Eight thirty-eight.
Sweating and desperate for the session to end, I risk a glance over at the gold clock, fearful she may catch me, my backbone giving a little yelp.
Eight thirty-nine. Eleven minutes to go.
Quick, eyes back before she catches you.
“What’s the time, Mr. Wolf?” she asks.
“Mr. Wolf?”
“Never play that game at school?”
“No. Can’t say I did.”
“Then let me explain, Doc. Someone pretends they’re the wolf. The other children have to creep up behind the wolf and ask, ‘What’s the time, Mr. Wolf?’ The wolf chooses a time. Two o’clock, eight o’clock, et cetera, et cetera. When the wolf finally decides it’s dinnertime, he or she pounces! Chases you. Gobbles you up. Fun, right?”
“Actually, I’m not sure it is.”
She laughs.
Ten minutes. Christ, I struggle with this personality. She scares the shit out of me. Clinical theory encourages clinicians to find compassion and understanding for all personalities with a multiple, but this one tests me. I know she gets off on running rings around me like this, taking perverse pleasure in watching me sweat, squirm, and flounder.
I catch myself holding my breath. We sit in silence.
Seven minutes.
From inside her bomber jacket she takes out a neatly folded sheet of A4 paper. Reads it to herself and edges a half smile. But something stops her from speaking.
“Would you like to share that with me?” I ask, nodding at the page.
“All in good time, Mr. Wolf. All in good time.” This she speaks in a deep, toneless voice. Almost metallic.
Her body appears strong today. Her denim legs wide open as she loafs—like a man. Her heavy trainers kicking the rug between us and causing a curl. I’m aware of my desire to straighten it, the angle making me twitch, but I resist bending down. Her body language warning me: Bow down and I’ll kick you in the head.
When Dolly arrives, her legs and feet occasionally turn inward; with Oneiroi they are elegantly crossed while she works the exquisite arch of her instep with her thumb. As for the Fouls, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them yet, their personality still an enigma, and if I’m completely honest, I’m a little apprehensive of encountering them.
She digs out something from one of her teeth with her nail, then rests her chin on a clenched fist and leans forward. A standoff. Stalemate.
For a moment I picture her running around both our chairs, chest pulled back, trainers set alight like a flint. We suddenly burst into flames. The two of us caught in a swirl of inferno above the Nest, awaiting rain. Anger comes like a sudden flight of birds. Why must you set fire to our work? Why do you wish to destroy it?
A saboteur.
Five more minutes. Excruciating.
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
“Tell me, Doc, do you think it’s good practice to leave your patients when they’re so vulnerable?” she asks.
“You’re upset about the break.”
“Upset. Please.”
“And angry.”
“I’m angry when I see you checking the clock every five minutes, angry that you jet off thinking everyone will be fine. Don’t forget, Doc, I see everything.”
“So it seems.”
Four minutes.
“See all those lunatics out there pacing up and down, talking to themselves?” She points at the bay window. “They’re incapable of telling you how negligent you are. Fuck, some of them can hardly speak!”
“You believe I should never take a break, is that it?”
She shrugs.
“A little unreasonable, don’t you think?” I say, palms turning damp.
I adjust my collar. A phlegmy racket escaping my throat.
Maybe I’m coming down with something—a virus caught on the plane while traveling back home? Or possibly the lack of sleep after another argument with Monica.
“Hot, Mr. Wolf?” She snorts.
I gather myself, resentment brewing. “Why do you sabotage our work?” I ask.
A pause.
She takes the A4 sheet of paper and scrunches it into a tight ball.
“Catch!” she shouts.
The hurl has me off guard. The paper ball lands in my lap. I feel my temper rising.
“What is this?” I try not to shout, but do.
“A gift from the Fouls,” she says, leaning back, resting a calf on her knee. “It’s a list.”
“A list?! A list of what?” I hiss, imagining snakes alive on my skull.
“Of ten ways they want to hurt you.”
I open the scrunched ball of paper.
“They said to tell you number five is their preferred choice.”
She stands, already knowing we’re at time, and leaves.
I walk over to my desk, burying my face in my hands. For the first time I note my grave fear, not of Alexa, but of the trauma within her. The distinct madness. The pain.
I take out my notebook to record what’s just happened but put it down, instead pick up the phone.
“Hello, this is Dr. Patel speaking.”
“It’s me.”
“Hey, welcome back. How was your holiday?”
I close my eyes. “Okay. How’s the research going?” I answer, fatigued.
“Oh, that good, eh?”
“It could have been worse. I guess.”
Mohsin clears his throat. “Well, research has made me a mad person.” He laughs.
“Is there not pleasure in being a mad person, which none but madmen know?” I say.
“Ha! So today you’re a poet.”
“And mad, apparently. Selfish too.”
“Ouch. Problems with Monica?”
“Monica wants a baby,” I say, my mood turned low, “and I’ve just had a visit from Alexa’s gatekeeper.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you naming your partner and a patient in the same breath.”
“Well, there it is,” I say, surrendering, suddenly exposed.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Sure. You know how I get after a holiday.”
“Cynical?”
“Disenchanted.”
“What was she like, the gatekeeper?”
“Fierce.”
“Of course she is. She’s protecting Alexa from potential threat. She’ll be doing anything to ensure there’s no repeat of abuse.”
“She and her foul sidekicks want to hurt me.”
“So potentially violent?”
“You don’t say.”
“She’s frightened, Daniel. You have to earn her trust. It takes time.”
“And in the meantime she’s left to run amok and terrorize me?”
“You’re being dramatic. She’s just testing you, waiting for you to slip up.”
“She’s a man-hater.”
“Can you blame her?” he defends. “Does she have a name, this man-hater?”
“Runner.”
“Runner?”
“Likes to run rings around people, gets off on it. Enjoys the power.”
“Is there a part that Runner cares about, possibly loves?”
I consider this. “Dolly. The youngest.”
“Makes sense. So the key might be to bond with Runner through Dolly.”
“I’ll try.”
A muted sneeze in my earpiece.
“Bless you,” I say.
“Thank you,” he allows, sniffing just a little bit. “Remember the multiple I worked with last year?”
“Jessica?” I say.
“That’s the one. She’d send me emails, sometimes five or six from the same address. Her gatekeeper would send me threats under the name of Felix, a male part, remember?”
“How did you manage her? Him?”
“It wasn’t about managing him, it was about gaining trust. Felix appeared after Jessica was assaulted one night in her own bed. Two neighbors—brothers—crowbarred their way into her home. Felix swore nothing like that would ever happen again. You need to listen to your countertransference. One foot in the ditch—”
“And one foot out,” I add.
“Exactly. And try not to let her flood you.”
I end the call and reach for the scrunched-up sheet of paper, ironing it out with my palm. I stare down at the Fouls’ list: