The Therapist by B.A. Paris
Forty-Four
Thomas smiles at me. I put my cup down, smile back at him.
‘I’m just going to get a jumper,’ I say, pushing my chair back. ‘It’s turned a bit chilly.’
‘Can I get it for you?’
‘No, it’s fine, there’s one in my case. It’s in the hall.’
I go out to the hall and open my case, tugging the zips hard so he’ll be able to hear. Then I crouch down, find my house keys in my bag and slip them into my pocket.
‘Do you need help?’
I look up and see him filling the doorway.
‘No, thank you.’ I put my hand into the case and tug out a pale blue sweater. ‘This will do.’
My heart is thumping as I stand up. I shouldn’t have bothered taking my keys, I should have got out of the house while I could. But I had wanted to lock the door behind me, lock him in so that he couldn’t come after me. With him standing there, it’s too late. If I make for the front door, he’ll know that I’ve guessed and will be on me before I’ve even opened it. I have no choice but to go back to the kitchen.
He sits down but I stay standing. I want to take my phone from where I left it on the table but it’s too far away for me to reach. I pull the jumper over my head but it snags on the clip holding my hair up. I undo the clip and tug the jumper down. My hair gets stuck so I reach up and pull it free. Something flickers in his eyes.
‘You have beautiful hair,’ he murmurs.
I force the words out. ‘Thank you.’
‘By the way, you got a message from Leo.’
I freeze. How does he know it’s from Leo?
‘It’s alright,’ I say. ‘I’ll look at it later.’
‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’
‘Yes, of course.’ I pull my chair further out.
‘I can tell you what it says, if you like.’ The hairs on the back of my neck, and then on my arms, prickle with fear. I stay as I am, halfway between sitting and standing.
‘It says,’ he goes on, looking me straight in the eyes. ‘Oliver didn’t have a sister.’
It happens so fast. He lunges towards me but I get there first, picking up my chair and hurling it across the table at him. Caught by surprise, he cries out. But I’m already gone. I get to the front door and as I open it, I hear him come into the hall. Slamming the door shut behind me, I take the keys from my pocket, almost dropping them in my panic, and lock him in. I expect him to start hammering on the door, and when he doesn’t I realise he’s gone to look for another way out. The key to the French windows is in the kitchen drawer, it’ll take him a while to find it.
I start running down the drive then stop, my eyes darting. I don’t know where to go. I was going to go into the square, get help from someone there but there’s no-one around. I don’t have long. I need to find somewhere with a phone so that I can call the police. I look towards Eve’s house then remember she’s at Tamsin’s. I run up the drive to Edward and Lorna’s.
I press on the bell, over and over again.
‘Lorna, Edward!’ I call, hammering on the door. ‘It’s Alice! Can you let me in? It’s urgent!’
I hear them shuffling as they come into the hall. ‘Please hurry!’ I urge. I don’t want to alarm them but I need to get inside.
There’s the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door swings open and I burst into the house, smashing it back against Edward. I barely give him a second glance, my eyes caught by Lorna standing further down the hallway, her face white with fright.
‘Sorry, Lorna,’ I say. ‘It’s urgent.’ I turn to Edward hurriedly. ‘Can I use—’ The words die on my lips. Standing behind Edward, his hand gripping the back of Edward’s neck, is Thomas.
The blood drains from my face as he pushes the door shut with his free hand. ‘How did you—?’
‘Get here?’ He sounds amused. ‘Out through your French windows and in through ours.’
I stare at him in confusion. ‘Yours?’
‘Yes.’ Now he laughs. ‘I did say I wanted you to meet my parents.’
His parents. I look in shock at Edward, and my shock quickly turns to fright. His face is dangerously red and his eyes are slipping out of focus. Adrenalin surges; I need to get help. I take a step back, look towards the door. But I’m too late. Still holding Edward, Thomas reaches out with his other hand and grabs me by the throat.
He waits until fear registers in my eyes, then tightens his grip.
‘You’re hurting me,’ I gasp.
The last thing I hear is his laugh.
When I come back to consciousness, I find myself tied to a chair. My instinct is to struggle free but I sense someone behind me and everything comes rushing back. Survival mode kicks in. Don’t let him know you’re awake. My mouth is dry; I swallow carefully, quietly, and have to stop myself crying out from the pain in my throat.
