بخش 4-1

PART FOUR

The aim of therapy is not to correct the past, but to enable the patient to confront his own history, and to grieve over it.

—ALICE MILLER

CHAPTER ONE

I CLOSED ALICIA’S DIARY and placed it on my desk.

I sat there, not moving, listening to the rain pelting outside the window. I tried to make sense of what I had just read. There was obviously a great deal more to Alicia Berenson than I had supposed. She had been like a closed book to me; now that book was open and its contents had taken me altogether by surprise.

I had a lot of questions. Alicia suspected she was being watched. Did she ever discover the man’s identity? Did she tell anyone? I needed to find out. As far as I knew, she only confided in three people—Gabriel, Barbie, and this mysterious Dr. West. Did she stop there, or did she tell anyone else? Another question. Why did the diary end so abruptly? Was there more, written elsewhere? Another notebook, which she didn’t give to me? And I wondered about Alicia’s purpose in giving me the journal to read. She was communicating something, certainly—and it was a communication of almost shocking intimacy. Was it a gesture of good faith—showing how much she trusted me? Or something more sinister?

There was something else; something I needed to check. Dr. West—the doctor who had treated Alicia. An important character witness, with vital information on her state of mind at the time of the murder. Yet Dr. West hadn’t testified at Alicia’s trial. Why not? No mention was made of him at all. Until I saw his name in her diary, it was as if he didn’t exist. How much did he know? Why had he not come forward?

Dr. West.

It couldn’t be the same man. It had to be a coincidence, surely. I needed to find out.

I put the diary in my desk drawer, locking it. Then, almost immediately, I changed my mind. I unlocked the drawer and took out the diary. Better keep it on me—safer not to let it out of my sight. I slipped it into the pocket of my coat and slung it over my arm.

I left my office. I went downstairs and walked along the corridor until I reached a door at the end.

I stood there for a moment, looking at it. A name was inscribed on a small sign on the door: DR. C. WEST.

I didn’t bother to knock. I opened the door and went inside.

CHAPTER TWO

CHRISTIAN WAS SITTING BEHIND HIS DESK, eating takeaway sushi with chopsticks. He looked up and frowned.

“Don’t you know how to knock?”

“I need a word.”

“Not now, I’m in the middle of lunch.”

“This won’t take long. Just a quick question. Did you ever treat Alicia Berenson?” Christian swallowed a mouthful of rice and gave me a blank look. “What do you mean? You know I do. I’m in charge of her care team.” “I don’t mean here—I mean before she was admitted to the Grove.” I watched Christian closely. His expression told me all I needed to know. His face went red and he lowered the chopsticks.

“What are you talking about?”

I took out Alicia’s diary from my pocket and held it up.

“You might be interested in this. It’s Alicia’s journal. It was written in the months leading up to the murder. I’ve read it.” Christian looked surprised and a little alarmed. “Where the hell did you get that?” “Alicia gave it to me. I’ve read it.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

“She mentions you in it.”

“Me?”

“Apparently you were seeing her privately before she was admitted to the Grove. I wasn’t aware of that.” “I—don’t understand. There must be some mistake.” “I don’t think so. You saw her as a private patient over several years. And yet you didn’t come forward to testify at the trial—despite the importance of your evidence. Nor did you admit you already knew Alicia when you started working here. Presumably she recognized you straightaway—it’s lucky for you she’s silent.” I said this drily, but I was intensely angry. Now I understood why Christian was so against my trying to get Alicia to talk. It was in his every interest to keep her quiet.

“You’re a selfish son of a bitch, Christian, you know that?” Christian stared at me with an increasing look of dismay. “Fuck,” he said under his breath. “Fuck. Theo. Listen—it’s not what it looks like.” “Isn’t it?”

“What else does it say in the diary?”

“What else is there to say?”

Christian didn’t answer the question. He held out his hand. “Can I have a look at it?” “Sorry.” I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.” Christian played with his chopsticks as he spoke. “I shouldn’t have done it. But it was entirely innocent. You’ve got to believe me.” “I’m afraid I don’t. If it were innocent, why didn’t you come forward after the murder?” “Because I wasn’t really Alicia’s doctor—I mean, not officially. I only did it as a favor to Gabriel. We were friends. We were at university together. I was at their wedding. I hadn’t seen him for years—until he called me, looking for a psychiatrist for his wife. She’d become unwell following her father’s death.” “And you volunteered your services?”

“No, not at all. Quite the reverse. I wanted to refer him to a colleague, but he insisted I see her. Gabriel said Alicia was extremely resistant to the whole idea, and the fact I was a friend of his made it much more likely she’d cooperate. I was reluctant, obviously.” “I’m sure you were.”

Christian shot me a hurt look. “There’s no need to be sarcastic.” “Where did you treat her?”

He hesitated. “My girlfriend’s house. But as I told you,” he said quickly, “it was unofficial—I wasn’t really her doctor. I rarely saw her. Every now and then, that’s all.” “And on those rare occasions, did you charge a fee?” Christian blinked and avoided my gaze. “Well, Gabriel insisted on paying, so I had no choice—” “Cash, I presume?”

“Theo—”

“Was it cash?”

“Yes, but—”

“And did you declare it?”

