Cornwall 2016
The adrenaline pumps subaquatic sounds through my ears. I’m conscious of heat illuminating my cheeks and aware of Ruan’s eyes spearing my back. But time seems to stop, for a moment, as we all remain immobile without words. Frozen in time. Eventually, he returns my forged smile. I’m unsure if his is a genuine one. My ability to read people’s intentions momentarily deactivates. I watch as his eyes search my face. Deliberately checking off my features as if from a list. A mental detailed list he prepared earlier. It’s a while before he opens his mouth to answer me, closing it again. Instead, he holds out his tanned hand to greet mine, looking so small in comparison.
I do not know this man; but I suspect he knows me. A disconcerting awareness shrouds me as I wrack my mind. Who are you? A strange unidentified atmosphere fills the room. Then a cough from behind breaks through as I feel the eyes of Ruan moving between us.
‘William?’ I tender again, shifting my feet to steady myself.
He shakes his head as if waking himself from a trance. ‘Yes. Hi, sorry. I was miles away.’ He steps closer to me as my feet automatically step back one. He still has hold of my hand; he’s also invading my personal space.
My heart is still pumping wildly; I was sure this was you. From behind the resemblance is uncanny. ‘Not to worry.’ I step forward again. I’m hardly behaving in a welcoming manner. ‘I’m Eve, by the way.’ I pause for a moment, waiting for him to say, I know, but he doesn’t. I am as certain as I can be he’s thinking it. Am I just being paranoid again? This could be a genuine case and my distrust is stripping me of any composure or practised etiquette. He smiles at me knowingly; he is self-confident yet there is something so unsettled about him. So many unsaid words sitting on his shoulders. But not in the usual fidgety, anxious manner I’ve become so accustomed to.
‘Please, come on through, William. It’s lovely to meet you,’ I lie, wishing I’d refused to take the referral whilst I still had the chance. I’m also aware as I say this, he hasn’t yet released his grip of my hand. His clasp is firm, touching my skin, almost trying to communicate something. I cannot shake off the uneasy feeling, but then, given the recent rush of stress hormones, it’s to be expected. Perhaps it has nothing to do with this William, and I’m simply filtering down again from the battered boxes.
I slowly pull my hand from his and spin round to face the room. So conscious of each footstep he takes behind me. ‘Come on through.’ My shoulders tense ready for action. I glance at a perplexed-looking Ruan and try to transmit to him: I don’t even know where to begin but please don’t leave the clinic, please stay close; just for the next hour.
We step into my room, and I shut the solid wood door behind us. There’s no glass in this door, to protect people’s privacy. But with no way for Ruan to observe and without the reassuring alarm buttons I had in the hospital, I feel decidedly vulnerable. I watch him glance around the room. Most people avoid averting their eyes from me, their feet or the floor. Next, he regards my desk and I realise he’s looking at the brown A4 envelope containing the newspaper articles. Why is he looking at it? I’d meant to hide it, not that he appreciates what it contains. Or does he? I notice a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes before he returns his eyes to me. Did I imagine it?
I direct my hand towards his chair. ‘Please, take a seat, William.’ We both sit. For the first time, I realise it’s me who sits awkward and with apprehension of what’s to come, rather than my client. He slouches back into the depth of the chair, spreading out his legs as far as he can without touching mine, as he alternately flexes and taps his feet. Self-certainty emanates from him but it’s not arrogance. I feel a little bad – he’s come to me for help, and so far he hasn’t received the best of my attention. He’s been referred through a professional body, but something is not right.
I smile at him uneasily as I reach behind to gather the paperwork from my desk. I feel his eyes wash over me, studying me. Perturbed, I shift in my chair, thrown completely as to how to begin our appointment. Why am I allowing him to make me behave in this manner? People can only affect us if we allow them to, runs through my mind. Now look at me. But he’s good, he has discreetly managed to shift the balance of therapist and client, and a bad therapist at that, one who wishes to have control. I need to break the cycle.
