‘It must have been strange coming back to Herne Bay after all that time.’
Shaw’s voice brings me hurtling back to the present.
‘Yes.’
‘I understand you’ve been staying in your childhood home,’ she continues.
I nod my head and instinctively start to pick at my arm. The cuts are beginning to scab and they sting. I close my eyes and imagine painkillers and a large glass of Chablis, knowing that neither will be forthcoming. Shaw notices my rubbing and frowns at the lacerations that zigzag up my arm.
‘That looks painful,’ she says.
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, folding my arm into my chest defensively.
‘How did you do it?’
‘I said it’s nothing.’
She looks at me for a few seconds, then seems to make the decision to carry on.
‘And your father, is he still alive?’
She must already know this too. ‘No,’ I reply. ‘Thankfully not.’
‘Why thankfully?’
‘Because he was a violent drunk,’ I reply. ‘I hated him and he hated me.’
‘Why did you hate him?’
‘Because he treated my mum like a punchbag.’
I pause. I’ve said too much again.
‘Look, I appreciate the therapy session but what’s this got to do with anything? I understand how this works, Dr Shaw. I interrogate people for a living. But the issue is not with me – it’s with her.’
‘Kate, I just need you to be honest,’ she says, folding her arms across her chest. ‘These questions will help us get as clear a picture as possible of what has led to your being here. Do you understand?’
Reluctantly, I nod my head.
‘We can take a break at any point,’ she says lightly, as though addressing a recalcitrant toddler. ‘Just say and we can pause.’
‘No,’ I snap. ‘I’m fine. Let’s just carry on.’
‘Okay,’ she says, shuffling in her seat.
She looks flustered for a moment and this pleases me. For a few moments I am the one in control.
‘You said your father was violent and that he hated you. Why did he hate you?’
‘I have no idea,’ I reply. ‘Maybe I reminded him of my mother who he also hated. Look, my parents had lost a child, my little brother, and it broke them. My mother dealt with her grief by cosseting me while my father just got angrier and angrier. He blamed my mother for my brother’s death. He was an alcoholic and when he was drunk he would lash out.’
‘Why did he blame your mother for the child’s death?’
‘I have no idea. It was his way of coping, I guess.’
‘How did your brother die?’
‘An accident,’ I reply brusquely. I’ve had years of practising this response whenever well-meaning people ask. ‘He drowned.’
‘And your mother was with him?’
I hear screaming. From the corridor? I’m not sure. I look at Shaw but she hasn’t heard it. My heart is racing and I try to remember what they told me the last time this happened. Breathing. I have to focus on my breathing. I close my eyes and slowly exhale, aware that Shaw is waiting for me to answer.
‘Kate?’
I open my eyes and take a deep inhalation of clammy air.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say as I breathe out. ‘I’d rather not talk about that. It was a long time ago and it has nothing to do with why I’m here.’
‘Okay,’ says Shaw. ‘What about your sister, Paul’s wife Sally – did your father hit her too?’
I shake my head.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Are you and your sister close?’
‘No, we’re not.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Is anyone close to their sister? Are you close to yours?’
‘I’m an only child,’ says Shaw.
‘Lucky you,’ I reply snarkily.
‘I was asking about your sister, Kate.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I exclaim, shaking my head. ‘Why aren’t we close? I have no idea. I guess our lives are just very different.’
Shaw nods her head and scribbles something down. As I watch her I think of the last time I saw Sally, her face contorted as she yelled at me. You swan in here when I haven’t seen you in years and think you can start telling me what to do? We’re not kids any more, Kate. I make my own decisions now.
‘In what way?’ continues Shaw. ‘In what way are your lives different?’
‘In every way.’
I think of the email that landed in my inbox as I sat huddled in a Syrian basement: Mum’s dead. Thought you should know.
One line. That’s all Sally could give me. One terse line that told me my mother, who I loved beyond words, was gone.
Bitch.
‘What was that, Kate?’
I look up at Shaw, the memory of that email coursing through my head. Did I say that out loud?
‘My sister is not a particularly pleasant person, Dr Shaw,’ I say. ‘We don’t get along. Can we just leave it at that?’
4
Monday 13 April 2015
Paul stands on the step with a beaming smile. He’s holding a carrier bag.