he’d expected the comeback. He watched her for a moment and then smiled again. ‘If I don’t do my job properly, if I can’t gain your trust, then I’ve failed, and the people here will replace me with someone else.’
‘Why are you only here two days a week?’
‘I have other patients in other hospitals.’
‘Poulter used to see me three times a week.’
‘Dr Poulter said you were getting better,’ Garrick replied. ‘His recommendation – which I believe he discussed with you – was that, now you’re an outpatient, now you’re getting your life back on track, you only need to be seen six to eight times a month.’
She didn’t offer any reply .
‘However, if you feel that’s not enough, we can discuss additional sessions. But in order to do that, you need to let me a little way in. How does that sound?’
Again, she didn’t respond .
Garrick nodded and reached across to the desk. Next to the keyboard were loose sheaths of paper. He brought them to his lap, leafing past five or six pages, all of them marked in highlighter pen. She watched his long fingers moving left to right, trying to find the part he wanted. After about thirty seconds, they stopped; he tapped a finger on a highlighted paragraph halfway down and looked up .
‘I see you worked at a place just off Oxford Street.’
His eyes moved across her face. This was what Poulter used to do when he was trying to get a response from her: he examined her, tried to use her stillness against her. In the early years, it had worked: she’d hated silence then, been frightened of it, because it reminded her of the days, weeks and months after the death. She’d gone back to the house and all she could hear were its beams, its floorboards, its structure, groaning in the heat of the sun, and then – as time slipped by – moaning in the bitterness of winter. Back then, the silence became too much, too frightening, the walls of her home like a mausoleum – which was why she’d tried to kill herself. She’d tried a second time, and third time, until she eventually ended up in Poulter’s care. Nearly six years on, she’d gone past the idea of killing herself, even if the memories were as painful as they’d always been .
‘You worked in marketing – is that right?’
She shrugged, those same memories playing out in her head. After a while, she realized she’d drifted. Garrick tilted his head slightly, as if trying to read her thoughts .
‘My dog died a few weeks ago,’ she said .
If Garrick was surprised by the change of direction, he didn’t show it. ‘I didn’t realize you had a dog.’
‘A black Labrador.’
‘What was its name?’
‘His name.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Bear.’
He smiled. ‘Was Bear big?’
‘That’s why we called him Bear.’
‘Who’s “we”? You and your ex-husband?’
Her nose wrinkled .
‘It wasn’t his dog as well?’
‘It was his dog in the sense that Bear lived in the same house as we did – but Robert was never a dog person.’
‘Robert Collinson. That was your ex-husband, right?’
She nodded .
‘You two divorced five years ago – in 2000?’
She didn’t respond, looking up to the only window in the office, a rectangle high above the desk where sunlight was streaming in. ‘I had to bury him,’ she said quietly .
‘Bear?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did that feel?’
She frowned. ‘How do you think it felt?’
‘Had you had Bear a long time?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Six years.’
Garrick had been busy writing something down, but he stopped immediately, pen paused at the midway point of the pad, and looked up again. ‘So you got him back in 1999?’
She nodded .
‘When in 1999?’
‘August.’
A pause. ‘So a month after the accident?’
She nodded again .
‘Which means Bear wasn’t just a dog to you?’
His words passed through the dust-filled sunlight as if there were a weight to them, and she felt a sludgy, pained stirring in her stomach, a dread at
‘Why are you only here two days a week?’
‘I have other patients in other hospitals.’
‘Poulter used to see me three times a week.’
‘Dr Poulter said you were getting better,’ Garrick replied. ‘His recommendation – which I believe he discussed with you – was that, now you’re an outpatient, now you’re getting your life back on track, you only need to be seen six to eight times a month.’
She didn’t offer any reply .
‘However, if you feel that’s not enough, we can discuss additional sessions. But in order to do that, you need to let me a little way in. How does that sound?’
Again, she didn’t respond .
Garrick nodded and reached across to the desk. Next to the keyboard were loose sheaths of paper. He brought them to his lap, leafing past five or six pages, all of them marked in highlighter pen. She watched his long fingers moving left to right, trying to find the part he wanted. After about thirty seconds, they stopped; he tapped a finger on a highlighted paragraph halfway down and looked up .
‘I see you worked at a place just off Oxford Street.’
His eyes moved across her face. This was what Poulter used to do when he was trying to get a response from her: he examined her, tried to use her stillness against her. In the early years, it had worked: she’d hated silence then, been frightened of it, because it reminded her of the days, weeks and months after the death. She’d gone back to the house and all she could hear were its beams, its floorboards, its structure, groaning in the heat of the sun, and then – as time slipped by – moaning in the bitterness of winter. Back then, the silence became too much, too frightening, the walls of her home like a mausoleum – which was why she’d tried to kill herself. She’d tried a second time, and third time, until she eventually ended up in Poulter’s care. Nearly six years on, she’d gone past the idea of killing herself, even if the memories were as painful as they’d always been .
‘You worked in marketing – is that right?’
She shrugged, those same memories playing out in her head. After a while, she realized she’d drifted. Garrick tilted his head slightly, as if trying to read her thoughts .
‘My dog died a few weeks ago,’ she said .
If Garrick was surprised by the change of direction, he didn’t show it. ‘I didn’t realize you had a dog.’
‘A black Labrador.’
‘What was its name?’
‘His name.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Bear.’
He smiled. ‘Was Bear big?’
‘That’s why we called him Bear.’
‘Who’s “we”? You and your ex-husband?’
Her nose wrinkled .
‘It wasn’t his dog as well?’
‘It was his dog in the sense that Bear lived in the same house as we did – but Robert was never a dog person.’
‘Robert Collinson. That was your ex-husband, right?’
She nodded .
‘You two divorced five years ago – in 2000?’
She didn’t respond, looking up to the only window in the office, a rectangle high above the desk where sunlight was streaming in. ‘I had to bury him,’ she said quietly .
‘Bear?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did that feel?’
She frowned. ‘How do you think it felt?’
‘Had you had Bear a long time?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Six years.’
Garrick had been busy writing something down, but he stopped immediately, pen paused at the midway point of the pad, and looked up again. ‘So you got him back in 1999?’
She nodded .
‘When in 1999?’
‘August.’
A pause. ‘So a month after the accident?’
She nodded again .
‘Which means Bear wasn’t just a dog to you?’
His words passed through the dust-filled sunlight as if there were a weight to them, and she felt a sludgy, pained stirring in her stomach, a dread at
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