Christian bit his lip and didn’t reply. So the answer was no. That was why he hadn’t come forward at Alicia’s trial. I wondered how many other patients he was seeing “unofficially” and not declaring the income from them.

“Look. If Diomedes finds out, I—I could lose my job. You know that, don’t you?” His voice had a pleading note, appealing to my sympathy.

But I had no sympathy for Christian. Only contempt. “Never mind the professor. What about the Medical Council? You’ll lose your license.” “Only if you say something. You don’t need to tell anyone. It’s all water under the bridge at this point, isn’t it? I mean, it’s my career we’re talking about, for fuck’s sake.” “You should have thought of that before, shouldn’t you?” “Theo, please…”

Christian must have hated having to crawl to me like this, but watching him squirm provided me with no satisfaction, only irritation. I had no intention of betraying him to Diomedes—not yet anyway. He’d be much more use to me if I kept him dangling.

“It’s okay,” I said. “No one else needs to know. For the moment.” “Thank you. Seriously, I mean it. I owe you one.” “Yes, you do. Go on.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to talk. I want you to tell me about Alicia.” “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

CHAPTER THREE

CHRISTIAN STARED AT ME, playing with his chopsticks. He deliberated for a few seconds before he spoke.

“There’s not much to tell. I don’t know what you want to hear—or where you want me to start.” “Start at the beginning. You saw her over a number of years?” “No—I mean, yes—but I told you, not as frequently as you make it sound. I saw her two or three times after her father died.” “When was the last time?”

“About a week before the murder.”

“And how would you describe her mental state?”

“Oh…” Christian leaned back in his chair, relaxing now that he was on safer ground. “She was highly paranoid, delusional—psychotic, even. But she’d been like this before. She had a long-standing pattern of mood swings. She was always up and down—typical borderline.” “Spare me the fucking diagnosis. Just give me the facts.” Christian gave me a wounded look but decided not to argue. “What do you want to know?” “Alicia confided in you she was being watched, correct?” Christian gave me a blank look. “Watched?”

“Someone was spying on her. I thought she told you about it?” Christian looked at me strangely. Then, to my surprise, he laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“You don’t really believe that, do you? The Peeping Tom spying through the windows?” “You don’t think it’s true?”

“Pure fantasy. I should have thought that was obvious.” I nodded at the diary. “She writes about it pretty convincingly. I believed her.” “Well, of course she sounded convincing. I’d have believed her too if I hadn’t known better. She was having a psychotic episode.” “So you keep saying. She doesn’t sound psychotic in the diary. Just scared.” “She had a history—the same thing happened at the place they lived before Hampstead. That’s why they had to move. She accused an elderly man across the street of spying on her. Made a huge fuss. Turned out the old guy was blind—couldn’t even see her, let alone spy on her. She was always highly unstable, but it was her father’s suicide that did it. She never recovered.” “Did she talk about him with you at all? Her father?” Christian shrugged. “Not really. She would always insist that she loved him and they had a very normal relationship—as normal as it could be, considering her mother killed herself. To be honest, I was lucky to get anything out of Alicia at all. She was pretty uncooperative. She was—well, you know what she’s like.” “Not as well as you, apparently.” I went on before he could interrupt, “She attempted suicide after her father’s death?” Christian shrugged. “If you like. That’s not what I would call it.” “What would you call it?”

“It was suicidal behavior, but I don’t believe she intended to die. She was too narcissistic to ever really want to hurt herself. She took an overdose, more for show than anything else. She was ‘communicating’ her distress to Gabriel—she was always trying to get his attention, poor bastard. If I hadn’t had to respect her confidentiality, I’d have warned him to get the hell out.” “How unfortunate for him that you’re such an ethical man.” Christian winced. “Theo, I know you’re a very empathetic man—that’s what makes you such a good therapist—but you’re wasting your time with Alicia Berenson. Even before the murder, she had precious little capacity for introspection or mentalizing or whatever you want to call it. She was entirely consumed with herself and her art. All the empathy you have for her, all the kindness—she isn’t capable of giving it back. She’s a lost cause. A total bitch.” Christian said this scornfully—and with absolutely no detectable empathy for such a damaged woman. For a second, I wondered if perhaps Christian was borderline, not Alicia. That would make a lot more sense.

I stood up. “I’m going to see Alicia. I need some answers.” “From Alicia?” Christian looked startled. “And how do you intend to get them?” “By asking her.”

I walked out.

CHAPTER FOUR

I WAITED UNTIL AFTER DIOMEDES DISAPPEARED into his office and Stephanie was in a meeting with the Trust. Then I slipped into the goldfish bowl and found Yuri.

“I need to see Alicia.”

“Oh, yes?” Yuri gave me an odd look. “But—I thought the therapy was discontinued?” “It was. I need to have a private conversation with her, that’s all.” “Right, I see.” Yuri looked doubtful. “Well, the therapy room is occupied—Indira is seeing patients there for the rest of the afternoon.” He thought for a second. “The art room is free, if you don’t mind meeting there? It’ll have to be quick, though.” He didn’t elaborate but I knew what he meant—we had to be fast, so no one noticed and reported us to Stephanie. I was grateful Yuri was on my side; he was obviously a good man. I felt guilty for having misjudged him when we first met.

“Thanks. I appreciate this.”

