thirty-two

I’d never been to The Railway before although I’d heard that it was the place to go if you like sausages and real ale. Hidden away from the town centre and not far from where I lived, it was surprising I hadn’t visited before. Mustard-coloured walls, warm wood, and leather décor—my kind of place.

I ordered a Coke and took it to a corner table with a decent view of the door. A couple of minutes early, I sipped, studied the menu, checked out the wine list and beers on tap. I worked out the couple in front of me were not married to each other in spite of both wearing wedding rings. Body language suggested that he was trying to break off the relationship and she was unhappy about it.

After half an hour of no show, I risked a call to Martell’s mobile phone. It didn’t ring, but went straight to the messaging service. Perhaps he was driving, although, for the life of me, I couldn’t think why. Bored, I took a pen from my bag and doodled on a beer mat. Guided as if by a magic hand, I drew a collection of horizontal lines, short then long, joined by three horizontals and two squiggles. My photographic memory had captured almost perfectly the image of the scar on Mimi Vellender’s arm. Georgia was right. It did look Oriental. Actually, it looked Japanese. Remembering Chris’s eclectic collection of books on erotic art, I had a fleeting memory of Japanese paintings with lurid depictions of octopuses engaged in sex with young women.

Parking the thought and deciding to give Troy another ten minutes, I slipped the beer mat into my bag and placed my phone on the table, watched and waited and ignored the pitying looks of those who thought I’d been stood up. About to leave, my phone rang. I grabbed it.

“Kim, it’s Otto Vellender.”

Surprise didn’t really cover my reaction. “How did you get this number?”

“I’m sorry, have I called at a bad time?”

I glanced around the busy pub. He could probably hear the tinkle of glass and conversation. “Not especially.”

“I wondered whether you’d like to have dinner with me?”

Stunned, I didn’t know how to respond. If I thought he’d phoned to intimidate me, I was wrong. So what was Otto’s agenda, to put the record straight, to go on some kind of charm offensive? Then again, he’d no idea I’d witnessed the grim little scene at the graveyard the day before. And what kind of guy invites a woman to dinner the same week he’s buried his daughter? The type who does the same when he’s buried his son, I remembered, skeletons in my family closet rattling their spectral hands at me. Hadn’t my father done something similar?

“When?”

“Friday, nine thirty p.m.”

I’d intended to head to Devon. “Aren’t Fridays your busiest night?”

“My sous chefs will take over.”

“All right,” I said slowly. Instead, I’d head for the West Country first thing Saturday morning.

“Good,” he said. “Is there anything you can’t eat?”

I assured him I wasn’t fussy or allergic to anything.

“I’ll see you then.”

I plodded home, spent the rest of the evening with the growing and uneasy sense of impending disaster. I told myself that I was overwrought, imagining things, viewing my world through the narrow lens of my ripped up past and getting things out of perspective. Deep down, I knew I’d been drawn into something obscure and wrong and dangerous. Monica blurred into Paris Vellender, Otto into my father.

Wired, I hunted through my bookcase and finally unearthed one of Chris’s old books. Hentai is a Japanese term used to describe perverse sexual desire. The Japanese are big on octopi, and images ranged from sadistic to tasteful. Comparing what I’d drawn on the beer mat to content in the book revealed zilch. Frankly, I was relieved. Not that it helped me rest or reduce my anxiety. When a night’s sleep didn’t correct my thinking I upped my medication and hoped for the best.

Imogen Miller was my first client the next day. Ground made in our previous consultation had sheared off and fallen into the sea. Back the moody attitude, the screw you expression, the downturned mouth and downcast eyes that refused to be held by mine. I put it down to withdrawal symptoms. A client may have a breakthrough moment only to panic at the dawning reality of having to put changes of behaviour into practice. In many ways it was easier to give in to the tyranny of addiction than allow someone like me to loosen its stranglehold.

I ran through the standard how are yous and quickly cut to her urge to self-harm. I kidded myself that I was nothing if not professional. I didn’t admit any personal interest.

“Which websites do you use?”

She shrugged one spiny shoulder.

I waited. Seconds passed like a countdown to a millennium change. “Can I show you something?”

She looked up, eyes flickering.

I took the beer mat from my bag and showed Imogen. “Does this mean anything?”

Her chin jutted out. She peered forward. I looked at her expectantly. She met my gaze, blinking and blank-eyed. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

She was lying. She knew it. I knew it.

“I think it has a Japanese connection.”

“How would I frigging know?”

I waited a beat. “Are you struggling, Imogen?”

Her smile was tight and hollow. Everything about her posture was pared down and contained. “Have you spoken to my mum?”

“Not yet.”

A mass of self-loathing and guilt, she drew away from me and stared deliberately at the wall. “See, you say you’ll do something and then you don’t.”

“But I will,” I assured her.

“Right,” she said, disbelieving, her voice cold and detached.

“Not every negative event, like your mother asking you—”

“Ordering me—”

“To practice means that she doesn’t love you.”

Imogen looked at me with hard eyes. “What the fuck would you know?”

Long after she’d gone, I realised how right she was. I didn’t have a clue.