‘No, I haven’t. I can’t, can I?’
They looked at one another. ‘No,’ said Jonathan slowly. ‘No, you can’t, I can see that.’
‘I don’t think he’s dangerous,’ Jonathan said, after two of the group sessions. ‘And at the moment I don’t think he’s in danger.’
Antonia had not thought so either, but she was glad to have it confirmed.
‘But what I do think,’ said Jonathan, thoughtfully, ‘is that he’s heading for a full-blown fantasy with you in the leading role, and that worries me. I have an idea he’s visualizing the two of you in some close and rather emotional environment–maybe something like a humanitarian expedition to take medical aid to one of the third world countries, or something of that kind.’
Antonia supposed that as fantasies went, this might be just about credible.
‘It is credible, and that’s going to make it more difficult to dislodge. He’s only a few steps away from imagining torrid nights of passion in deserts or mountains, or one of you dying heroically to save the other from a mercenary’s bullet—’
‘You’re getting into the fantasy yourself now.’
‘It’s the black humour of the medical profession.’ He smiled, and the familiar flippancy was back. ‘I wouldn’t entirely blame the boy for wondering about a torrid night of passion with you, though. I’ve wondered about it myself more than once.’
‘Let’s keep this professional,’ said Antonia automatically.
‘Well then, professionally speaking, on present evidence I don’t think he wants to hurt you. He’s more likely focusing on some visionary Utopia or Shangri-la–roses round a cottage door, or an island retreat. Like a 1940s film, with gauze over the camera for the final scene, and the strong rugged hero going hand in hand into the sunset with the grateful heroine.’
Shangri-la and torrid passion in the desert did not exactly fit with Antonia’s work with the NHS which was infuriating and exhausting by turns, but which was a deep and integral part of her. They did not fit, either, with the modest social life she managed to have outside the hospital and they certainly did not fit with the presence of Richard in her life.
‘I still think you should tell Richard,’ said Jonathan, with his disconcerting trick of picking up a thought. ‘But you’re the judge of that. I don’t think Don has any paranoia or any confusing of reality and fantasy. I don’t think he believes any of his fantasies have actually happened, although I suspect he’s writing the script for them.’ He frowned. ‘But there’s no guarantee he won’t turn psychotic, or that there won’t be another suicide bid.’
‘I do know that.’ Antonia hesitated and then said, ‘Jonathan, he knows where I live.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’ve seen him outside the bungalow.’
There was no need to tell Jonathan about the silent, motionless figure standing beneath the tree outside her home, sometimes well after midnight, watching the windows with such intensity that several times Antonia was aware of a compulsion to walk out of the bungalow towards him.
‘In that case I’d better take over his treatment, hadn’t I?’ said Jonathan after a moment.
‘I think so. Yes, please.’
‘I do understand that it’s a–a delicate situation with Richard,’ he said. ‘But if Don really is going to your home, oughtn’t you to talk to the police? At least alert them in case something goes wrong.’
‘If I tell the police Richard will find out. I can’t risk it.’
‘Would you like me to tell Richard?’
‘No.’ It came out more sharply than Antonia had intended, but Jonathan only said quite peaceably, ‘All right. But what will you do if Robards breaks in?’
‘I don’t know.’