The Therapist(89)

‘It says,’ he goes on, looking me straight in the eyes. ‘Oliver didn’t have a sister.’

It happens so fast. He lunges towards me but I get there first, picking up my chair and hurling it across the table at him. Caught by surprise, he cries out. But I’m already gone. I get to the front door and as I open it, I hear him come into the hall. Slamming the door shut behind me, I take the keys from my pocket, almost dropping them in my panic, and lock him in. I expect him to start hammering on the door, and when he doesn’t I realise he’s gone to look for another way out. The key to the French windows is in the kitchen drawer, it’ll take him a while to find it.

I start running down the drive then stop, my eyes darting. I don’t know where to go. I was going to go into the square, get help from someone there but there’s no-one around. I don’t have long. I need to find somewhere with a phone so that I can call the police. I look towards Eve’s house then remember she’s at Tamsin’s. I run up the drive to Edward and Lorna’s.

I press on the bell, over and over again.

‘Lorna, Edward!’ I call, hammering on the door. ‘It’s Alice! Can you let me in? It’s urgent!’

I hear them shuffling as they come into the hall. ‘Please hurry!’ I urge. I don’t want to alarm them but I need to get inside.

There’s the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door swings open and I burst into the house, smashing it back against Edward. I barely give him a second glance, my eyes caught by Lorna standing further down the hallway, her face white with fright.

‘Sorry, Lorna,’ I say. ‘It’s urgent.’ I turn to Edward hurriedly. ‘Can I use—’ The words die on my lips. Standing behind Edward, his hand gripping the back of Edward’s neck, is Thomas.

The blood drains from my face as he pushes the door shut with his free hand. ‘How did you—?’

‘Get here?’ He sounds amused. ‘Out through your French windows and in through ours.’

I stare at him in confusion. ‘Yours?’

‘Yes.’ Now he laughs. ‘I did say I wanted you to meet my parents.’

His parents. I look in shock at Edward, and my shock quickly turns to fright. His face is dangerously red and his eyes are slipping out of focus. Adrenalin surges; I need to get help. I take a step back, look towards the door. But I’m too late. Still holding Edward, Thomas reaches out with his other hand and grabs me by the throat.

He waits until fear registers in my eyes, then tightens his grip.

‘You’re hurting me,’ I gasp.

The last thing I hear is his laugh.



When I come back to consciousness, I find myself tied to a chair. My instinct is to struggle free but I sense someone behind me and everything comes rushing back. Survival mode kicks in. Don’t let him know you’re awake. My mouth is dry; I swallow carefully, quietly, and have to stop myself crying out from the pain in my throat.

I try and regroup my thoughts but it’s difficult when battling fear is my primary concern. Fear for Lorna and Edward – where are they? Fear that I might not get out of this alive.

Did he say Lorna and Edward were his parents? In a way, it makes sense. He must be the son they said died four years ago, in Iraq. What had he done to make them deny the existence of their only child? Justine Bartley had disappeared three years ago after going to meet her therapist. If Thomas was Nina’s therapist, was he also Justine Bartley’s therapist?

I inadvertently swallow and unprepared for the pain, a groan escapes my lips. A hand winds itself in my hair and my head is pulled back, stretching my neck, making the fire in my throat worse. I close my eyes. I don’t want to see his face.

‘Awake, are we? Good!’

‘Stop, John, please!’ I recognise Lorna’s voice and open my eyes, moving them in her direction. I can just about see her, crouching down beside Edward, slumped against the wall. ‘Your father needs an ambulance. It’s his heart.’

‘Be quiet!’ Thomas snaps. I’d thought at first that Lorna was speaking to someone else. But of course, Thomas isn’t his real name.

He tugs my head back further, causing my swollen throat more injury. The pain is excruciating but I refuse to let him see how much it hurts.

He bends over me, bringing his face close, so that I’m looking right into his eyes, upside down.

‘Guess what’s going to happen now?’ he says.

You’re going to kill me.

I hear a noise, a noise I recognise as a pair of scissors being sliced open and closed. Lifting his arm, he brings them into view and I remember what happened to Nina.

‘You’re going to cut my hair.’ It comes out in a hoarse whisper.

‘That’s right.’ He moves his hands to either side of my head and pushes it forward, so that I’m looking straight ahead. At first, I think there’s another woman in the room with us, until I realise it’s my own reflection staring back at me from a gold-framed mirror, speckled with age, set up on a table in front of me.

I quickly work out that the room I’m in corresponds to my study in our house next door. The two windows have been boarded up; the only light comes from two ornate lamps, placed on either side of the mirror. As I watch, he takes hold of my hair, lifts it high above my head and slowly, gradually, lets it fall around my shoulders. I watch him in the mirror and shudder at what I see. He looks so different to the man I knew – or thought I knew – that it’s like looking at someone else. Somehow, it makes it easier.