36
Joe
‘When you’re ready, Felicity, I want you to tell me what happened last Tuesday evening. I want you to talk me through everything you did, from leaving work, to the moment you heard my call on your mobile.’
For nearly five minutes, Felicity has been in a hypnotic trance. It has taken longer than usual to get her into the deeply relaxed state necessary for hypnotherapy to work, but when Joe lifts her hand from her lap, it falls back in the manner of someone fast asleep.
‘You left work at five thirty,’ he prompts. ‘You were planning to come to me.’
‘I stopped at the garage.’ Her voice is deeper pitched than usual. ‘I needed petrol. And some fags.’
‘Do you smoke?’ he asks.
‘So, shoot me.’ She gives a disdainful shrug.
This is not Felicity’s normal way of speaking. He wonders if she is putting on an act when she is with him, deliberately trying to seem more refined.
He asks, ‘Where did you go after the petrol station?’
‘Home. Got changed. Had a fag.’
‘You decided not to keep our appointment?’
‘Waste of bloody time. No offence.’
‘None taken. Where do you smoke at home?’
‘In my courtyard. The basement if the weather’s bad. I only had one, though. And then I did some handwashing. I’d left one of my shirts to soak, and I checked to see if the blood had come out. I rinsed it through, hung everything up to dry and then checked my home emails.’
‘How did you get blood on your shirt?’
‘I’m not supposed to talk about that.’
‘Why not?’
Her breathing is quickening. Behind closed eyelids, her eyes are flickering.
‘That’s OK, Felicity. You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with. This is your time. I want you to concentrate on breathing for me.’
For several more minutes, Joe focuses on getting her back into her deep trance. As he does so, he writes on his pad: Blood on shirt? Not supposed to talk?
‘Can you remember who your emails were from?’ he asks.
‘My bank, telling me my monthly statement was ready. A delivery company, about something being delivered the next day. Boring. I checked through some news sites. I read a piece about the murder of the homeless woman – I’d say the daft cow asked for it – and then I went out for some food.’
Joe thinks, were he to close his eyes, he would not believe he was still speaking to Felicity.
‘You didn’t have anything at home?’ he asks.
She scoffs. ‘Rabbit food. I wanted a burger. I walked. I was almost there when—’
She stops and her calm face takes on a troubled look.
‘What happened?’
Felicity’s head begins to make small twitching movements. She says, ‘Someone was watching me.’
‘You saw someone watching you?’
‘No. They kept out of sight. But you know, don’t you, when you’re being watched? It’s an instinct. We know when we’re in danger.’
He writes paranoia and delusional?
‘Do you know who was watching you?’
Her breathing is quickening again.
‘So what did you do?’ he asks.
‘I knew I couldn’t go to the burger bar, never again, because he’d obviously worked out that I go there and will be watching it, waiting for me. And I knew I couldn’t go home, because he knows where I live.’
Her eyes open and her head shoots round to face Joe. ‘He knows where I live. I’m not safe there. I think he can get in. I’m getting the locks changed but it might be too late.’
She is still in her trance. In spite of her frantic words, her eyes have a vague, unfocused look about them.
‘Go on,’ Joe says. ‘Tell me what you did.’
‘I knew he was following me. I just ran. And when I couldn’t run any more, I carried on walking. I could feel that he was behind me, so I kept going. I think I would have walked all night. And then you rang.’
Joe notices, although she may not have, that the vague someone has become a very specific person. A he. The hypnosis has gone better than he could have hoped, and he wants more than anything to push her further on the man she believes was following her. But there is not much of the session left, and he needs to talk to her out of the trance state. Regretfully, he brings her back.
‘How do you feel?’ he asks.
‘I’m not sure.’ She looks bewildered and, also, a little ashamed.
‘Do you remember everything we talked about?’
She nods her head. ‘In a way, it’s a relief,’ she says, ‘to know what I did. And I can remember more now, I think. I remember putting petrol in my car. There was a man at the next pump on his phone while he filled up, and someone else told him off.’
Her eyes drop to the flowers on the coffee table. ‘I could smell them, while I was – you know – under,’ she says. ‘It was nice. Calming.’
The flowers, a huge bunch of tall, columned blooms, have a powerful scent. The first night after they came, Joe had put them in his bedroom. In the small room, the smell had become slightly nauseating.
‘Scented stocks,’ Felicity says. ‘There’s something very English about them.’
‘From my mother,’ Joe tells her, and wonders why he feels the need to point it out. ‘She thinks I need cheering up.’ Again, the wrong thing to say. ‘I don’t,’ he adds hurriedly. ‘She’s very protective.’
‘I’m sorry about our appointment,’ Felicity says. ‘I don’t know what got into me. And, of course, I don’t think they’re a waste of time.’
‘No apology necessary.’
They hold eye contact for several seconds, then several more, and he thinks she is on the verge of saying something. Then her eyes fall. ‘We must be out of time,’ she says.
‘Would you like to talk about who you think was following you?’ he says.
She bends to pick up her handbag but he sees the shudder all the same. ‘No. I mean, that has to be nonsense,’ she says. ‘Who would be following me?’
There are still several minutes of the session left, but Felicity gets to her feet, pays him and leaves.
* * *
Joe is straightening his desk when he hears voices on the stairs. Felicity has bumped into his mother. He listens to Delilah panting her way up the last flight and then her heavy footsteps along the landing. She knocks and pushes the door open in one swift movement.
‘Met one of your patients on the way up,’ she says. ‘Pretty girl. Seems nice.’
‘You don’t know she was one of my patients,’ he replies. ‘And I have nothing to say on the matter. Tea?’
She looks at her watch.
‘You can have a drink if you’ve finished work for the day and didn’t come by car.’
‘Tea it is,’ she grumbles.
‘Heard from the lab,’ she tells him, when the tea is made and they are sitting in the white armchairs. The big room in his flat doesn’t get the evening sun, but the light on the rooftops of King’s is almost better than the sunrise.