Being in a hospital bed on Christmas Day where there were others to talk to was a good reason for being admitted in mid-December.
She folded her arms and tried to shake off these depressing thoughts; she had enough worry of her own. Her insides ached with anxiety. She was tired of being disbelieved, ridiculed and pitied. She was tired of her own endless thoughts and burning questions. Was she going crazy? Had she somehow hallucinated that night? That what she heard and what she saw was not real. That she had imagined everything. Was she no longer in control of her own mind? Was the phone call Saturday night even real? She and Fiona had given statements to a young PC, but so far had heard nothing back. This appointment with a psychoanalyst might be the only solution.
She was fretful about meeting him, and she recalled Fiona’s parting words as they’d hugged each other goodbye on Sunday morning.
‘That was a shitty experience for you last year. And you got over it pretty quickly, babe. Maybe you weren’t really over it. Perhaps if we’d reported it properly, got the fucker into some trouble, it would have been better for you. Would have let you move on properly.’
Alex had listened carefully, and was only interested in one thing: had Fiona told anyone else?
‘No, of course not. Only you, me and Caroline know, and the agent who put the bastard onto us of course. Caroline had to let them know so that we could get rid of him. But I haven’t told anyone else, babe. We decided on that.’
Alex had decided on that. There had been no witness and no evidence. It would have been her word against his and she hadn’t wanted to take that risk. She had made a conscious career choice when she decided to work in Bath. This was her city, where she had grown up and where she had returned and wanted to stay, and where one day, if she ever met the right man, she would be happy to raise a family. She had decided last year that she wouldn’t go to the police, because she had a future to risk.
Fiona may not have discussed her past with anyone else, but her words revealed what she thought of this present situation. What Alex had suspected all along. Her best friend didn’t believe it had happened.
*
The psychoanalyst’s name was Richard Sickert. She had googled his name and had been alarmed to read that a man named Walter Richard Sickert was reputed to be the real Jack the Ripper. Walter Richard Sickert, an artist, had painted four pictures based on the real-life murder of a prostitute, which took place in Camden Town, London in 1907 He died in Bath in the 1940s. She wondered if they were related.
He was dressed casually in blue checked shirt, black cords and black and tan golfing-type shoes. His dark hair was damp, as if from a recent shower.
His glasses were fashionably framed, black rimmed and oblong, and his age was hard to judge, possibly late forties or early fifties, but he could be younger, judging by the litheness with which he moved.
The porch and the entrance of the terraced property looked unremarkable, giving Alex the impression that this was his home. There was no brass plate on the outside wall announcing his business, and she wondered if it was deliberate so that the people who walked through the door felt under less pressure to hurry in and avoid scrutiny.
The office, apart from a desk with telephone and files, resembled a very cosy sitting room. Two armchairs, in rich brown suede, were placed at a comfortable distance from each other and separated further by a sturdy wooden coffee table. A lamp on a sideboard was switched on, and over in a corner of the room extra light came from a standard lamp with a large cream tasselled shade.
It was a relaxing room, created with comfort in mind, but it was the silence of the place that was most noticeable. Blissful silence and peace. She sank into one of the armchairs, and would have been quite happy to sit there for a long time without speaking a word.
He gave a small smile as if reading her mind and sat quietly in the other chair, leaving her to her reflections.
Minutes passed, and prompted by the thought that she should say something, she said the most natural thing. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘You don’t need to talk if you don’t want to. I’m quite happy for you to sit here and relax. There is no rush, and if you want to spend the next hour simply sitting quietly, please do so. Dr Fielding has, with your permission, I believe, brought me up to date with what’s been happening to you, so as I say, there’s no rush.’
She rested her head back against the softness of the chair. ‘I thought you’d be full of questions.’
‘No. That’s not how I work. For the mind to give up information or to sort stored information it needs time to compose itself. Just sitting quietly with no pressure to think is often what the mind needs most. A space to just be.’
‘My mind doesn’t seem to want to shut down, it seems to go into overdrive as soon as I stand still or try to sleep.’
‘Would you like to tell me a little about yourself? And, just as a formality, do you mind if I take a medical history?’
She shrugged agreeably. ‘Fine.’
From the table he picked up a clipboard with a sheet of typewritten paper already clipped to it. Then, clicking his biro, he held his pen ready.
‘We’ll start with something simple. Any childhood illness other than colds and cough and such like?’
‘No. Exceptionally healthy right through to fourteen, when I contracted glandular fever. Left me a bit debilitated for several months, but after that I grew strong again.’
‘Any history of depression?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing diagnosed. But I was depressed for a while last year, and of course the last few weeks haven’t exactly been joyful.’
‘So you didn’t seek a medical opinion or receive any prescribed treatment?’
Alex felt her neck redden. ‘Err no. I just .?.?. muddled through or blanked it out, I suppose.’
He scribbled something on the paper and she wondered if he could tell she had not told the complete truth. The diazepam she was taking was certainly a prescription drug. She wondered if he was writing the word ‘liar’.
‘So apart from glandular fever and a bout of possible depression, no other medical history? No head injury?’
Again she shook her head. ‘No.’ She paused. ‘Well, that is until a few weeks ago. The hospital said I suffered a mild concussion possibly from a fallen tree branch.’
‘This was the night you believe you were abducted, I take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you disagree with their diagnosis?’
She shook her head in despair. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know any more. It definitely felt real. It happened. This can’t be in my mind. It .?.?. it .?.?.’ She breathed faster and could feel the thud of her heart under her breast.
‘OK,’ he said calmly. ‘You’re doing fine. Slow your breathing down and try and relax.’
Alex took a few deep breaths and felt the tightness in her chest ease.
‘Better?’ he said after a moment.
She nodded.
‘Last few questions and then we can move on.