You’re in deep with Alicia, and your feelings are bound up with hers like a tangled ball of wool. That is the purpose of a supervision like this—to help you unpick the strands of wool—to see what is yours and what is hers. And once you gain some distance, and clarity, I suspect you will feel rather differently about your experience with Alicia Berenson.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, to be blunt, I fear she has been performing for you. Manipulating you. And it’s a performance that I believe has been tailored specifically to appeal to your chivalric … and, let’s say, romantic instincts. It was obvious to me from the start that you intended to rescue her. I’m quite sure it was obvious to Alicia too. Hence her seduction of you.”
“You sound like Christian. She hasn’t seduced me. I am perfectly capable of withstanding a patient’s sexual projections. Don’t underestimate me, Professor.”
“Don’t underestimate her. She’s giving an excellent performance.” Diomedes shook his head and peered up at the gray clouds. “The vulnerable woman under attack, alone, in need of protection. Alicia has cast herself as the victim and this mystery man as the villain. Whereas in fact Alicia and the man are one and the same. She killed Gabriel. She was guilty—and she is still refusing to accept that guilt. So she splits, dissociates, fantasizes—Alicia becomes the innocent victim and you are her protector. And by colluding with this fantasy you are allowing her to disown all responsibility.”
“I don’t agree with that. I don’t believe she is lying, consciously, anyway. At the very least, Alicia believes her story to be true.”
“Yes, she believes it. Alicia is under attack—but from her own psyche, not the outside world.”
I knew that wasn’t true, but there was no point in arguing further. I stubbed out my cigarette.
“How do you think I should proceed?”
“You must force her to confront the truth. Only then will she have a hope of recovery. You must refuse point-blank to accept her story. Challenge her. Demand she tell you the truth.”
“And do you think she will?”
He shrugged. “That”—he took a long drag on his cigar—“is anyone’s guess.”
“Very well. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. I’ll confront her.”
Diomedes looked slightly uneasy and opened his mouth as if he was about to say something further. But he changed his mind. He nodded and stamped on his cigar with an air of finality. “Tomorrow.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AFTER WORK, I followed kathy to the park again. Sure enough, her lover was waiting at the same spot they met at last time. They kissed and groped each other like teenagers.
Kathy glanced in my direction, and for a second I thought she saw me, but no. She only had eyes for him. I tried to get a better look at him this time. But I still didn’t see his face properly, though something about his build was familiar. I had the feeling I’d seen him before somewhere.
They walked toward Camden and disappeared into a pub, the Rose and Crown, a seedy-looking place. I waited in the café opposite. About an hour later, they came out. Kathy was all over him, kissing him. They kissed for a while by the road. I watched, feeling sick to my stomach, burning with hate.
She eventually said goodbye to him, and they left each other. She started walking away. The man turned and walked in the opposite direction. I didn’t follow Kathy.
I followed him.
He waited at a bus stop. I stood behind him. I looked at his back, his shoulders; I imagined lunging at him—shoving him under the oncoming bus. But I didn’t push him. He got on the bus. So did I.
I assumed he would go directly home, but he didn’t. He changed buses a couple of times. I followed him from a distance. He went to the East End, where he disappeared into a warehouse for half an hour. Then another journey, on another bus. He made a couple of phone calls, speaking in a low voice and chuckling frequently. I wondered if he was talking to Kathy. I was feeling increasingly frustrated and disheartened. But I was also stubborn and refused to give up.
Eventually he made his way home—getting off the bus and turning onto a quiet tree-lined street. He was still talking on his phone. I followed him, keeping my distance. The street was deserted. If had turned around, he would have seen me. But he didn’t.
I passed a house with a rock garden and succulent plants. I acted