Page 47 of The Therapist

THIRTY-FOUR

WEDNESDAY NIGHT/THURSDAY MORNING

Sandy

The cold air hits my cheeks as I run, my breath white in the wind. The first week of spring has brought with it more chilled air, more rain.

Dawn is many hours away and the streets are empty of people; only silent, parked cars glistening with frost under the streetlights take up space.

I stop, just to catch my breath, panting as saliva fills my mouth.

And then I hear him. The heavy thud of his running feet echo through the air. He is getting closer, much closer. I turn and start to run again, my heart pounding and my lungs burning.

I’m tired and I can’t run any faster. My legs are filled with acid and my eyes are streaming, blurring my vision. But I can hear him. I round a corner, seeking shelter, looking for somewhere to hide, but as I turn my head, I feel his hands on me, feel him grab my hair, pull me to him.

His long arms wrap tightly around me, pulling me to his chest, where I can feel his heart beating.

‘You can’t run from me,’ he hisses. ‘I’ll always catch you. Always.’

A cry escapes my throat because I know it’s the truth.

‘You won’t run again,’ he states. And I know that’s the truth as well.

This will be the last time. The very last time.

One last little game, before we have to be apart.

I run, he chases me and then when he catches me, it is sweeter than anything.

He holds me tight and I can’t help laughing as I turn to kiss him because I know that after tonight, our new life begins. After tonight it will be me and him. The children exist but there are places children can go, places they can be sent so they don’t interfere.

Money fixes everything. And very soon, I will have a lot of money.

‘They wouldn’t really tell me anything when I called the hospital,’ I say, panting as I catch my breath. We like games, the two of us, playing with each other and with others. ‘But I don’t think he’s dead. I don’t think she killed him.’

‘And that’s why we need to go there and make sure it’s over.

I only heard the shot and she was standing so close to him.

He may die in the night but we need to make very, very sure.

I saw him fall but then I needed to run.

So, we go and we make certain and then it’s just a matter of waiting.

I catch a plane to the US tomorrow night, but as soon as you have the money, you call me and our life begins. ’

‘Okay,’ I agree.

It will take some time, I know that. We will have to be physically apart and I know that too but we are together in this and we will be forever.

I had a plan, my own special plan. I was always going to end his life.

But I wasn’t going to go to prison for it.

I did my research, collecting every story I could find.

So many women find themselves in terrible situations, trapped in abusive marriages where they are pushed and pushed until they snap and they push back.

And then an abusive man is dead. And everyone is sorry for her.

The two life insurance policies were my ticket out of the banal and the ordinary.

I had to get creative to pay for them, buying clothes and then taking them back, asking for cash and putting it into a secret account.

I had to find stores that would do that for me as I stood at the counter with my sob story.

‘My wallet has been stolen with all my cards. Please give me the cash for the return.’ People are easy to fool, especially if you shed a few tears.

That was my plan. I found the therapist who would be witness to my abuse, who would one day be able to tell the police that I was a battered woman who had finally, after years of being hurt, had enough.

And then I would be the recipient of an outpouring of sympathy, and ‘the husband’ would be gone so he would never be able to tell his side of the story.

His side of the story wouldn’t exist. But then I walked into his office and everything changed, absolutely everything, because I sensed, even in the moment I met him, that I had found someone just like me.

We drive to the hospital together. I call again, telling them I am his sister, asking how he is, but I get another unsatisfactory reply. ‘We will know more in twenty-four hours.’

I ask for his room number and they give that to me. Why wouldn’t they? I’m his sister.

It’s nearly 3.30 a.m. and the hospital car park has emptied out. Hopefully this will be easy and he will be weak.

‘Are you sure this will work?’ I ask him and he smiles.

‘I’ll be with you,’ he says.

My heart is racing, adrenalin flowing through my body. It’s not fear. It’s excitement, an excitement that was unlocked the moment we met, the moment we recognised each other. There is nothing more glorious than this.

He never gave me any therapy, not the way my husband thought he would.

Instead, we spent the hour we were together indulging ourselves.

And when I told him my plan, he thought I was brilliant because I am.

But he had a better idea, one that involved Lana, sweet, gullible Lana.

I could see her jealousy of me, of my beauty, written across her face whenever she looked at me.

I wouldn’t need to kill ‘the husband’. Lana would do it for me.

It was perfect. She would do it to save a battered woman.

I knew she would. She likes to rescue lost souls.

The corridors are empty, nurses in other rooms speaking with hushed voices.

I push open a door and there he is, still in a bed, the man I’m here to kill.

I should never have married, never had children but I didn’t know there was an option. I didn’t know that someone else like me existed.

And tomorrow, I will return from my break and I will be shocked at what my therapist has done, heartbroken over the loss of my husband who I tried so hard to help become a better person. Poor Mike. He was never going to change.

‘Ready?’ Ben asks me.

‘Ready,’ I say.