Page 43 of The Therapist

THIRTY

Mike

He can’t breathe, can’t breathe. There is something covering his face and he wants it off.

‘No, no, don’t do that.’ A woman’s voice. ‘We’ve got you, mate, stay calm, we’ve got you.’

‘What happened?’ he tries to say but the words are garbled, caught up in his throat. He was trying to open the shed because Sandy was in the shed, except she wasn’t. And Lana shot him.

But she didn’t shoot him because that’s not where he’s hurt.

He would feel pain where a bullet entered his body – wouldn’t he?

– and he can’t feel pain anywhere except on his head.

The garden is a mess and he has been meaning to clean it up, to put away the scooters and the bicycles and other outdoor toys, but he didn’t get around to it.

And when he stepped back, he tripped over something, Felix’s scooter maybe?

And he went down. The pain he felt was sharp, hard, metal. He must have passed out.

Sandy wasn’t in the shed. He knows that. Then who screamed? Sandy screamed. Where was she? Somewhere in the garden.

That means it was true; everything he was told only hours ago, on the phone, was true.

He didn’t want to believe it but now he has no choice.

His wife is not just unhappy and troubled but deeply disturbed and willing to hurt others for her own gain, but the articles in the cookie jar told him that, the terrible articles hidden in a treat jar for only his wife to enjoy.

‘My kids,’ he says.

‘They’re with the police. If you have family who can take them, the police will find them. But they’re safe. Don’t close your eyes, okay, keep talking to me. I need you to keep talking to me.’

Mike wants to close his eyes. He really wants to but he turns his head to look at the paramedic who is tending to his head wound. She has blue eyes and is wearing a mask.

‘Am I okay?’ he asks.

‘You’re going to be fine,’ she says as his heavy eyelids drop closed.

He’s certain she is lying. He will never be fine ever again.