Yuri grinned at me. “I’ll have her there in ten minutes.” * * *

Yuri was as good as his word. Ten minutes later, Alicia and I were in the art room, sitting opposite each other, across the paint-splattered work surface.

I perched on a rickety stool, feeling precarious. Alicia looked perfectly poised as she sat down—as if she were posing for a portrait, or about to paint one.

“Thank you for this.” I took out her diary and placed it in front of me. “For allowing me to read it. It means a great deal to me that you entrusted me with something so personal.” I smiled, only to be met by a blank expression. Alicia’s features were hard and unyielding. I wondered if she regretted giving me the diary. Perhaps she felt a sense of shame at having exposed herself so completely?

I left a pause, then went on, “The diary ends abruptly, on a cliff-hanger.” I flicked through the journal’s remaining empty pages. “It’s a little like our therapy together—incomplete, unfinished.” Alicia didn’t speak. She just stared. I don’t know what I’d expected, but not this. I’d assumed giving me the diary signaled a change of some kind, representing an invitation, an opening, an entry point, yet here I was, back at square one, faced with an impenetrable wall.

“You know, I hoped that having spoken to me indirectly—through these pages—that you might go one step further and speak to me in person.” No response.

“I think you gave this to me because you wanted to communicate with me. And you did communicate. Reading this told me a great deal about you—how lonely you were, how isolated, how afraid—that your situation was a lot more complicated than I had previously appreciated. Your relationship with Dr. West, for instance.” I glanced at her as I said Christian’s name. I hoped for some kind of reaction, a narrowing of the eyes, a clenched jaw—something, anything—but there was nothing, not even a blink.

“I had no idea you knew Christian West before you were admitted to the Grove. You saw him privately for several years. You obviously recognized him when he first came to work here—a few months after your arrival. It must have been confusing when he didn’t acknowledge you. And probably quite upsetting, I imagine?” I asked it as a question, but there was no reply. Christian seemed of little interest to her. Alicia looked away, bored, disappointed—as if I had missed some opportunity, gone down the wrong track. She had been expecting something from me, something I had failed to deliver.

Well, I wasn’t done yet.

“There’s something else. The diary raises certain questions—questions that need answering. Certain things don’t make sense, don’t fit with information I have from other sources. Now that you’ve allowed me to read it, I feel obliged to investigate further. I hope you understand that.” I gave Alicia back the diary. She took it and rested her fingers on it. We stared at each other for a moment.

“I’m on your side, Alicia,” I said eventually. “You know that, don’t you?” She didn’t say anything.

I took that as a yes.

CHAPTER FIVE

KATHY WAS GETTING CARELESS. It was inevitable, I suppose. Having gotten away with her infidelity for so long, she started getting lazy.

I returned home to find her about to go out.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said, pulling on her trainers. “I won’t be long.” “I could use some exercise. Fancy some company?” “No, I need to practice my lines.”

“I can test you on them if you like.”

“No.” Kathy shook her head. “It’s easier on my own. I just keep reciting the speeches—the ones I can’t get my head around, you know, the ones in act two. I walk around the park, repeating them aloud. You should see the looks I get.” I had to give it to her. Kathy said all of this with perfect sincerity, while maintaining constant eye contact. She was a remarkable actress.

My acting was also improving. I gave her a warm, open smile. “Have a nice walk.” I followed her after she left the flat. I kept a careful distance, but she didn’t even look back once. As I said, she was getting careless.

She walked for about five minutes, to the entrance of the park. As she neared it, a man emerged from the shadows. He had his back to me and I couldn’t see his face. He had dark hair and was well built, taller than me. She went up to him and he pulled her close. They started kissing. Kathy devoured his kisses hungrily, surrendering herself to him. It was strange—to say the least—to see another man’s arms around her. His hands groped and fondled her breasts through her clothes.

I knew I should hide. I was exposed and in plain sight—if Kathy turned around, she’d be sure to see me. But I couldn’t move. I was transfixed, staring at a Medusa, turned to stone.

Eventually they stopped kissing and walked into the park, arm in arm. I followed. It was disorienting. From behind, from a distance, the man didn’t look dissimilar to me—for a few seconds I had a confused, out-of-body experience, convinced I was watching myself walking in the park with Kathy.

Kathy led the man toward a wooded area. He followed her into it and they vanished.

I felt a sick feeling of dread in my stomach. My breathing was thick, slow, heavy. Every part of my body was telling me to leave, go, run, run away. But I didn’t. I followed them into the woods.

I tried to make as little noise as possible, but twigs crunched under my feet, and branches clawed at me. I couldn’t see them anywhere—the trees grew so closely together that I could only see a few feet in front of me.

I stopped and listened. I heard a rustling in the trees, but it could have been the wind. Then I heard something unmistakable, a low-pitched guttural sound I recognized at once.

It was Kathy moaning.

I tried to get closer, but the branches caught me and held me suspended, like a fly in a web. I stood there in the dim light, breathing in the musty smell of bark and earth. I listened to Kathy moaning as he fucked her. He grunted like an animal.

I burned with hate. This man had come from nowhere and invaded my life. He had stolen and seduced and corrupted the one thing in the world that was precious to me. It was monstrous—supernatural. Perhaps he wasn’t human at all, but the instrument of some malevolent deity intent on punishing me. Was God punishing me? Why? What was I guilty of—except falling in love? Was it that I loved too deeply, too needily? Too much?

