Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(3)

‘They do?’

‘Of course. Everyone beats themselves up: “I’m fat,” “I’m single,” “I’m broke.” Take my sister, Jacqui, for example .?.?.’

‘Your sister didn’t walk into a prostitute’s bedsit to find a blood-soaked child brushing the hair of her horrifically mutilated mother.’

Emotional bushwhack.

Dr Allen’s face is blank, her tone entirely neutral, but her words are like spears prodding me back into that room with all the blood and the piss and the cheap, slashed-up furniture. I stare her down while desperately scrabbling about in my brain for something vacuous to focus on. Anything just to block it out. I settle on a puerile joke DC Craig Cooke sent me this morning. Something about his penis and a Rubik’s Cube but I can’t remember the punchline.

She leans forward and I instinctively lean back, an animal scolded. ‘I’m sorry to provoke you, but you have to think about what happened. You have to confront it.’

‘Don’t give up now, Little Donkey. Bethlehem’s in sight .?.?.’

I pull my coat tight around me, a textbook defensive stance. ‘The only thing I need to confront is how to stop Steele shipping me out on secondment. Have you heard the latest? The Financial Intelligence Unit! I may be many things, Dr Allen, but “financially intelligent” isn’t one of them.’

‘You should keep an open mind. Maybe Murder isn’t right for you?’ It’s a loaded statement dressed up as a question. Fair play to her. ‘Why do you view a move as a negative thing? My understanding from DCI Steele is that it’s quite the opposite. A secondment could be .?.?.’

‘Beneficial? Good for my development? I see you got the same memo.’

‘Cynicism is a common state of mind for people who’ve experienced a traumatic event.’

I laugh quietly into the collar of my coat. ‘Cynicism is a common state of mind for a police officer, Dr Allen. In fact, I’m fairly sure it’s part of the entry criteria. That, and the ability to lift thirty-five kilos.’

She reaches for her coffee, eyes locked on mine. ‘Do you believe I can help you?’

I stare at my palms, pretend to mull this over. A clairvoyant once told me that the curve of my heart line means I only ever open up in one-to-one situations. I’m not sure Dr Allen would agree.

Eventually I look up. ‘Honestly? No. But that isn’t a reflection on you. I’ve had counselling before, for other stuff. That didn’t help either.’

She keeps her voice casual. ‘Anything that feels relevant to discuss here?’

‘Not really. Some cognitive behavioural stuff for a minor eating issue. Family mediation after I keyed my dad’s Audi TT and he threatened to break my arm.’

She doesn’t react. ‘Do you think you’re beyond help, Catrina?’

‘It’s been said.’

‘Oh yes? By who?’

I resist the urge to start counting people off on my fingers, aware that it might look a tad neurotic. I don’t want to add ‘paranoid personality disorder’ to my school report, after all. Although it’d almost be worth it for the look on Steele’s face.

‘So this is what I’m paying ninety pounds an hour for? To be told something I already fucking know. Cat Kinsella came out of the womb thinking the midwife was looking at her funny – anyone will tell you that .?.?.’

‘My dad,’ I say. ‘Repeatedly. And DCI Steele, obviously.’

She sidesteps the Dad thing again – different therapy, different hourly rate. ‘Surely the fact you’re here shows that DCI Steele believes you’re worth helping?’

‘Oh come on. You don’t get all those letters after your name for being gullible. Steele’s covering her arse, plain and simple. She’s worried I’m going to start wailing “PTSD” if someone has so much as a nosebleed, so she’s dumped the problem on you.’ I know I sound snide and disrespectful and a whole host of other things that I try hard not to be, but I’m a work-in-progress, what can I say. ‘Sorry, no offence .?.?.’

‘None taken, Catrina.’ She waves away my apology with a bony, jewelled hand and I notice a small gleaming Peridot, similar to the one I used to steal out of Mum’s jewellery box so I could pretend I was married to Gareth Gates.

‘By the way, no one calls me Catrina. I prefer Cat, if that’s OK.’

‘Of course. Although you didn’t need to wait three sessions to tell me.’ She rests her hands in the nook of her lap and I sense she’s about to go all counsellor on me. ‘Do you often find it difficult to say what you want?’

Et voila.

‘Nope.’ I say, draining the dregs of my coffee. ‘Although while we’re at it, I much prefer tea.’

She smiles, jots a few words down. I suspect it’s something along the lines of ‘uses humour to deflect discomfort’ rather than ‘remember to pick up some PG Tips.’

Outside the toddlers have stopped singing.

‘Look, honestly, I’ll be fine,’ I say, a bit too full of beans to convince anyone. ‘It’s the little girl I feel sorry for.’ I slow my breathing, steady my voice. ‘Tell me, will she remember everything that happened or could she forget, given time?’

I call her ‘the little girl’ so Dr Allen doesn’t start bleating about ‘over-empathy’ but her name is Alana-Jane and her favourite song is ‘Five Little Ducks’. I know this because she told me she sang it to her mummy to try to wake her up, and I know that she ate dog biscuits for two days because it was all she could reach, even when she stood on the pink bucket. I also know she wore a ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’ vest under her blood-spattered hoody and I absolutely know that her daddy killed her mummy, even if the CPS ruled that we’d face an impossible task proving it.