They ask questions, of course they do, but then they assure me they will do what I tell them. They know. I check my phone. 11:01.

  I think about my dad. I think about Emma. I imagine them dead. I imagine my own daughter dead. Killed.

  I phone Reeves. I've made my decision. The phone rings. And the phone keeps ringing. I look at my watch. 11:03.

  I wipe my forehead with my sleeve. And then I make my next decision.

  If Reeves is not answering his phone, then I am going to have to go to Reeves.

  *******

  It is about a mile to the tube station.

  The road is full of cars, buses and scooters. The pavement is full of pedestrians with bags and buggies, dawdling and taking up too much space. They're suddenly intent on taking in the beauty of the world. I stretch out my legs. I run fast, ignoring the sharp, stabbing pain in my chest. I dodge in and out of the people in my way, pushing anybody else to the side. I can barely speak to utter an apology. The red circle of the train station is like the bright beam emitting from a lighthouse. It is tiny, so far away. My eyes don't move away from it for a single second. The circle grows bigger, the colour becomes more vivid.

  Glancing at the ticket office, at the ticket machines, I run straight past them. I get the energy - the strength - from somewhere, and I have no idea where - to increase my speed. I lunge over the ticket barriers like an Olympic hurdler.

  I'm met by shouts of protest from the attendants, but I keep running, only faster. Looking over my shoulder, all I see is a flash of orange. An attendant chases after me with heavy steps and a jiggling midriff. Making progress down the steep stairs, pushing people out of the way, I expect somebody to act the hero - to grab me, to rugby tackle me - but they are too slow, too perplexed, to do anything.

  I turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs. The train is waiting for me, like a getaway car. The doors are sliding closer together. I have been here before, on the first day of the month. Closing my eyes, I push with my back leg and then jump, like Lynn the Leap.

  I am on the train. The doors meet in the middle just as my back foot touches down.

  Turning to the window, I watch the attendant throug
h the grubby glass, his eyes a watery blue, his face a swollen red. His clenched fist bangs against the window, just inches from my face. I wave to him as the train moves away. I spin on the spot and look around. Normally nobody ever dares to look at anybody on these damn germ buckets. Now everybody is looking up from their newspapers, from their phones, from the back of their hands. Looking at me.

  "Just a slight misunderstanding with the ticket," I gasp.

  They look back at their newspapers, at their phones, at the back of their hands, at anything and anybody else, except me.

  I'm powerless to do anything about the speed of the train.

  Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change...

  Still, I urge the train to go faster. I count down the stops, one by one. I regain my breath, knowing that shortly I'll need it more than I ever have. I stare at my phone, willing the seconds to slow down, the minutes to stop completely. 11:50.

  The doors of the train fly open and I'm straight out before anybody else has a chance to move, has a chance to think.

  The courage to change the things I can.

  I run up the stairs and there is no ticket barrier. I blink away the brightness of the world outside. The pavements are full. I glance over my shoulder before stepping off the kerb, ignoring the horns as I run along the inside of the cars.

  There it is. The building is up ahead of me. I can see it. I glance at my phone. 11:58.

  The realisation hits. It is over. I won't be able to make it in time. I still need to get to the building and get past security and climb the stairs to his office.

  I stop running. I stop moving. I bend over at the waist and gasp for air, just as I did in the tunnel. I pull the blue phone out of my pocket. I press redial. I call Reeves. I'm met by the familiar sound of the phone ringing. Just ringing.