I try and regroup my thoughts but it’s difficult when battling fear is my primary concern. Fear for Lorna and Edward – where are they? Fear that I might not get out of this alive.
Did he say Lorna and Edward were his parents? In a way, it makes sense. He must be the son they said died four years ago, in Iraq. What had he done to make them deny the existence of their only child? Justine Bartley had disappeared three years ago after going to meet her therapist. If Thomas was Nina’s therapist, was he also Justine Bartley’s therapist?
I inadvertently swallow and unprepared for the pain, a groan escapes my lips. A hand winds itself in my hair and my head is pulled back, stretching my neck, making the fire in my throat worse. I close my eyes. I don’t want to see his face.
‘Awake, are we? Good!’
‘Stop, John, please!’ I recognise Lorna’s voice and open my eyes, moving them in her direction. I can just about see her, crouching down beside Edward, slumped against the wall. ‘Your father needs an ambulance. It’s his heart.’
‘Be quiet!’ Thomas snaps. I’d thought at first that Lorna was speaking to someone else. But of course, Thomas isn’t his real name.
He tugs my head back further, causing my swollen throat more injury. The pain is excruciating but I refuse to let him see how much it hurts.
He bends over me, bringing his face close, so that I’m looking right into his eyes, upside down.
‘Guess what’s going to happen now?’ he says.
You’re going to kill me.
I hear a noise, a noise I recognise as a pair of scissors being sliced open and closed. Lifting his arm, he brings them into view and I remember what happened to Nina.
‘You’re going to cut my hair.’ It comes out in a hoarse whisper.
‘That’s right.’ He moves his hands to either side of my head and pushes it forward, so that I’m looking straight ahead. At first, I think there’s another woman in the room with us, until I realise it’s my own reflection staring back at me from a gold-framed mirror, speckled with age, set up on a table in front of me.
I quickly work out that the room I’m in corresponds to my study in our house next door. The two windows have been boarded up; the only light comes from two ornate lamps, placed on either side of the mirror. As I watch, he takes hold of my hair, lifts it high above my head and slowly, gradually, lets it fall around my shoulders. I watch him in the mirror and shudder at what I see. He looks so different to the man I knew – or thought I knew – that it’s like looking at someone else. Somehow, it makes it easier.
He separates a length of my hair, about an inch thick, from the rest and, like before, holds it high above my head. Opening the blades of the scissors around it, he moves them downwards, stopping now and then as if deciding where to cut it.
‘Here, or here?’ he muses. Our eyes meet in the mirror. He waits for a reaction so I stare back, not giving him one. With a sudden movement, he moves the scissors down to within an inch of my skull and saws through the length of hair. I don’t move, I don’t flinch, not even when he drops it onto my lap. I’m too worried about Edward to think about what Thomas is doing. I can’t see him at all now, I can only see the top of Lorna’s head as she crouches beside him. It comes back to me then, how Lorna and Edward had wanted to move away after Nina’s murder but Edward had had a heart attack. Was it from the shock of knowing that his son was a murderer? Had Thomas been staying here at the time? Or maybe all the time. Maybe he has been living here, in this house, in secret. It would explain why I hadn’t seen him walking across the square earlier, why nobody has ever seen him walking across the square, not even on his visits to Nina. Because all that time, he had been living right next door.
‘Why did you kill Nina?’ I ask.
‘Why don’t you tell me what you think?’ he says. ‘I’d love to hear another of your theories.’
‘You killed her because you were having an affair with her and she wanted to break it off.’ He doesn’t say anything. ‘What about Justine and Marion? Did you have an affair with them too?’
He grins. ‘I saw what you did there. But you’re wrong. I didn’t have an affair with them. Or with Nina.’
‘But you killed them.’
‘Correct.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they didn’t know their own minds. Not like you, Alice.’
‘What do you mean?’
He smiles, lifts another length of hair. ‘Where shall I cut this one?’
‘Wherever you like.’ Again, he snips it near my skull and drops it onto my lap. I can’t pretend I’m not distraught at the sight of uneven clumps of hair sprouting from my scalp, but I keep it to myself. ‘Are you really a therapist?’
