two, thank heavens. Sometimes the drugs do work.
‘Like we’ve said,’ Amanda says, with the air of a lawyer summing up, ‘sometimes it’s not one thing that can result in such extreme outcomes, but a number of things. And often it’s something relatively small that tips us over an edge we’ve been teetering on for some time.’
‘Like Crackerjack.’
‘Like Crackerjack.’ She smiles. ‘You have a wonderful support network. You have people who love you. How do you feel about Katie leaving? Liverpool, isn’t it?’
‘I’m OK. I’m all right. I mean, she’s a lot less angry since the counselling and I know I might have thought I couldn’t bear for her to leave, but I saw what her not leaving meant, not following her path, and it was terrible. And I know she’s academic, but it’s stage make-up she loves and that’s what she should do. You’ve got to follow your heart, haven’t you? Do something you’re passionate about. And I’ll be glad to get shut of all her props, to be honest – they’re taking over! I just want her to be happy. I’m following her now, by the way. On Instagram, I mean. Me and 4,000 others. She’s an influencer, did I tell you? Whatever that is.’
‘And Liverpool isn’t too far away.’
‘Not too far away, no. Half an hour on the train, not even that. She can still be independent but she’s near enough if she needs us after… after everything. And she can still be here for Kieron’s anniversary.’
‘Which is next week. Are you doing anything specific?’
‘We’re going to scatter his ashes and play his favourite song.’
Her eyebrows go up. ‘Where?’
‘Town hall.’ I smile. ‘The pond.’
Her eyebrows, which had barely landed, are up again. ‘What’s your thinking?’
‘I’m thinking that hate is going to eat this world up if we’re not careful. And what we need is love. The town hall is where Mark and I got married. It’s where we registered our children’s births. It’s where I took them to feed the ducks when they were little, watched them play. That place was always love for me and I’ll not have it ruined. I’ll not have it ruined by hate.’
‘You’re reclaiming it.’
‘I suppose I am, yes.’
When she says goodbye, there are tears in her eyes, as there have been at other moments when we’ve spoken. She is in her late thirties, as I thought, and she has two kids, two little girls. This last year, as I’ve got better, I have managed to make her laugh more and more. I know she’s here if I feel things getting on top of me again, and I know I’ll see her for my follow-ups, but now it’s time for me to go.
‘Thanks for everything,’ I say. There are tears in my eyes too, but I’m sure you’d guessed that.
‘Good luck, Rachel. I wish you every possible happiness. You deserve it.’
‘I’ll miss you.’
‘And I you.’
We hug each other like old friends. When we part, I give her a little wave, then I go out of her office and close the door. As I step out onto the street, I burst into tears so violent that I have to sit on the kerb for a few minutes to compose myself.
‘You all right, love?’ someone says.
I look up. There’s a middle-aged woman with two carrier bags full of groceries. She looks tired, a bit frazzled. She digs in her handbag and pulls out a packet of tissues. She’s trying to wrestle one out of the packet, but after a moment she gives up and hands me the whole lot.
‘Here,’ she says. ‘You going to be OK?’ I wonder whether they see her at home, whether they hear her when she says something, laugh when she tells a joke. I want to tell her that I see her. But I don’t, obviously; that would be nuts.
‘Yes, thanks,’ is all I say. ‘I’m going to be OK.’
‘All right, love, mind how you go.’
I watch her go on her way until someone else appears, coming towards me. At the sight of me, he lifts his hand in a wave. He said he might be able to meet me out of today’s session on his way home from college, and here he is, how lovely. Ian didn’t die, did I say that? He pulled through. He was only sixteen, as it turns out – cheeky monkey, telling me he was nineteen – so the attack alerted the local authority to his situation. They found him some temporary sheltered accommodation