Did this man love her? I doubted it. Not the way I did. He was just using her; using her body. There was no way he cared for her as I did. I would have died for Kathy.

I would have killed for her.

I thought of my father—I knew what he’d do in this situation. He’d murder the guy. Be a man, I could hear my father shouting. Toughen up. Was that what I should do? Kill him? Dispose of him? It was a way out of this mess—a way to break the spell, release Kathy and set us free. Once she had grieved his loss, it would be over, he’d just be a memory, easily forgotten, and we could go on as before. I could do it now, here, in the park. I’d drag him into the pond, plunge his head underwater. I’d hold it there until his body convulsed and went limp in my arms. Or I could follow him home on the tube, stand right behind him on the platform, and—with a sharp shove—push him in the path of an oncoming train. Or creep up behind him on a deserted street, clutching a brick, and bash out his brains. Why not?

Kathy’s moans grew louder suddenly, and I recognized the groans she made as she climaxed. Then there was a silence … interrupted by a muffled giggle I knew so well. I could hear the snapping of twigs as they tramped out of the woods.

I waited for a few moments. Then I snapped the branches around me and fought my way out of the trees, tearing and scratching my hands to shreds.

When I emerged from the wood, my eyes were half-blind with tears. I wiped them away with a bleeding fist.

I lurched off, going nowhere. I walked round and round like a madman.

CHAPTER SIX

“JEAN-FELIX?”

No one was at the reception desk, and no one came when I called. I hesitated for a moment, then went into the gallery.

I walked along the corridor to where the Alcestis was hanging. Once again, I looked at the painting. Once again, I tried to read it, and again I failed. Something about the picture defied interpretation—or else it had some kind of meaning that I had yet to comprehend. But what?

Then—a sharp intake of breath as I noticed something. Behind Alicia, in the darkness, if you squinted and looked hard at the painting, the darkest parts of the shadows came together—like a hologram that goes from two dimensions to three when you look at it from a certain angle—and a shape burst forth from the shadows … the figure of a man. A man—hiding in the dark. Watching. Spying on Alicia.

“What do you want?”

The voice made me jump. I turned around.

Jean-Felix didn’t look particularly pleased to see me. “What are you doing here?” I was about to point out the figure of the man in the painting and ask Jean-Felix about it, but I something told me it might be a bad idea.

Instead I smiled. “I just had a couple more questions. Is now a good time?” “Not really. I’ve told you everything I know. Surely there can’t be anything else?” “Actually, some new information has come up.”

“And what is that?”

“Well, for one thing, I didn’t know Alicia was planning on leaving your gallery.” There was a second’s pause before Jean-Felix answered. His voice sounded tight, like a rubber band about to snap.

“What are you talking about?”

“Is it true?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Alicia is my patient. It’s my intention to get her talking again—but I see now it might be in your interest if she remains silent.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, as long as no one knows of her wish to leave, you can hold on to her artwork indefinitely.” “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you at all. Merely stating a fact.” Jean-Felix laughed. “We’ll see about that. I’ll be contacting my lawyer—and making a formal complaint to the hospital.” “I don’t think you will.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, you see, I haven’t told you how I heard Alicia was planning to leave.” “Whoever told you was lying.”

“It was Alicia.”

“What?” Jean-Felix looked stunned. “You mean … she spoke?” “In a way. She gave me her diary to read.”

“Her—diary?” He blinked a few times, as if he was having trouble processing the information. “I didn’t know Alicia kept a diary.” “Well, she did. She describes your last few meetings in some detail.” I didn’t say anything else. I didn’t need to. There was a heavy pause. Jean-Felix was silent.

“I’ll be in touch,” I said. I smiled and walked out.

As I emerged onto the Soho street, I felt a little guilty for ruffling Jean-Felix’s feathers like that. But it had been intentional—I wanted to see what effect the provocation would have, how he’d react, what he would do.

Now I had to wait and see.

As I walked through Soho, I phoned Alicia’s cousin, Paul Rose, to let him know I was coming. I didn’t want to turn up at the house unannounced and risk a similar reception to last time. The bruise on my head still hadn’t fully healed.

I cradled the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I lit a cigarette. I barely had time to inhale before the phone was answered, on the first ring. I hoped it would be Paul, not Lydia. I was in luck.

“Hello?”

“Paul. It’s Theo Faber.”

“Oh. Hello, mate. Sorry I’m whispering. Mum’s having her nap, and I don’t want to disturb her. How’s your head?” “Much better, thanks.”

“Good, good. How can I help?”

“Well, I’ve received some new information about Alicia. I wanted to talk to you about it.” “What kind of information?”

I told him that Alicia had given me her diary to read.

“Her diary? I didn’t know she kept one. What does it say?” “It might be easier to talk in person. Are you free today at all?” Paul hesitated. “It might be better if you don’t come to the house. Mother isn’t … well, she wasn’t too happy about your last visit.” “Yes, I gathered that.”

“There’s a pub at the end of the road, by the roundabout. The White Bear—” “Yes, I remember it. That sounds fine. What time?” “Around five? I should be able to get away then for a bit.” I heard Lydia shouting in the background. Evidently she had woken up.

“I have to go. I’ll see you later.” Paul hung up.

