The waiting room at the counselling clinic was brightly lit but bitterly cold. A smell of antiseptic hung in the air; a smell only usually associated with hospitals and places meant to be kept clean. Brain antiseptic, Wendy thought. That's what I need. Clean it all out and start again.
The lady at the reception desk looked quite content to carry on with her task of writing letters to whomever she may be writing them, occasionally answering the phone in a manner far too jovial for her general demeanour. The people ringing here are likely to need a bit of cheering up, though, Wendy thought.
A series of posters adorned the wall, much as they did at any given medical institution across the country. No signs of limp cigarettes and cancerous lungs here, though.
One in four people will experience a mental health problem.
Mental Health Awareness Week: Bipolar disorder causes severe mood swings that can leave a person feeling manic or depressed.
In every secondary school classroom there will be two young people who have self-harmed.
Depressing reading, not entirely conducive to cheering up their clients, Wendy thought.
The door in front of her clicked open and a dark-haired woman appeared in a white blouse and black trousers. Her black-rimmed glasses were perched on her nose as she smiled pleasingly, her eyes barely visible in the folds of her smile as she ushered out an Indian-looking woman and her child. The child looked no older than five or six, with medium-brown curly locks dancing over her head. Wendy watched them pass.
‘Wendy Knight?’ The woman was smiling again, and cocked her head to the side as if to welcome Wendy in. Next, please.
Wendy followed her into the room. Certificates were hung in a jovial and haphazard manner on the wall closest to the counsellor's desk, shelves presenting teddy bears and stuffed bunny rabbits, a corner displaying all manner of children's toys. The three armchairs and the wall of books reminded Wendy that this was a serious, adult place. At that moment, though, she might have been more contented in the toy corner. An escape away from the real world of computers and certificates.
Wendy sat down in one of the armchairs, as motioned by the counsellor.
‘I’m Linda Street, and I'm a psychological counsellor. Now, I've read a few of your notes but first of all I'd just like you to tell me in your own words why you're here and what you hope to get out of these sessions.’
What did she hope to get out of these sessions? What did she hope to get out of anything? What use was hope?
‘Well, I'm back at work after having four weeks off on compassionate leave. My last investigation was on the team investigating the Bowline Knot murders recently.’
‘And the murderer turned out to be your brother, is that right?’
‘Yes. He also killed my partner and tried to kill me, too.’ Wendy spoke matter-of-factly as she relayed the bare essentials to Dr Street. Her voice gave away no emotion whatsoever. She had cried so much over the past six weeks that she had no more tears to shed. Just cold, hard facts.
‘And how did that make you feel?’
Wendy snorted. ‘How do you think it bloody made me feel?’
‘I’d like you to tell me, Wendy. In your own words.’
Wendy thought for a moment, trying to make sense of her dulled emotions.
‘Hurt. Used. Panicked. Dirty. Stupid. Foolish. Angry. Resentful. Devastated. Confused.’
‘That's a lot of feelings.’
‘It was a lot of drama.’
‘And how does drama make you feel?’ the psychologist asked.
What a bloody stupid question, Wendy thought. She hated drama. All she wanted was a quiet life. Granted, her career choice somewhat belied that fact, but she had never felt comfortable with confrontation. Unlike many of her colleagues, she was actually quite happy for her position to be slowly overtaken by a deluge of paperwork. As long as the criminals were stopped and put away, she was happy for that to happen in any way necessary. She certainly wasn’t one of Culverhouse’s ilk, constantly complaining about paperwork and political correctness.
‘I don't like drama, on the whole.’
‘And do you think that's conducive to your job?’
‘I’m a good detective,’ she said drily.
‘I’m not disputing that, Wendy. I'm trying to find out whether your job might exacerbate your psychological state and cause you some problems which we'll need to iron out. Do you think you might need more time away to properly come to terms with what happened?’
‘Iron out? My own brother framed my partner for a series of murders, killed him and then tried to kill me. Now I'm carrying a baby that has no father and a mother who doesn't know what to do,’ Wendy said, her voice cracking.
‘You're pregnant?’
‘Yes. Only a few weeks. I must have been pregnant at the time of Robert's death.’
‘I’d certainly reiterate what I just said, then, Wendy. Do you think it's wise to be back at work so soon, considering? A pregnancy can make your psychological state very delicate indeed, and I'm not sure the physical stress of your job is the best thing to subject an unborn baby to.’
Wendy almost laughed. ‘That's out of the question. I'm working on two very important cases right now. I promise you, if I sit at home and mope then I'll be a hundred times worse. Work is the only thing that keeps my mind busy and keeps me just the right side of sane. I don't want this baby turning out to be a crackpot as well.’
‘I’m not suggesting that you stay at home and mope, Wendy. Just that you take the rest and recuperation time that you and your baby both need. Perhaps a holiday might do you some good. See some sights, have a change of scenery.’
‘What my baby and I need is to try to forget what happened and move on. All I have is my work and I need to work to forget. Even with the reminders that come with the job, I can't just sit around and do nothing. The last four weeks have been hell for me. I have to keep busy.’
‘I just think there are better ways for you to keep busy than to subject yourself to a high-stress job. I know you wanted to see somebody independent of work, but I know the police force offers a fantastic range of support for—’
‘I don't want support!’ Wendy shouted. ‘I don't want help and I didn't even want to come to these fucking stupid counselling sessions, either. I don't want to talk about what happened. I just want to get on with my life.’
Within a minute, Wendy had left the clinic.