‘How can I be a therapist if I’m a private investigator? Oh, wait – maybe I’m not a private investigator.’ He waves the scissors around. ‘The trick is to be who people want me to be. A therapist worked well for the others. For you, I had to think of something else. You needed a saviour, a redeemer. Someone you could help, so that you could atone for your sins.’ He looks triumphantly at my reflection in the mirror. ‘I’m right, aren’t I, Alice? You were the one driving the car the night your parents and sister died.’
I stare at him, not letting my gaze waver, not letting him know that he’s right. He lifts another length of hair and I focus on the sound of the scissors sawing through it to stop the sounds that have haunted me for almost twenty years, that will haunt me for the rest of my life, the screech of brakes, the tearing of metal, the screams of pain and fear.
‘It’s a shame you decided to leave The Circle so abruptly,’ he continues. ‘It was fun listening to all your different theories about who killed Nina. I could barely keep up with your suspicions. A headless chicken came to mind. You suspected your friends, their husbands, the man you were meant to love, even the estate agent.’ The scissors slice through my hair again. ‘You’re not a very nice person, Alice. You do realise that, don’t you?’
‘Compared to you, I’m an angel,’ I say scathingly, to hide the shame I feel at his words. ‘You used your knowledge to manipulate me into thinking everyone had something to hide. I suppose it was you who told Lorna to tell me not to trust anyone.’
‘No, foolishly, she did that of her own accord. But I overheard her and made sure she paid for it.’
I give him a look of pure disgust. ‘Were you born evil or did you become evil?’
‘Why don’t you tell me what you think?’
I swivel my eyes to where Lorna is crouching. She looks terrified.
‘I’m guessing a normal family background so it must be rejection by a woman, or women, that made you hate us so much.’ I pause. ‘It was the woman in the photograph you showed me, wasn’t it, the one you told me was Helen? She had long hair – and I think she was blond.’ I curl my lips in a pitying smile. ‘Is that what happened – she rejected you and you couldn’t cope? Are you really that pathetic?’
He laughs, a harsh, detached laugh. Why had I never heard him laugh like that?
I’ve needled him. Ramming the scissors into my hair, he begins making furious cuts close to my scalp, nicking my skin so that I can’t help but flinch.
‘Where did you get the key to our French windows?’ I ask.
‘It was on the set of keys that Nina and Oliver gave to my parents. I kept them, hoping they would come in useful.’ He sighs in pretend despair. ‘Leo really should have changed all the locks, not just those on the front door.’ Then he grins. ‘I love that you thought I was Nina when I visited you at night.’
I hate that he heard me talking to her, hate that he has seen me in all my weaknesses.
‘How pathetic of you to hide in the wardrobe,’ I sneer.
‘John, I think he’s dead.’ Lorna’s trembling voice breaks through Thomas’s amusement. The scissors stop moving. ‘I think your father’s dead.’
I watch in the mirror as he walks over to where Lorna is standing. He bends down, then straightens up, a look of confusion on his face, which he quickly hides.
‘I think you might be right,’ he says, feigning nonchalance.
Lorna bursts into tears. ‘We need an ambulance,’ she sobs. ‘Please, John.’
‘Why, if he’s dead?’ His voice is harsh.
He comes back to where I’m sitting, powerless in the face of his suppressed anger at his father’s death. I want to comfort Lorna, get her away from Thomas. But tied to a chair, I can’t do either of those things. I can’t do anything. For the first time, it hits me. I am going to die.
‘They moved here to get away from me.’ He starts to chop at my hair again but his heart has gone out of it. He might have been prepared for my death, but not his father’s. ‘They didn’t tell me they were leaving Bournemouth. When I came back from Paris, after I killed Marion, I had to hire a private investigator to track them down – which is where I got my idea for you.’ He pauses, drops another length of hair onto my lap. ‘You came along at just the right time. My sights were set on Tamsin, I had her lined up, ready to go. I knew from Nina that she was looking for a therapist but she didn’t want to share me with anyone.’ He laughs again. ‘I was her little secret, just like I was yours. I knew Tamsin would need a therapist even more once Nina had died, so it was perfect. But then she cut her hair.’
‘You came here, to The Circle, after killing Marion?’ I say, backtracking, needing to keep the conversation going, because as long as we’re talking, I’m alive.