I feel my throat scratch with dryness. ‘Can I fetch you a glass of water? Or a coffee perhaps, before we make a start?’ Desperately hoping he’ll say yes, so I can leave the room to have a word with myself. Re-establish some self-control, and cease behaving like such an amateur.
But he smiles at me whilst pulling a bottle from his jacket pocket. ‘It’s fine, thanks. I always carry water with me.’
‘Always prepared, I see; must be the soldier in you.’ If you are one, that is. ‘Would you mind, though? I’ve such a dry throat today; I’ll pop for some water, if that’s okay with you?’
‘Sure, of course, please, carry on.’ He watches as I stand. Should I move the envelope before I leave the room? Why am I allowing him to get to me so much? I decide it would look ridiculous; I’ve already wasted enough time. Even so, I leave the door ajar behind me, and scuttle across to the water machine, listening for any possible movement. I glance over to the front-desk area where Bea has now joined Ruan; I half smile, half grimace at them. Drumming my head against my hands, I take a gulp of cold water and count to ten. Get a grip, Eve. I head back for my room. Ruan calls after me.
‘Eve, just to let you know – your next appointment has just called in. Cancelled. Said she can’t make it, her partner has insisted she join him instead, something about needing to visit his son. Said you’d understand?’
I don’t, but it will just be something else I’ve forgotten about. ‘Fine,’ I tell Ruan. I re-enter my room, leaving my anxious state outside the door, Bea and Ruan undoubtedly confirming to each other that my behaviour is becoming more insane by the hour.
‘Sorry about that. Right, so, William, I’ve received this referral—’ I flash the piece of paper ‘—and you are ex-forces?’
‘Yes, I am.’
He’s not giving anything away. ‘Okay. Let’s start with the here and now, then work our way back.’
‘Okay.’ He settles further into his chair.
‘Okay, this referral states PTSD. What is your understanding of this, or, more importantly, can you tell me what your symptoms are? How they affect you on a day-to-day basis. I mean in today’s terms.’
‘How long do you have?’ He smiles. Almost teasing.
I return his smile. ‘As long as you need.’ I note, despite mentioning his diagnosed condition, he’s so together and calm. ‘It’s perhaps easier to start with – how you believe your life has changed because of any symptoms. So, if we were to look at yesterday, what did you do or not do, feel or not feel, in comparison to perhaps twelve months ago, two years ago or, if you’ve been suffering for some time, ten years ago. Go back as far as you need to.’
He spends time relaying debilitating symptoms: sleepless nights, panic attacks without warning and the most lucid flashbacks and anxious tendencies – these he keeps well hidden, except for the obvious. A constant wired feeling, always feeling on the edge. Clearly, this isn’t going to be a one-off appointment. Despite empathising with this man who sits in front of me, who has been through experiences which would force you to turn away from a TV screen, I still feel quite uneasy about him. Something doesn’t add up, but I can’t put my finger on it. I admonish myself, but it wouldn’t be too difficult to research and relay typical symptoms of PTSD and trauma-related disturbances, so to manipulate a referral. He continues, composed and precise, conferring with a smooth, educated, but not a la-di-da voice. After a while, I can’t dispute this man has suffered trauma in his life. He is genuine; I’m now as sure of this as I can be. It’s horrifying learning what these servicemen go through; how can they possibly be expected to readapt, without help, into everyday society? But there is more he’s not telling me. Something buried underneath.
‘You’re from Warwickshire?’ Merely articulating the W word sends shivers down my spine.
He holds up a finger. ‘Was,’ he instantly corrects me, as if it had the same effect on him. ‘Sorry. I mean, I was from there, yes. I no longer have any connections to the area.’ This is the first time I notice a flicker of guardedness in his attitude. I watch him as he shifts position in his seat, back to the same position again. Eyes locked on mine.
