The shame is still as strong now as it was a few weeks ago and I feel my cheeks burn as I remember what happened next.
I tried to edge my way past to get to my desk but she put her arm out to block me and announced in a loud voice that I was unsteady on my feet and would I like her to make me a black coffee. Then she put her arm on my shoulder and after that everything went hazy. All I could see in front of me was a blockage, an obstacle to overcome.
Shaw is looking down at her notes. It will all be there, every last detail of that wretched day.
‘You hit her across the face,’ says Shaw.
I stare at the table.
‘And your colleagues had to intervene?’
‘I believe so, yes. I was upset.’
I was aware of the others rushing to her aid but they were like ants, tiny dots on the periphery of my consciousness.
‘Harry Vine says you are one of the finest journalists he has ever worked with.’
I look up at her. So she has spoken to him. Harry, my editor.
‘He speaks very highly of you,’ continues Shaw. ‘Despite your actions that day.’
‘Yes,’ I stammer. ‘He’s a good man. One of the best.’
As I speak I try to order my thoughts. Harry knows I’m being held under the Mental Health Act. My life is over. My career is over. What will I do?
‘You’ve known him a long time?’
‘Around fifteen years.’
‘Fifteen years,’ says Shaw, raising her eyebrows. ‘The same length of time you’ve been taking sleeping pills.’
I smile ruefully.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I hadn’t thought about that before.’
‘What did Harry say to you in the office after your outburst?’ asks Shaw.
I wince as I recall Harry’s face as he brewed a strong coffee and handed it to me. His hands were trembling and he looked, for just a moment, scared of me.
‘He . . . he just asked if I was okay.’
I don’t tell her that he threatened to suspend me and that I begged him not to on account of my upcoming assignment to Syria. I was lucky. His hands were tied. He knew I was the only person who could get into Aleppo. He had no choice.
‘Rachel Hadley could have called the police.’
I look at Shaw and it is then I notice how similar she and Hadley are; the same blonde bobbed hair, the same sibilant voice. They could be sisters.
‘Yes, she could,’ I reply. ‘But she didn’t.’
‘Harry says he told you to take the rest of the week off.’
‘Yes, he did,’ I say. ‘And he was great about it. I’m sorry, truly sorry for what happened to Rachel. I don’t like the girl but I shouldn’t have hit her. I do know that.’
‘And can you tell me what happened when you left the office?’
I look at the papers in her hand and my mouth goes dry. She can’t know. It’s not possible.
‘Kate?’
‘I’m sorry . . . My head is spinning. I just need a second . . .’
I jump up from my seat and walk to the tiny window, placing the palm of my hand on the glass. Behind me Dr Shaw shuffles in her seat and as I watch the light fading over the car park I try to blink away the memory of that night.
‘Kate, are you okay?’
Her voice merges with the others in my head and as I stand looking out at the grey expanse of concrete and the bleak sea below I think of my mother and how she implored me to get out of this town and make a better life for myself. And I did it. I got away, as far away as possible. But now I’m trapped in its clutches again. And I know that this time there is no escape.
8
Tuesday 14 April 2015
The graveyard is deserted when we arrive and I hang back while Paul walks on ahead of me through the ornate wrought-iron gates.
‘It’s this way,’ he calls as I stand on the path, clutching a posy of irises to my chest.
‘Yes, I know,’ I reply, and as I step inside the gates my stomach grows heavy with dread.
‘I hate this place,’ I say, catching up with Paul. ‘Always have.’
He smiles and pats my shoulder.
‘We don’t have to stay long,’ he says, his voice upbeat. ‘Whenever you want we can get out of here.’
‘I just want to see her,’ I reply as we weave in and out of the gravestones. ‘I want to see my mum.’