‘Yes. It was ironic, really. My parents chose London, thinking it would reduce them to needles in a haystack, plus a gated community, thinking they’d be able to keep me out. But it proved the perfect hiding place for me.’
‘He wouldn’t let us go anywhere, he kept us prisoner,’ Lorna says, her voice stronger now. She moves nearer, coming into my vision. ‘He locked us in here during the day, in our bedroom at night. There wasn’t anything we could do, he was too strong for us. We were only allowed to put the bins out, or do a bit of gardening at the front of the house, so that people would see us from time to time and not worry about us. But never together, he always kept one of us hostage. When Edward went to hospital with his heart attack, John told him he would kill me if he said anything to the doctors. He wouldn’t let me visit Edward, I had to pretend to the hospital that I was too frail to make the journey.’
‘But you’re not frail, are you, Lorna?’ I say, trying to catch her eye in the mirror, needing her to understand that if we’re going to get out of this, she has to be strong. But she’s too deep in her own story.
‘He made me lie to the police. I had to pretend I’d heard Oliver and Nina arguing, pretend that she’d admitted to me that she was having an affair. I had to say that I’d seen Oliver go straight into the house the night she was murdered.’ She clutches her pearls, a lifebuoy in the tumult of her emotions. ‘He must have seen Oliver go into the square and took his chance to go and kill Nina. I didn’t know, I didn’t know what he’d done, not until he came back and told me exactly what I had to say to the police if they came knocking. He threatened to kill Edward if I didn’t, he was always threatening to kill us.’ The tears come back. ‘Oliver and Nina never argued. They loved each other.’
Thomas shakes his head angrily. ‘No. Nina did not love him, she loved me. She couldn’t see it, that’s all. Just like those other two bitches. But you were different, Alice. If only you’d given me a little more time. We were so close.’
‘What do you mean?’
He stoops, bringing his face up against mine. ‘Admit it, Alice,’ he says softly. ‘You were beginning to fall in love with me.’
I look at our reflections in the mirror, captured within its ornate frame. We could be a photograph.
‘Lorna,’ I say, my voice firm.
Her eyes lock with mine and I look towards the scissors, still in Thomas’s hand but within her grasp, hoping she’ll get the message. But Thomas sees and with an almost childish laugh, raises them high above his head.
‘She’s not going to help you, Alice. I’m her son.’
He’s right, I know that. Lorna is no match for his strength anyway. She wouldn’t be able to wrestle the scissors out of his hand, let alone use them against him.
‘Did she turn me in to the police after I killed Justine, after I killed Marion?’ Thomas goes on. ‘No, she didn’t. Did she cover up for me after I killed Nina? Yes, she did. Blood is thicker than water, Alice. Justine, Marion and Nina were just that – water.’
‘But Edward wasn’t,’ I say. ‘Edward was blood. And you killed him.’
I’ve struck a chord. ‘I didn’t kill him!’ he shouts.
‘Well, technically, you did.’
Lorna screams then, not a scream of fear, or of suffering, but a scream of white-hot anger that goes on and on and on. It comes from deep inside her, cancelling out a mother’s innate desire to protect her child, no matter what they do. And Thomas, sensing that something has changed, freezes for a few precious seconds, just enough time for me, still tied to the chair, to spring up and back, smashing into him. He crashes to the floor and I land heavily on top of him. Caught unawares, the scissors fly from his hand.
‘Lorna!’ I cry. She stops in mid-scream and stares, seemingly paralysed, at Thomas and me on the floor. He grapples with the chair, trying to throw the weight of it off him. But I force my body downwards, pinning him underneath me.
‘Lorna!’ I call again. ‘Get help!’
With a roar of anger, Thomas gets his arms around the chair and throws it off him, slamming me to the floor. The air is expelled from my lungs and as I lie helpless, he throws himself across my chest, compressing it. His hands move to my neck, his face contorted with fury. As the pressure builds in my throat, I realise that even if Lorna does get help, it will be too late for me.
I hear him grunt and the weight of him on my chest increases. But his hands lose some of their grip and I twist my head to the side, gasping desperately for air. His hands slacken more, then fall from my neck and, at the same time as his head crashes onto mine, I become aware of a dull rhythmic thud, repeating itself over and over again.