A few hours later, I was on my way back to Cambridge. On the train, I made another phone call—to Max Berenson. I hesitated before calling. He’d already complained to Diomedes once, so he wouldn’t be pleased to hear from me again. But I knew I had no choice.

Tanya answered. Her cold sounded better, but I could hear the tension in her voice when she realized who I was. “I don’t think—I mean, Max is busy. He’s in meetings all day.” “I’ll call back.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I—”

I could hear Max in the background saying something, and Tanya’s reply: “I’m not saying that, Max.” Max grabbed the phone and spoke to me directly: “I just told Tanya to tell you to fuck off.” “Ah.”

“You’ve got a nerve calling here again. I already complained once to Professor Diomedes.” “Yes, I’m aware of that. Nonetheless some new information has come to light, and it concerns you directly—so I felt I had no choice but to get in touch.” “What information?”

“It’s a journal Alicia kept in the weeks leading up to the murder.” There was silence at the other end of the line. I hesitated.

“Alicia writes about you in some detail, Max. She said you had romantic feelings for her. I was wondering if—” There was a click as he hung up. So far so good. Max had taken the bait—and now I had to wait to see how he’d react.

I realized I was a little afraid of Max Berenson, just as Tanya was afraid of him. I remembered her whispered advice to me, to talk to Paul, to ask him something—what? Something about the night after the accident that killed Alicia’s mother. I remembered the look on Tanya’s face when Max had appeared, how she fell silent and presented him with a smile. No, I thought, Max Berenson was not to be underestimated.

That would be a dangerous mistake.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AS THE TRAIN APPROACHED CAMBRIDGE, the landscape flattened and the temperature dropped. I did up my coat as I left the station. The wind cut into my face like a volley of icy razor blades. I made my way to the pub to meet Paul.

The White Bear was a ramshackle old place—it looked as if several extensions had been added onto the original structure over the years. A couple of students were braving the wind, sitting outside with their pints in the beer garden, wrapped up in scarves, smoking. Inside, the temperature was much warmer, thanks to several roaring fires, which provided a welcome relief from the cold.

I got a drink and looked around for Paul. Several small rooms led off from the main bar and the lighting was low. I peered at the figures in the shadows, unsuccessfully trying to spot him. A good place for an illicit rendezvous, I thought. Which, I suppose, is what this was.

I found Paul alone in a small room. He was facing away from the door, sitting by the fire. I recognized him at once, on account of his sheer size. His huge back nearly blocked the fire from sight.

“Paul?”

He jumped up and turned around. He looked like a giant in the tiny room. He had to stoop slightly to avoid hitting the ceiling.

“All right?” he said. He looked like he was bracing himself for bad news from a doctor. He made some room for me, and I sat down in front of the fire, relieved to feel its warmth on my face and hands.

“It’s colder than London here. That wind doesn’t help.” “Comes straight from Siberia, that’s what they say.” Paul continued without pausing, clearly in no mood for small talk, “What’s this about a diary? I never knew Alicia kept a diary.” “Well, she did.”

“And she gave it to you?”

I nodded.

“And? What does it say?”

“It specifically details the last couple of months before the murder. And there are couple of discrepancies I wanted to ask you about.” “What discrepancies?”

“Between your account of events and hers.”

“What are you talking about?” He put down his pint and gave me a long stare. “What do you mean?” “Well, for one thing, you told me you hadn’t seen Alicia for several years before the murder.” Paul hesitated. “Did I?”

“And the diary, Alicia says she saw you a few weeks before Gabriel was killed. She says you came to the house in Hampstead.” I stared at him, sensing him deflate inside. He looked like a boy suddenly, in a body that was much too big for him. Paul was afraid, it was obvious. He didn’t reply for moment. He shot me a furtive glance.

“Can I have a look? At the diary?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think that would be appropriate. Anyway, I didn’t bring it with me.” “Then how do I even know it exists? You could be lying.” “I’m not lying. But you were—you lied to me, Paul. Why?” “It’s none of your business, that’s why.”

“I’m afraid it is my business. Alicia’s well-being is my concern.” “Her well-being has got nothing to do with it. I didn’t hurt her.” “I never said you did.”

“Well, then.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Paul shrugged. “It’s a long story.” He hesitated, then gave in. He spoke quickly, breathlessly. I sensed his relief at finally telling someone. “I was in a bad way. I had a problem, you know—I was gambling and borrowing money, and not able to pay it back. I needed some cash to … to put everyone straight.” “And so you asked Alicia? Did she give you the money?” “What does the diary say?”

“It doesn’t.”

Paul hesitated, then shook his head. “No, she didn’t give me anything. She said she couldn’t afford to.” Again he was lying. Why?

“How did you get the money, then?”

“I—I took it out of my savings. I’d appreciate it if you kept this between us—I don’t want my mother to find out.” “I don’t think there’s any reason to involve Lydia in this.” “Really?” Some color came back into Paul’s expression. He looked more hopeful. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” “Did Alicia ever tell you she suspected she was being watched?” Paul lowered his glass and gave me a puzzled look. I could see she hadn’t. “Watched? What do you mean?” I told him the story I had read in the diary—about Alicia’s suspicions she was being watched by a stranger, and finally her fears that she was under attack in her own home.

Paul shook his head. “She wasn’t right in the head.” “You think she imagined it?”

“Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it?” Paul shrugged. “You don’t think someone was stalking her? I mean, I suppose it’s possible—” “Yes, it is possible. So I presume she said nothing to you about it?” “Not a word. But Alicia and I never talked much, you know. She was always pretty silent. We all were, as a family. I remember Alicia saying how weird it was—she’d go to friends’ houses and see other families laugh and joke and have conversations about things, and our house was so silent. We never talked. Apart from my mum, giving orders.” “And what about Alicia’s father? Vernon? What was he like?” “Vernon didn’t really talk much. He wasn’t right in the head—not after Eva died. He was never the same after that. Neither was Alicia, come to that.” “That reminds me. There was something I wanted to ask you—something Tanya mentioned to me.” “Tanya Berenson? You spoke to her?”

“Only briefly. She suggested I talk to you.”

“Tanya did?” Paul’s cheeks colored. “I—I don’t know her well, but she’s always been very kind to me. She’s a good, very good person. She visited me and Mum a couple of times.” A smile appeared on Paul’s lips and he looked far away for a moment.

He has a crush on her, I thought. I wondered how Max felt about that.

“What did Tanya say?” he asked.

“She suggested I ask you about something—that happened the night after the car accident. She didn’t go into detail.” “Yes, I know what she means—I told her during the trial. I asked her not tell to anyone.” “She didn’t tell me. It’s up to you to tell me. If you wish to. Of course, if you don’t want to…” Paul drained his pint and shrugged. “It’s probably nothing, but—it might help you understand Alicia. She…” He hesitated and fell silent.

“Go on.”

“Alicia … the first thing Alicia did, when she got home from the hospital—they kept her in for a night after the crash—was she climbed up onto the roof of the house. I did too. We sat up there all night, pretty much. We used to go there all the time, Alicia and me. It was our secret place.” “On the roof?”

Paul hesitated. He looked at me for a second, deliberating. He made a decision.

“Come on.” He stood up. “I’ll show you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE HOUSE WAS IN DARKNESS as we approached.

“Here it is,” Paul said. “Follow me.”

An iron ladder was attached to the side of the house. We made our way over to it. The mud was frozen beneath our feet, sculpted into hard ripples and ridges. Without waiting for me, Paul started climbing up.

It was getting colder by the minute. I was wondering if this was such a good idea. I followed him and gripped the first rung—icy and slippery. It was overgrown with some kind of climbing plant; ivy, perhaps.

I made my way up, rung by rung. By the time I reached the top, my fingers were numb and the wind was slashing my face. I climbed over, onto the roof. Paul was waiting for me, grinning in an excited, adolescent way. The razor-thin moon hung above us; the rest was darkness.

Suddenly Paul rushed at me, a strange expression on his face. I felt a flicker of panic as his arm reached out toward me—I swerved to avoid it, but he grabbed hold of me. For a terrifying second I thought he was going to throw me off the roof.

Instead he pulled me toward him. “You’re too close to the edge. Stay in the middle here. It’s safer.” I nodded, catching my breath. This was a bad idea. I didn’t feel remotely safe around Paul. I was about to suggest climbing down again—then he pulled out his cigarettes and offered me one. I hesitated, then I accepted. My fingers were shaking as I took out my lighter and lit the cigarettes.

We stood there and smoked in silence for a moment.

“This is where we would sit. Alicia and me. Every day, pretty much.” “How old were you?”

“I was about seven, maybe eight. Alicia couldn’t have been more than ten.” “You were a bit young to be climbing ladders.”

“I suppose so. Seemed normal to us. When we were teenagers, we’d come up and smoke and drink beers.” I tried to picture a teenage Alicia, hiding from her father and her bullying aunt; Paul, her adoring younger cousin, following up the ladder, pestering her when she’d much rather be silent, alone with her thoughts.

“It’s a good hiding place,” I said.

Paul nodded. “Uncle Vernon couldn’t make it up the ladder. He had a big build, like Mum.” “I could barely make it up myself. That ivy is a death trap.” “It’s not ivy, it’s jasmine.” Paul looked at the green vines that curled over the top of the ladder. “No flowers yet—not until the spring. Smells like perfume then, when there’s a lot of it.” He seemed lost in a memory for a moment. “Funny that.” “What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged. “The things you remember … I just was thinking about the jasmine—it was in full bloom that day, the day of the accident, when Eva was killed.” I looked around. “You and Alicia came up here together, you said?” He nodded. “Mum and Uncle Vernon were looking for us down there. We could hear them calling. But we didn’t say a word. We stayed hiding. And that’s when it happened.” He stubbed out his cigarette and gave me an odd smile. “That’s why I brought you here. So you can see it—the scene of the crime.” “The crime?”

Paul didn’t answer, just kept grinning at me.

“What crime, Paul?”

“Vernon’s crime. Uncle Vernon wasn’t a good man, you see. No, not at all.” “What are you trying to say?”

“Well, that’s when he did it.”

“Did what?”

“That’s when he killed Alicia.”

