Yes!
Maggie couldn’t have written Yvonne’s script better herself.
‘It’s not that I didn’t believe her,’ Duncan had said, a face on him like a smacked arse. ‘I just didn’t see any evidence that Nick resented her in any way.’
Yvonne had snorted. ‘Of course you didn’t. He only picks on her when you’re not there.’
‘Oh, Christ!’ Duncan had touched Maggie’s arm, but Maggie had pulled away from him. ‘I’m sorry. I should have . . . Okay, I accept that he’s maybe got issues. He maybe hasn’t been coping with Kathleen’s death as well as I thought. And now he’s maybe feeling excluded, struggling with the new family he finds himself in . . . But he would never do anything to hurt you or Isla.’
‘How can you know that?’ Yvonne had asked.
‘Because he’s my son!’
And now, he was giving Nick an out. ‘I think we need to do this, yes? But, obviously, it’s entirely up to you.’
Nick must know that Andy had refused to go to the psychiatrist and got away with it.
So it was a big surprise when he nodded, and gave Duncan a wee smile. ‘If you think it’s for the best, Dad. But really, you’ve got this all wrong.’
‘Good man, good man!’ Duncan beamed. ‘We’re going to sort this out. Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.’
The psychiatrist, Jamie Stirling-Stewart, MBBS, MSc, FRCPsych, was a youngish, poncy man in red trousers with floppy hair like Nick’s and an office in the New Town in Edinburgh. He had refused to discuss Nick with Duncan and Maggie until after the third session, when he’d scheduled a ‘chat’ for after the consultation.
‘Nick has agreed that I can talk to the two of you about how we’ve been getting on,’ he said, sitting down in one of the armchairs at a coffee table and waving at Duncan and Maggie to do likewise. ‘Would you like some water?’
Maggie hoped this was a good sign, that he felt they’d need reviving after he dropped the bombshell that Nick had psychopathic traits, was a danger to Maggie and Isla and needed sectioned. Both of them accepted the offer.
But ‘Nick seems a bit anxious,’ he began, crossing his long red legs. ‘And his mother’s death obviously hit him hard. He’s having a few issues adjusting to the new status quo.’
‘He hates me and Isla,’ said Maggie.
The psychiatrist smiled. ‘No. In fact, he seems fond of you. He actually broke down when I suggested he’d made you feel unsafe.’ He looked past Duncan and Maggie like he was in search of inspiration to help him explain the complexities of the human psyche to these two numpties. ‘In the teenage brain, the prefrontal cortex – which is responsible for things like rational decision-making and impulse control – is very much a work in progress. So the amygdala, which is where emotions stem from, is used instead by teenagers to process information, and there’s no “brake” on it from the prefrontal cortex as there is in adults.’ He smiled again. ‘Teenagers often have very poor judgement and impulse control, don’t think things through, and are more vulnerable to stress. Their emotions can very often get the better of them, and they can say some really terrible things that, as the teenager themselves will say, they “don’t mean”. In other words, they know on some level they’re being irrational and maybe hurtful for no good reason, but they can’t control what’s coming out of their mouths.’
Duncan breathed out. ‘So, you don’t think he could be in any way . . . dangerous?’
Maggie hadn’t thought the guy’s smile could get any more patronising, but he managed it. ‘Only to the extent that any teenager can be said to be “dangerous” through this inherent lack of control. But in Nick’s case, I would say the prefrontal cortex is further on the road to maturity than in many sixteen-year-olds. He has insight into the effect his behaviour has had on you, Maggie. Which is ninety per cent of the way to addressing it. He was in tears when he was recounting some of the things he’s said.’
‘What, so everything in the garden’s rosy? That’s what you’re saying?’ Maggie turned to Duncan. ‘This is a fucking joke. How much are we paying this so-called fucking expert?’
That at least wiped the smile off the guy’s face.
‘Maggie,’ muttered Duncan.
‘As I say,’ the psychiatrist said stiffly, ‘Nick accepts there’s an issue. At the root of his anxiety seems to be a – completely unfounded, I’m sure – worry about your mental stability, Mrs Clyde. Which may explain his desire to keep you at arm’s length. But with a bit of understanding and patience, I think he’ll be fine.’ He eyeballed Maggie.
Jesus! Blame the victim, why don’t you?
‘Oh aye, he’ll be fine. It’s me and my wee lassie I’m worried about, pal.’
His mouth pursed up like a wee arsehole. He didn’t like that, being called pal like he was any random off the street. Which he might as well be for all the use he was, the fucker.
He got up and went to his desk. ‘Here’s something that might, I hope, reassure you. I find it’s often helpful to get my patients to draw – it’s a sort of shortcut to the subconscious mind.’ He handed them some sheets of A3 paper.
They were bad drawings of a happy family – big tall da, tiny ma, boy and baby. The drawings showed them sitting round a table eating or going for a walk or playing on a beach. Maggie leafed through them, handing each one to Duncan after she’d glanced at it.
Then the f-bomb was out her mouth again.
This one showed the da character hugging the boy, who in turn hugged the ma, who was holding the baby. They all had manic grins apart from the baby, who had no face, and he’d drawn the tiny ma with wide, I’m-shitting-myself-here eyes. ‘Do you not think this one is maybe just a wee bit disturbing?’ She showed Duncan and then the psychiatrist. ‘Isla has no face. And look at me.’