‘Okay, so now you’re living in Cornwall?’
He shrugs. ‘Kind of, yes, at the moment I am anyway.’ Have I touched on something here? His confident eyes are reflecting a little caginess.
He clearly feels uncomfortable with this line of discussion, but it’s not exactly relevant to his treatment. I decide to leave it, for the moment. Maybe the referral team can throw some more light on the matter. Though it’s odd something so everyday can evoke this reaction. We continue to discuss his symptoms, how they impact on his health and quality of life, then I talk through the treatment options for trauma, the neurobiology of how it manifests and subsists. At all times, William is polite, appearing to take an interest. We talk about the brain and its many disobliging behaviours, physical and psychological; he listens with interest. Perhaps he is here with genuine needs.
‘Interesting,’ he utters.
‘The thing is, I believe, if people have a better understanding of the science, why they’re feeling, reacting the way they are, it allows it to feel more correctable.’ He nods. ‘Your brain is a most powerful computer; your ultimate control centre but also a creature of habit. Like all new learning, we can also learn bad things, even build new neural pathways to support the bad things. Yours possibly manifest from trauma of some form. Not allowing you to move on, always alert. Always hyper-vigilant. Sitting dormant waiting to prod you into action.’
‘Can you change these pathways? Or am I stuck with them for good? Knackered?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘Yes, definitely you can. Your brain’s like a malleable chunk of plastic; it can be moulded and adapted to new learning; new responding and new thinking.’
‘And the old bits? The bad pathways?’
‘Like the old adage says, if you don’t use it you lose it. That said, we need to deal with the trauma first.’
He tilts his head to one side. ‘But what if I don’t want to talk about it?’ I’ve the message loud and clear: he doesn’t want to discuss his traumatic experiences with me. This isn’t unusual in itself. It’s not exactly pleasant conversation and, in some respects, discussing the bad things can make the trauma worse; especially if the client is anxious at the time. Creating yet another anxious-to-be-avoided experience can only compound the trauma further.
‘It’s not a problem. We can treat the trauma specifically; there are techniques that do not require you to discuss it with me. Non-invasive techniques. You will still need to recall the experiences in your mind’s eye, though. I’ll give you more information about this before you leave so you can go away, think it through.’ I wonder why he’s so anxious about sharing it with me. He asked for the referral himself. He must already know I’ve worked with many serving and non-serving people. What could be so bad? Or what did he not want me to know?
Eventually, we move on to talking about historical patterns. How we learn to respond and react to circumstances and people, based on past patterns of behaviour. He crosses and uncrosses his legs, intermittently swigging from his bottle of water. Little beads of sweat appear on his brow. Where has the self-assured man gone who entered my room? This isn’t supposed to happen in this order. Something I’ve said has triggered his response and he’s struggling to refind his footing.
His left leg jigs up and down in time to his tapping heel. I can’t ignore it any longer. ‘Are you okay? Before we go on. You seem a little on edge. Is it something I’ve said?’
His eyes dart from me, to the desk and back. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ He tugs at the collar of his polo shirt. ‘It’s pretty warm in here.’
I’ll oblige him. ‘It is, isn’t it? I’ll open the window.’ I begin battle with the window once again, conscious this is not the cause for his anxious moment. It isn’t overly warm at all. We’ll both be freezing in a minute. I sit back down, deciding to change the subject.
‘What about family, William?’
‘What about it?’ he challenges.
‘Do you have any close family or friends to support you at the moment? A partner maybe?’ I’ve noticed the absence of any ring.
‘Nope, I don’t. No family. No partner,’ he shuts me down.
Interesting. Why such a sensitive topic? Another one.
‘Okay. Any close friends? Anyone to help you through this? Someone you can talk things through with?’ He exhales, lifting his chin to me. ‘It’s not a problem. This is simply background information. So I have an understanding of your support system.’ He sits tense, almost defiant, as if I’m judging him. I’m not.