I stared at Paul, unable to believe my ears. “Killed Alicia? What are you talking about?” Paul pointed at the ground below. “Uncle Vernon was down there with Mum. He was drunk. Mum kept trying to get him to go back inside. But he stood down there, yelling for Alicia. He was so angry with her. He was so mad.” “Because Alicia was hiding? But—she was a child—her mother had just died.” “He was a mean bastard. The only person he ever cared about was Auntie Eva. I suppose that’s why he said it.” “Did what?” I was losing patience. “I don’t understand what you’re saying to me. What exactly happened?” “Vernon was going on about how much he loved Eva—how he couldn’t live without her. ‘My girl,’ he kept saying, ‘my poor girl, my Eva … Why did she have to die? Why did it have to be her? Why didn’t Alicia die instead?’” I stared at Paul for a second, stunned. I wasn’t sure I understood. “’Why didn’t Alicia die instead?’” “That’s what he said.”

“Alicia heard this?”

“Yeah. And Alicia whispered something to me—I’ll never forget it. ‘He killed me,’ she said. ‘Dad just—killed me.’” I stared at Paul, speechless. A chorus of bells started ringing in my head, clanging, chiming, reverberating. This was what I’d been looking for. I’d found it, the missing piece of the jigsaw, at last—here on a roof in Cambridge.

All the way back to London, I kept thinking about the implications of what I had heard. I understood now why Alcestis had struck a chord with Alicia. Just as Admetus had physically condemned Alcestis to die, so had Vernon Rose psychically condemned his daughter to death. Admetus must have loved Alcestis, on some level, but there was no love in Vernon Rose, just hate. He had committed psychic infanticide—and Alicia knew it.

“He killed me,” she said. “Dad just killed me.” Now, at last, I had something to work with. Something I knew about—the emotional effects of psychological wounds on children, and how they manifest themselves later in adults. Imagine it—hearing your father, the very person you depend upon for your survival, wishing you dead. How terrifying that must be for a child, how traumatizing—how your sense of self-worth would implode, and the pain would be too great, too huge to feel, so you’d swallow it, repress it, bury it. Over time you would lose contact with the origins of your trauma, dissociate the roots of its cause, and forget. But one day, all the hurt and anger would burst forth, like fire from a dragon’s belly—and you’d pick up a gun. You’d visit that rage not upon your father, who was dead and forgotten and out of reach—but upon your husband, the man who had taken his place in your life, who loved you and shared your bed. You’d shoot him five times in the head, without possibly even knowing why.

The train raced through the night back to London. At last, I thought—at last I knew how to reach her.

Now we could begin.

CHAPTER NINE

I SAT WITH ALICIA IN SILENCE.

I was getting better at these silences, better at enduring them, settling into them and toughing it out; it had become almost comfortable, sitting in that small room with her, keeping quiet.

Alicia held her hands in her lap, clenching and unclenching them rhythmically, like a heartbeat. She was facing me, not looking at me, but gazing out of the window through the bars. It had stopped raining, and the clouds momentarily parted to reveal a pale blue sky; then another cloud appeared, obscuring it with gray. Then I spoke.

“There’s something I have become aware of. Something your cousin told me.” I said this as gently as I could. She didn’t react, so I went on.

“Paul said that when you were a child, you overheard your father say something devastating. After the car accident that killed your mother … you heard him say that he wished you had died, instead of her.” I was certain there would be a knee-jerk physical reaction, an acknowledgment of some kind. I waited, but none came.

“I wonder how you feel about Paul telling me this—it might seem like a betrayal of confidence. But I believe he had your best interests in mind. You are, after all, in my care.” No response. I hesitated.

“It might help you if I tell you something. No—perhaps that’s being disingenuous—perhaps it’s me it would help. The truth is I understand you better than you think. Without wishing to disclose too much, you and I experienced similar kinds of childhoods, with similar kinds of fathers. And we both left home as soon as we could. But we soon discovered that geographical distance counts for little in the world of the psyche. Some things are not so easily left behind. I know how damaging your childhood was. It’s important you understand how serious this is. What your father said is tantamount to psychic murder. He killed you.” This time she reacted.

She looked up sharply—straight at me. Her eyes seemed to burn right through me. If looks could kill, I would have dropped dead. I met her murderous gaze without flinching.

“Alicia. This is our last chance. I’m sitting here now without Professor Diomedes’s knowledge or permission. If I keep breaking the rules like this for your sake, I’m going to get fired. That’s why this will be the last time you see me. Do you understand?” I said this without any expectation or emotion, drained of hope or feeling. I was sick of bashing my head against a wall. I didn’t expect any kind of response. And then … I thought I imagined it at first. I thought I was hearing things. I stared at her, breathless. I felt my heart thudding in my chest. My mouth was dry when I spoke.

“Did—did you just … say something?”

Another silence. I must have been mistaken. I must have imagined it. But then … it happened again.

Alicia’s lips moved slowly, painfully; her voice cracked a little as it emerged, like a creaking gate that needed oiling.

“What…” she whispered. Then she stopped. And again: “What … what—” For a moment we just stared at each other. My eyes slowly filled with tears—tears of disbelief, excitement, and gratitude.

“What do I want? I want you to keep talking.… Talk—talk to me, Alicia—” Alicia stared at me. She was thinking about something. She came to a decision.

She slowly nodded. “Okay.”

CHAPTER TEN

“SHE SAID WHAT?”

Professor Diomedes stared at me with a look of stunned amazement. We were outside, smoking. I could tell he was excited because he had dropped his cigar on the ground without even noticing. “She spoke? Alicia really spoke?” “She did.”

