The Therapist by B.A. Paris
Twenty-One
Istart awake. I’m about to open my eyes but some primal instinct tells me that I need to pretend I’m still asleep. My mind darts, trying to work it out. And then I realise; there’s someone in the room.
Adrenalin surges through my body, whipping my heartrate to a frenzy. It hammers in my chest and I tell myself frantically that I’m imagining it, remind myself that last time this happened, there was no-one there. But I know, with a horrible, terrible certainty, that someone is standing at the foot of my bed. I lie in a state of near-paralysis, not daring to breathe, waiting for the crush of their body on mine, the tightening of their hands around my throat. The tension is unbearable; I try to hold on to my fear but I can’t.
‘Go away!’ The words tear out of me and I push myself up forcibly, ready to face whoever is there. The room is in darkness, panicking me further, because I had left the lamp on. I reach down, fumbling for the switch, steeling myself for a hand seizing my bare arm and pulling me from the bed. I snap the light on and scan the room, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I peer into the shadows. There’s no-one there. I wait, listening to every noise the house is making. But nothing sounds wrong.
I slump back against my pillow, cold sweat on my forehead, trying to slow my pounding heart. It’s alright, it’s alright. Nothing happened.
But there was someone there, I know there was. I slide my mobile from under my pillow, tap 999, then change my mind and find Leo’s number. I need to hear someone’s voice and he’s the only person I feel I can call at – I check the time, and when I see that it’s only two o’clock, the knowledge that I still have the rest of the night to get through is devastating. It won’t be light for another five hours and I’m not going to be able to go back to sleep, not now. I force myself to be calm. I’m not going to phone Leo. Nothing has happened to me, nothing will happen to me now. But why would someone break into the house to do absolutely nothing? And how did they get in?
Reluctantly, I get out of bed and make the same journey through the house that I made a week ago, but with less bravado because this time, Leo isn’t asleep upstairs. In the kitchen, I check the French windows. There’s no broken glass, no sign of forced entry. Moving to the worktop, I grab a knife from the drawer. The knife, black-handled with a serrated edge, used for cutting lemons, will only be dangerous if I plunge it deep into someone. Which I could never do. Nevertheless, it gives me a weak kind of courage.
The windows in the downstairs rooms are intact, nothing has been disturbed. The front door is still locked from the inside. I continue slowly up the stairs, my heartbeat increasing with each step I take. I try not to think about someone leaping out at me from the guest bedroom or the study. With those lights now on, the whole house is ablaze, except for our bedroom, the one Leo and I used to sleep in. The one where Nina was murdered. I push open the door, snap on the light and peer in. Like the other rooms, it’s empty. And yet. I stand still, trying to work it out. There’s a sort of presence, not a physical one, but something invisible, intangible. Something I can sense, but can’t name. Slamming the door behind me, I hurry downstairs.
Somehow, I make it through the next few hours. To pass the time, I make several cups of tea and drink them in the sitting room, feeling safer at the front of the house. I want to check the street outside but the thought of seeing someone standing there, watching the house, watching me, is almost more terrifying than thinking they’re inside, so I keep the curtains closed. At five, I crawl back into bed. Dawn will be breaking soon, people will be waking up, getting ready to start the day ahead. Nobody will come now.
When I wake, and think about the previous night, it’s impossible to believe that it was anything but my imagination. Maybe I turned off the lamp myself, without realising, as I descended into sleep? I walk through the house again, checking the windows and doors for the slightest trace that someone had somehow managed to get in. But there’s nothing out of the ordinary.
My positivity takes a knock when I find strands of my hair on the worktop in the kitchen. Added to the ones I found in the bathroom this morning, it points to the thing I fear most, losing my hair again. Some months after my parents and sister died, my hair became noticeably thinner and when Debbie persuaded me to see a doctor, I was diagnosed with Telogen effluvium, brought on by the stress of what had happened. Barely able to eat since the accident, I’d lost a lot of weight. If I didn’t want to aggravate the condition, the doctor told me, I needed to start eating healthy, balanced meals again. My hair eventually recovered but it was a long process and, at nineteen years of age, hugely distressing.
The stress I’m feeling now, because of what happened in this house, and Leo not telling me, is nothing to the stress I felt back then. But I’m older now, my hair naturally more fragile. I twist it into a loose knot, secure it with a clip. If it’s not hanging around my shoulders, I won’t be constantly thinking about it.
In the fridge, I look for something for breakfast and find in the vegetable drawer, along with an overripe avocado, a bottle of expensive champagne, which Leo must have put there before he left yesterday. I’m not sure if it’s for me – if, like the white rose he left me in the hall, he’s trying to make up for everything – or if he put it there to drink when he’s next home.
There’s a message from him on my phone – Everything OK?– to which I reply Everything fine.
I go back to my breakfast but my appetite has gone, chased away by my worry over the state of our relationship. I’m glad I’m meeting Ginny for lunch, I desperately need someone to talk to.
I work for a couple of hours, then leave the house. Edward is in their front garden, tending his roses and, remembering what Tamsin said about me upsetting Lorna with my questions about Nina, I feel suddenly awkward.
‘Hello!’ I call, testing the water.
The smile Edward gives me puts my mind at rest. ‘Alice! How are you?’
I walk over the drive towards him. ‘I’m fine, thank you, I hope you are too?’
‘Yes, yes, I can’t complain. Are you going shopping?’
‘No, I’m meeting a friend for lunch. How is Lorna?’
‘She’s very well. It was nice of you to call by the other day. She gets a bit lonely sometimes.’
‘I hope I didn’t upset her.’
‘Upset her? Why would you have upset her?’
‘I’m afraid I was asking about Nina and Oliver.’
‘Don’t you worry your head. If she was upset, it was about you. She told me you lost your parents and sister?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘What a shocking thing to happen. A drunk driver, was it?’
‘No, just a young driver without much experience.’
‘Absolutely terrible for you,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘Yes, it was. But it’s in the past now.’
‘It doesn’t do any good to dwell on the past,’ he growls and I know, from the fierce look on his face that he’s thinking about his son. He’s of the generation where people don’t talk about their emotions.
‘You’re probably right,’ I say.
He turns away. ‘Well, I’d best get on.’
‘If you need shopping or anything, I hope you’ll let me know.’
‘Thank you, but we get everything delivered. We don’t really go out anymore.’
Except that he was meant to be out the other day.
I nod. ‘Well, goodbye, Edward. Tell Lorna I’ll see her soon.’