‘No.’ He sighs deeply, rubbing his outdoor hand through thick dark hair. ‘Look, if you don’t mind me saying, I can’t really see how this helps. But, in answer to your questions, no. I don’t have anyone. A life in the forces can do that to you.’ I’m not mistaken; his eyes take on a deep look of sadness. I think we’ve encountered another knot in the tissues here.
I hold my hands up to him. ‘It’s fine, William, we can move on.’ A glimmer of relief washes over him as he physically relaxes into his chair. ‘Just so you know,’ I say, ‘you’re not the only one. Many people are without support. It must be tremendously difficult to build relationships when you never really know where you’re going to be based. Always on the move, overseas, out of the UK so often.’ Or sometimes people choose not to involve friends or family. It’s not too often I come across people who are completely alone in the world. How sad. ‘Anyway, that’s what I’m here for, so it’s no big deal. Let’s just move on.’
Clearly he doesn’t wish to talk about his family or his past. It could be a personal privacy issue, but I sense this time it’s more than that. I stand to give him a moment. ‘Think I’ll pull down the window now, if it’s okay; it’s getting a little chilly in here.’ I begin to bump down the pig-headed window.
‘My parents are dead,’ he blurts at my back, so as to get the stuck words to release. I turn to acknowledge him but remain silent. I don’t want to interrupt his flow. I nod at him whilst sitting down. A few breaths later he adds, ‘The thing is, I’ve never known my parents. They died before I got the chance to know them. I can’t even remember them. Sometimes I think I see them. Hear them too in my memories. But I’m not sure if they’re actual memories, or if they’re just in my imagination or my dreams. Other than that, I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.’ I smile and nod at him. Before he adds, ‘I can assure you, though, it’s not really a problem for me; I’ve had plenty of time to get used to it.’
The sadness I witnessed earlier is no longer with him. I think he probably is okay with it. ‘Of course, whatever we talk about has to be because you want to, or need to. Not always the same thing.’ He would appear to have no history, no roots and no current base. It’s not what he’s saying, but what he’s not saying, that concerns me. I glance at the clock on the shelf to the left of the door, purposely placed so I can keep my eye on time without alerting the client to it. ‘Do we have an address for you, William?’ I flick through my paperwork. ‘For some reason the referral form was incomplete.’
‘No, I don’t think I had a fixed address at the original meeting.’ He rubs his hand through his hair, still in the same position from before. ‘I told them I’d be heading down to Cornwall anytime soon for a while. So they suggested I booked in with you.’
‘Fine. Can you please give Ruan your full details before you leave? It’s quite important. Are you registered with a GP down here?’
‘Nope.’
‘Can I suggest you do, when you have a moment? Whereabouts are you living – in Truro?’
‘You can suggest I register at the GP’s, yes.’ He grins; confidence is back in the room. ‘Just outside Truro, on the outskirts.’
‘I’ll get Ruan to set up our next appointment and then—’
‘What kind of experience do you have with trauma, Eve?’
‘I’ve worked with trauma cases for many years. What would you—’
‘No, I mean personal experience?’
‘I see. Sorry, William; I don’t express details about my personal life in clinic. It’s a—’
‘I just wondered as you appear to have such an innate understanding.’
I feel the beginnings of a blush. I could be wrong, but it sounds as if he’s challenging me; digging at something. ‘That will be my training. That, and my experience of working with it,’ I explain.
He nods, smiling. ‘Understood.’ He jumps to his feet, holding out his hand. ‘Well, it’s been… insightful, Eve; thank you.’ I stand to shake his hand. He embraces my hand for a moment too long, before adding, ‘Do you have anyone to support you, to talk things through with?’ I stare blankly at him; what is he trying to say, imply? He continues, ‘Of course, I’m referring to the difficult cases you must work with.’
But this is not what he meant at all. What does this man know about me and who is he? Does he know you? Have you sent him? ‘Don’t you worry; I can look after myself,’ I tell him.
