brawl in a house nearby. They carried the body here.’
‘Which is his grave, then?’
‘It’s unmarked. He could be
anywhere.’
Jack shivered and stamped his feet and
looked around at the flats that surrounded the church. ‘It’s gone down a bit
in the world since then.’
‘It’ll come up again.’
They made their way back to the road that
ran along the river. On the other side they could see the towers of Canary Wharf, lights
glittering in the February gloom, but here it felt deserted. A tiny primary school
seemed to be closed, even though it was a Tuesday in February. They walked past a
breaker’s yard, piles of twisted rusting metal visible through the iron gates,
nettles and brambles erupting over the wall, which was topped with coils of barbed wire.
There were several boarded-up houses with smashed windows, and then anancient industrial unit with cracking walls, whose fence bore the faded legend
‘Guard Dogs on Patrol’. Jack walked further up the tiny street and pressed
his face against some railings. He could see a deep, muddy pit where a building had
stood, and on the far side of it the façade of a warehouse, through whose ruined
arches he could see, over the muddy waters, the gleaming skyscrapers of Docklands.
‘All ready for the developers,’
said Frieda, pointing at the notice to keep out.
‘I prefer it as it is.’
They continued along the river, past a
rotting wooden pier. The low tide had exposed plastic crates and old bottles on the
shore. Frieda thought about Jack’s heavy, oppressive discontent, and waited for
him to speak again. At the same time, she pictured Michelle Doyce here, picking up all
those things Karlsson had told her about – tin cans, round stones, dead birds, forked
sticks – and carrying them back to her room to arrange. Making a shape out of mess, as
Jack put it: the instinct in us all, something deeply human and fearful.
Glancing across at Frieda’s smooth
profile, her chin held up in spite of the icy wind, Jack felt the familiar grip of his
adoration for her. He wanted her to look him in the eye and tell him that everything
would be all right, that he would be all right, there was no need to worry and that she
was going to help him. She would never do that. If there was one thing he had learned
from her, over all the time they had spent together, it was that you had to take
responsibility for your own life.
He took a deep breath and cleared his
throat. ‘There’s something I should tell you,’ he said. Now he’d
come to it, it was hard to say it out loud: his chest felt tight. ‘I’ve been
slipping a bit.’
‘Slipping?’
‘I’ve missed a
few sessions.’
‘With your patients?’
‘Yes. Not many,’ he hastened to
add. ‘Just occasionally – and a few I’ve arrived late for. And I’ve
kind of stopped seeing my own therapist so regularly. I’m not sure she’s
right for me.’
‘How long has this been going
on?’
‘A couple of months. Maybe
more.’
‘What do you do when you don’t
go or when you arrive late?’
‘Sleep.’
‘You pull the covers over your
head.’
‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘And
it’s not a metaphor. An actual cover over my actual head.’
‘You know, don’t you, that for
the people who come to you this may be the most important fifty minutes of their week –
and that they might have screwed up all their courage to come?’
‘It’s really, really bad.
I’m not making excuses.’
‘This doesn’t sound like just a
problem with therapy. You sound a bit depressed to me.’
They kept walking. Jack seemed to be looking
at something in the river. Frieda waited.
‘I don’t know what that word
means,’ he said eventually. ‘Does it mean down in the dumps or does it mean
something more?’
‘It means you’re lying in bed
with the covers over your head, letting your patients down and yourself, worrying that
‘Which is his grave, then?’
‘It’s unmarked. He could be
anywhere.’
Jack shivered and stamped his feet and
looked around at the flats that surrounded the church. ‘It’s gone down a bit
in the world since then.’
‘It’ll come up again.’
They made their way back to the road that
ran along the river. On the other side they could see the towers of Canary Wharf, lights
glittering in the February gloom, but here it felt deserted. A tiny primary school
seemed to be closed, even though it was a Tuesday in February. They walked past a
breaker’s yard, piles of twisted rusting metal visible through the iron gates,
nettles and brambles erupting over the wall, which was topped with coils of barbed wire.
There were several boarded-up houses with smashed windows, and then anancient industrial unit with cracking walls, whose fence bore the faded legend
‘Guard Dogs on Patrol’. Jack walked further up the tiny street and pressed
his face against some railings. He could see a deep, muddy pit where a building had
stood, and on the far side of it the façade of a warehouse, through whose ruined
arches he could see, over the muddy waters, the gleaming skyscrapers of Docklands.
‘All ready for the developers,’
said Frieda, pointing at the notice to keep out.
‘I prefer it as it is.’
They continued along the river, past a
rotting wooden pier. The low tide had exposed plastic crates and old bottles on the
shore. Frieda thought about Jack’s heavy, oppressive discontent, and waited for
him to speak again. At the same time, she pictured Michelle Doyce here, picking up all
those things Karlsson had told her about – tin cans, round stones, dead birds, forked
sticks – and carrying them back to her room to arrange. Making a shape out of mess, as
Jack put it: the instinct in us all, something deeply human and fearful.
Glancing across at Frieda’s smooth
profile, her chin held up in spite of the icy wind, Jack felt the familiar grip of his
adoration for her. He wanted her to look him in the eye and tell him that everything
would be all right, that he would be all right, there was no need to worry and that she
was going to help him. She would never do that. If there was one thing he had learned
from her, over all the time they had spent together, it was that you had to take
responsibility for your own life.
He took a deep breath and cleared his
throat. ‘There’s something I should tell you,’ he said. Now he’d
come to it, it was hard to say it out loud: his chest felt tight. ‘I’ve been
slipping a bit.’
‘Slipping?’
‘I’ve missed a
few sessions.’
‘With your patients?’
‘Yes. Not many,’ he hastened to
add. ‘Just occasionally – and a few I’ve arrived late for. And I’ve
kind of stopped seeing my own therapist so regularly. I’m not sure she’s
right for me.’
‘How long has this been going
on?’
‘A couple of months. Maybe
more.’
‘What do you do when you don’t
go or when you arrive late?’
‘Sleep.’
‘You pull the covers over your
head.’
‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘And
it’s not a metaphor. An actual cover over my actual head.’
‘You know, don’t you, that for
the people who come to you this may be the most important fifty minutes of their week –
and that they might have screwed up all their courage to come?’
‘It’s really, really bad.
I’m not making excuses.’
‘This doesn’t sound like just a
problem with therapy. You sound a bit depressed to me.’
They kept walking. Jack seemed to be looking
at something in the river. Frieda waited.
‘I don’t know what that word
means,’ he said eventually. ‘Does it mean down in the dumps or does it mean
something more?’
‘It means you’re lying in bed
with the covers over your head, letting your patients down and yourself, worrying that
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