51

The brass plaque has an almost blinding shine, reads “Chalmers, Crowe and Gibson”, and I never thought I’d see it again. It’s pinned to a block of sandstone at the doorway to an imposing Georgian terrace. I’m in Carlton Place, and if I look behind me I can see the arched grand entrance to the suspension footbridge from which poor Matt Davis recently took a header. Only the Victorians could have been so extravagant as to adorn a footbridge in such a manner.

With an apology over my shoulder, aimed at his ghost, I press the buzzer.

From a small speaker a voice says, “Chalmers, Crowe and Gibson.”

‘I have an appointment with Elaine Gibson,’ I say. ‘McBain. My name’s McBain.’

The door clicks. I push and I’m in.

I nod at the receptionist and take a seat in the low, red cushioned chairs, and just as my arse is relaxing into the padding, one of the doors opens. Elaine Gibson walks towards me, hand out.

I take it and shake.

‘DI McBain,’ she says. ‘Nice to see the sun shining after such a miserable summer.’

‘Yes,’ I agree, struggle to say anything else and wonder, again, at a beautiful woman’s ability to turn my brain to mush. Settle for, ‘You’ve done your hair.’

After the “Stigmata killings” – or deaths caused by Jim Leonard, as only I know him – I spent a few weeks receiving therapy here. It was difficult and revealing, but only partially exorcised the ghosts of my childhood. And I was happy to deflect many of the therapist’s questions on to the subject of the deranged child abductor I was – unofficially – chasing at the time.

She smiles and, with a flick of her index finger, clears her fringe from her eyes. My brain helpfully provides an image of her stepping out of her shower, naked, wet and gleaming. I blush.

‘Shall we?’ She points towards her room, and I walk past her through the door and take a seat. As she joins me I take a look around the room. The same plants. The same bookcases. And it feels like the intervening months happened to someone else.

‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,’ I say.

She sits and crosses her legs with the grace and polish of a dancer. ‘Luckily we had a cancellation.’ Her smile is quiet, non-committal. Meant to confer nothing but a professional interest, and I find myself wanting to see it in full bloom.

Jesus. Enough, McBain.

I bring her up to speed with what has been happening since we last met. She takes notes in her pad. Stops her scribbling every few moments to listen, head cocked to the side. Every now and then she makes a small noise to highlight that she is actively listening. We must have gone to similar training courses. But with her the interest feels genuine.

‘So, life has not been without its challenges,’ she sums up, once I stop speaking.

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘How would you put it?’ she asks.

I want to say, fucked up. Settle for a smile and, ‘Life has had its challenges, right enough.’

‘And you say your boss thinks you have PTSD? What do you think?’

‘I think he’s an arse.’

She raises an eyebrow.

‘But…’ I continue, ‘he may have a point.’

‘And the panic attacks? Looking down into the river. Would you have jumped if those boys hadn’t thrown you out of that thought pattern?’

I sit back in my chair, arms crossed. Don’t think I have the honesty to answer this.

She waits.

‘Dunno.’

‘Mmmm,’ she says and writes something down. ‘The important thing, DI McBain, is that you didn’t.’ Her eyes narrow as she considers her next few words. ‘It can often take more courage to go on living.’

I purse my lips. Blow. ‘Forgive me, but that’s bullshit.’ This comes out with a tad more aggression than I intend. ‘Sorry.’ I swallow it down. Feel my fingers curl into my palm. Nails digging. ‘I didn’t have the guts to jump. That’s the truth.’

‘Yes?’ She’s not agreeing with me. She’s asking for clarification.

‘I’ve been to the edge, Miss Gibson. Forgive the hyperbole, but I’ve peered into the abyss. It doesn’t peer back, it pulls you fucking in. Anyway, how can you possibly understand this? Have you ever suffered from any of this shit?’

‘My situation is not up for discussion, Ray. But I will say, you don’t have to have had a heart attack to become a heart surgeon.’ Nicely answered, but we both know my attack on her was a poor attempt at deflection.

‘And what,’ she continues, too experienced to let my words affect her, ‘happened when you got pulled in?’

‘Noise.’

‘Noise?’

‘Chatter. Noise. All of the senseless crap we tell ourselves. Every damaging thought I’ve ever entertained until it was all I could do to keep breathing.’

‘What does the abyss represent to you?’

I don’t think about it too much. Just let the words come. ‘Me. My deepest thoughts. The unvarnished, the guileless, unprotected, wilful, most selfish, most cruel…’ I break off. Look down and see that my hands are shaking.

‘Don’t you think that it’s natural to question your existence? To wonder at your worth in the scheme of things?’

‘Yes, but not when the black dog is panting in the corner. Waiting to tear your throat out. Then it’s dangerous. The answer more likely to send you into even more of a spiral.’

‘Is that what took you down to the waterside?’

I nod.

‘What was going through your head?’

‘I wanted the chatter, the breathlessness, the sweats, the nightmares … I wanted it all to stop. I wanted to give my friends a break. It occurred to me that I would be doing them all a kindness if I jumped. Sure, they’d grieve for a while. Then life would be easier. Simpler.’ I look away into the distance. Seeing nothing.

I cringe from my words.

‘And?’

‘And now … saying it out loud? I can’t believe the conceit. That I could be of that importance to anyone.’ Pause. And I’m granted an insight. ‘I’m worthless.’ The last two syllables escape from my mouth in a whisper. I feel a tear moisten my cheek. I wipe it away with my right hand. Elaine waits until I control myself. Waits until I can lift my eyes up to meet hers.

She uncrosses her legs, puts her pad on to the table between us and leans forward. She speaks with an intensity that takes me unawares. ‘The good thing is that you’ve recognised there’s a problem, and you want to get help. We can work with that.’

A smile trembles across my lips. I can’t help but feel it’s too late.