‘Yes. Yes, so I believe. Thank you, Eve.’ He turns and leaves my room, before one last turn, his eyes meet mine. Unsaid words meet somewhere in between us, and he closes the door behind him. I fall down to my seat, rest my elbows on my desk and place my head in my hands. What the hell was that all about? My eyes fall once again to the A4 envelope.
A few minutes later; I’m broken from my thoughts by a gentle knocking at my door, followed by Ruan’s head.
‘Coffee? You’ve time now for a quick break.’
‘Please, Ruan, thanks.’ He backs out of the door.
‘Ruan?’
‘Yeah, I know, strong! Already on it.’
‘No, not that. Did William leave his address, before he left? Did he give you his details?’
‘No. Should he have?’
‘Yes, I asked him to.’
‘No. He just said, “Can you tell Eve I’ll be in touch?”’
I have no way of contacting him, no mobile number, no address. I know nothing about him. Was he even a genuine PTSD referral? More importantly, what did he mean, ‘tell Eve I’ll be in touch’? Was that a threat or a genuine comment? Why do I feel as though he came here under false pretences? All that outlandishness – have I ever experienced any trauma? – what was all that about?
I prod to silence the rumble from my empty stomach. I feel too nauseous to consider food. I finger the brown envelope, hoping for enlightenment, then tug the insert out again. Tell me, does this have something to do with you? Along with the phone calls, the car following me, and those dark shadows I feel at night. But how could it have anything to do with you, given I unearthed it in my briefcase? The only people with access to my briefcase are the people I care about and trust the most in the world. I can’t go down this dodgy road; I can’t allow myself to suspect any of these people. But if they didn’t plant it, either I’m losing my mind and I put it there myself, or someone else has gained access to the clinic or, God forbid, my home, without my realising. For the life of me, I cannot see how it could be possible.
I jump and turn as Ruan kicks the door open with a mug of coffee in one hand and a box of Jaffa Cakes in the other. The sheet of A4 paper floats in slow motion to the floor.
‘I forgot to mention…’ He places my supplies down on the desk. ‘I’ll get that, don’t worry.’ He begins to bend down.
‘No, it’s fine, leave it. It’s for the bin anyway.’ I bend forwards to scoop up the sheet, before he attempts to help me again. ‘What did you forget to mention?’
‘Someone got hit this morning.’
‘Hit?’
‘Yeah, by the cranky traffic warden. Made his day, probably. The best thing was, the woman was sat there for ages. I thought she was coming in here to begin with. She was looking our way for some time.’
‘Sure,’ I respond, but Ruan’s words are drifting around the room, as I only have eyes for the sheet of paper now in my hands.
‘About… thirty minutes, I reckon. She must have decided to run down to the public loo. She was only gone, what, five minutes…’
‘Really.’ For the first time, on the back of the sheet, I notice a handwritten note.
‘Then, he hit her, didn’t he? I tried to intervene, but he wasn’t having it. She must have been back literally seconds after he got her. She didn’t look very happy.’
‘Oh, dear.’ I quickly shove manila folders on top, to cover the paper. I’d recognise that handwriting anywhere. ‘I bet she wasn’t.’
‘Eve, are you even listening to me?’ He sways back to get a better look at me. ‘You okay? You’ve gone real pale.’
‘I’m fine. I was listening. What a shame, poor woman. Bet she wasn’t expecting that the moment she wasn’t looking.’ I stand, reaching for my jacket. ‘I’m just popping out, won’t be long.’
‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘I just need some fresh air, Ruan. I’m fine.’
I’m not fine. I wasn’t expecting this. How did I not see it before? It doesn’t make sense – why now? I crash out onto the pavement, a deep breath battling for space within my constricting chest as I fight back the rising taste of bilious disorientation. How would she even know about it? Know about you?
It doesn’t make any sense at all. After all this time.