EPILOGUE
THE THERAPIST
The grandfather clock behind me ticks.
Five more minutes.
Just five more minutes, and I could be out of this chair, out of this room, and most importantly out of this conversation. I stare blankly at my client, my mind thinking of my sofa at home, my glass of Rioja – the mention of Spain bringing my thoughts to sun, sea, and sand. I sigh.
‘Are you listening,’ she asks.
‘Yes, of course!’ I reply.
I lie.
Emma sits across me; her skinny arse perched on the edge of the sofa like a teenager.
I hate it when people do that.
Her fingers pulling at the frayed hem of her cardigan, as her voice wavers.
Oh she’s good.
Her story should have been gripping, if I believed anything she said.
At first, I did; trauma, paranoia, kidnapping – it was worth looking into. But by the third session, the cracks started to show. Still, she was good. Convincing even - certainly enough to fool most people.
But I’m not most people.
I’ve been a therapist for nearly thirty years, I can tell when people aren’t being entirely truthful. And something about Emma’s story stinks.
My eyes flick to the clock. Three more minutes left.
I nod, mechanically as her voice trembles. With my pen in hand, I force a neutral expression, feigning engagement with my thoughts plotting my escape.
Shall I ask another question? Shit . I have to; she’s stopped talking, finally, but then she starts again.
‘I’m so sorry, Gillian, I can call you Gillian, right?’
I nod. ‘How are you coping?’
‘I’m OK. My daughter helps, you know, distract me.’ Her voice wavers, as if she’s trying to sound casual but can’t quite pull it off.
I nod again. ‘You’ve been through a traumatic experience. It’s going to take time. By the sound of it, you’re lucky to be alive.’
She nods in agreement, her fingers twisting in her lap.
‘I j-just keep waking up, and seeing them dead, like I had that night,’ her voice cracks, the words barely above a whisper. Something in her delivery still feels off.
Rehearsed , almost.
I mask my scepticism. ‘That sounds incredibly difficult,’ I say, and Emma’s eyes glisten with tears.
‘I remember Anna telling me about you,’ her voice catching on the word “Anna” like it physically pained her, ‘how you helped her cope with work related stress,’ she sobs. ‘A part of me feels if I speak to you, then we can share the memory of both knowing her.’
What the fuck.
I shift in my chair. Clever. Invoking Anna’s name.
For a moment, I wonder if she had planned that line in advance too.
The story Emma had told me so far didn’t add up.
She and her friends in a secluded house in the middle of nowhere, kidnappers vanishing into thin air – leaving her all alone in a house with three dead girls.
Then wandering for hours before finding a road, only to stumble across the kindest and most efficient police officers in all of Spain?
Sure it sounded plausible, but it strained credulity.
Yet here she sits, tears streaking down her cheeks, looking every inch the picture of someone traumatised. I lean forward and hand her a tissue.
‘Thank you,’ she sobs, blowing her nose into the tissue.
‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to end our session here for today,’ I say, standing up and guiding her to the door.
This time last week, Emma was my last client, and her story gnawed at me – not because I believed it, but because I found myself genuinely concerned when she mentioned the name Tarran – a former client. The name isn’t exactly common, and her story remains vivid in my mind.
Like a thread, I couldn’t help but tug at it, so after I locked up, I sat in my car idling in the parking lot, waiting for Emma. I saw her, her cardigan trailing behind her, and my fingers drummed the steering wheel wondering what I should do.
This wasn’t normal.
But curiosity has a way of morphing into an obsession.
I followed her. At first, I told myself it was just to see where she went, to understand if her story had any ground.
But when she turned down a quiet street, I couldn’t decide whether to carry on, or worth risking my career over.
She disappeared into an old, industrial apartment building, so I parked up a safe distance away.
I should have turned back. I should have put this whole thing behind me, but instead, I pulled out my camera, adjusted the focus, and had the lens trained on the soft glow emanating from the window.
There, silhouetted against the pale light, I saw her – Emma.
At first, she was alone, her cardigan slipping off her shoulder as she moved.
But then, a man came into view; a tall man, broad-shouldered.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat as I witnessed her turning towards him, allowing herself be pulled into his embrace.
She never mentioned a man. In fact, she explicitly stated she felt comfort in being alone.
It was intimate, familiar, and not the kind of physical closeness you’d expect from someone freshly scarred by trauma – from a man nonetheless.
My finger hovered over the camera shutter, but I didn’t press it.
This could have been classed as stalking.
Instead, I jotted down my observations; male, approx 6’0”. Athletic. Intimacy – unusual.
Who was he? A friend? No. He’s not her husband . A lover? The supposed phantom of her nightmares?
But why even fabricate something so elaborate? I stared up at the window; Emma’s form leaning into his as they moved from view.
It would be an ingenious way to shield herself from suspicion, painting herself as both victim and witness to tragedy.
Claiming to be the lone survivor shifts the narrative entirely – it would cast her in the role of someone to be pitied, too broken to force deeper scrutiny.
And counselling – the perfect alibi for evading uncomfortable police interrogation.
After all, it’s what normal people do when they experience trauma.
Today, Emma walks out of my office. She doesn’t glance back, her cardigan swaying as she disappears down the hallway. I allow myself a brief exhale, as I glance at my next client.
Duncan – the antithesis of Emma’s chaos – calm, composed, predicable.
My phone rings. ‘Excuse me one moment, Duncan,’ I say as I walk off out of earshot.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Gillian. Did she turn up?’
‘She did, right on schedule.’
‘Boss will be happy.’
‘My, my, Salvador...’
‘It’s Sal now.’
‘Sal. You never fail to impress me.’
‘Imagine my surprise when my source at the station told me Emma showed up - unscathed. And that she was in the very capable of hands of Gillian Gladwish to help her through her trauma.’
‘You’ve always had your hands in so many pies, Sal. And yet, the only pie I was ever interested in your hand being in was my own.’
‘That was a very long time ago, Gill. Our business here is strictly professional.’
‘Shame. What’s your interest in her anyway? Bit young for you, isn’t she?’
‘Now, now - that would be telling. Surely you, of all people, understand the rules of confidentiality.’
I smile at his comment, letting it linger in the air as the call comes to an end.
‘But what I can tell you, Gillian, is I’m convinced she helped orchestrate the kidnapping and murder of her friends. Now, it’s just a matter of proving it.’
I sigh heavily, staring out of the window for a moment as Sal’s words linger in my mind.
His revelations – dark, tangled threads of a story that begged to be unravelled – still echoed in the quiet of my office.
‘Thank you for trusting me enough to share this,’ I reply, keeping my tone composed.
‘Perhaps we can dig a little deeper when we see each other.’
I end the call, and take a deep breath. Sitting, bobbing his knees up and down sits my next client, so I steel myself, and focus on the rhythm of my breathing.
‘Duncan...’ I beam.
‘Ms Gladwish,’ he nods as he stands, sauntering into my office, his grin as casual as his unbuttoned shirt collar. He drops onto the sofa with a theatrical sigh. ‘One of these days you’ll come on a date with me,’ he says.
I raise a brow, not missing a beat. ‘You have a problem, Duncan. You’re an addict. That’s why you’re here.’
He smiles, tilting his head as if considering my words. ‘Addiction to charm, maybe? Well, admitting it is the first step to recovery, right?’
‘What can I do for you today?’ I ask, settling comfortably into my chair.
‘Well,’ he starts, a grin curling at the edges of his mouth as he practically salivates, ‘I’ve been speaking to this woman online. I think I’m in love.’
Oh for fuck’s sake.