“Incredible. So you were right. You were right. And I was wrong.” “Not at all. It was wrong of me to see her without your permission, Professor. I’m sorry, I just had an instinct…” Diomedes waved away my apology and finished my sentence for me. “You followed your gut. I would have done the same, Theo. Well done.” I was unwilling to be too celebratory. “We mustn’t count our chickens yet. It’s a breakthrough, yes. But there’s no guarantee—she might revert or regress at any point.” Diomedes nodded. “Quite right. We must organize a formal review and interview Alicia as soon as possible—get her in front of a panel—you and me and someone from the Trust—Julian will do, he’s harmless enough—” “You’re going too fast. You’re not listening to me. That’s too soon. Anything like that will scare her. We need to move slowly.” “Well, it’s important the Trust knows—”

“No, not yet. Maybe this was a one-off. Let’s wait. Let’s not make any announcements. Not just yet.” Diomedes nodded, taking this in. His hand reached for my shoulder and gripped it. “Well done. I’m proud of you.” I felt a small flicker of pride—a son congratulated by his father. I was conscious of my desire to please Diomedes, justify his faith in me and make him proud. I felt a little emotional. I lit a cigarette to disguise it. “What now?” “Now you keep going. Keep working with Alicia.” “And if Stephanie finds out?”

“Forget Stephanie—leave her to me. You focus on Alicia.” And so I did.

During our next session, Alicia and I talked nonstop. Or rather, Alicia talked and I listened. Listening to Alicia was an unfamiliar and somewhat disconcerting experience, after so much silence. She spoke hesitantly at first, tentatively—trying to walk on legs that hadn’t been used in a while. She soon found her feet, picking up speed and agility, tripping through sentences as if she had never been silent, which in a way, she hadn’t.

When the session ended, I went to my office. I sat at the desk, transcribing what had been said while it was still fresh in my mind. I wrote down everything, word for word, capturing it as precisely and accurately as possible.

As you will see, it’s an incredible story—of that there is no doubt.

Whether you believe it or not is up to you.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ALICIA SAT IN THE CHAIR opposite me in the therapy room.

“Before we begin, I have some questions for you. A few things I’d like to clarify…” No reply. Alicia looked at me with that unreadable look of hers.

“Specifically, I want to understand your silence. I want to know why you refused to speak.” Alicia seemed disappointed by the question. She turned and looked out the window.

We sat like that in silence for a minute or so. I tried to contain the suspense I was feeling. Had the breakthrough been temporary? Would we now go on as before? I couldn’t let that happen.

“Alicia. I know it’s difficult. But once you start talking to me, you’ll find it easier, I promise.” No response.

“Try. Please. Don’t give up when you’ve made such progress. Keep going. Tell me … tell me why you wouldn’t speak.” Alicia turned back and stared at me with a chilly gaze. She spoke in a low voice: “Nothing … nothing to say.”

“I’m not sure I believe that. I think there was too much too say.” A pause. A shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps … you’re right.” “Go on.”

She hesitated. “At first, when Gabriel … when he was dead—I couldn’t, I tried … but I couldn’t … talk. I opened my mouth—but no sound came out. Like in a dream … where you try to scream … but can’t.” “You were in a state of shock. But over the next few days, you must have found your voice returning to you…?” “By then … it seemed pointless. It was too late.” “Too late? To speak in your defense?”

Alicia held me in her gaze, a cryptic smile on her lips. She didn’t speak.

“Tell me why you started talking again.”

“You know the answer.”

“Do I?”

“Because of you.”

“Me?” I looked at her with surprise.

“Because you came here.”

“And that made a difference?”

“All the difference—it made … all the difference.” Alicia lowered her voice and stared at me, unblinking. “I want you to understand—what happened to me. What it felt like. It’s important … you understand.” “I want to understand. That’s why you gave me the diary, isn’t it? Because you want me to understand. It seems to me the people who mattered most to you didn’t believe your story about the man. Perhaps you’re wondering … if I believe you.” “You believe me.” This was not a question but a simple statement of fact.

I nodded. “Yes, I believe you. So why don’t we start there? The last diary entry you wrote described the man breaking into the house. What happened then?” “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t him.”

“It wasn’t? Then who was it?”

“It was Jean-Felix. He wanted—he had come to talk about the exhibition.” “Judging by your diary, it doesn’t seem you were in the right state of mind for visitors.” Alicia acknowledged this with a shrug.

“Did he stay long?”

“No. I asked him to leave. He didn’t want to—he was upset. He shouted at me a bit—but he went after a while.” “And then? What happened after Jean-Felix left?” Alicia shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about that.” “No?”

“Not yet.”

Alicia’s eyes looked into mine for a moment. Then they darted to the window, considering the darkening sky beyond the bars. Something in the way she was tilting her head was almost coquettish, and the beginning of a smile was forming at the corner of her mouth. She’s enjoying this, I thought. Having me in her power.

“What do you want to talk about?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Nothing. I just want to talk.”

So we talked. We talked about Lydia and Paul, and about her mother, and the summer she died. We talked about Alicia’s childhood—and mine. I told her about my father, and growing up in that house; she seemed curious to know as much as possible about my past and what had shaped me and made me who I am.

I remember thinking, There’s no going back now. We were crashing through every last boundary between therapist and patient. Soon it would be impossible to tell who was who.