The Date: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist by Louise Jensen Page A
Authors: Louise Jensen
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and lies and the tangled, torturous past. Stupid to ever think that I could.
----
There’s a dragging sensation in the pit of my stomach as I drive home. That Sunday evening, back-to-school-tomorrow dread, or returning to work after a sunshine summer holiday. My fears are realised as I heft my bag from the back seat and release Branwell from his car-boot prisonand I see it. On the step. A padded brown envelope. I look over my shoulder before scooping up the package.
ALI
Scrawled in the same black marker. The same block handwriting.
Once inside I run my fingers under the seal, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet like a boxer psyching himself for a fight before I can look inside. There’sa small rectangular box. Antidepressants. A neon yellow Post-it note stuck to the outside.
In case you can’t live with what you’ve done. Tick Tock, Ali, time is running out
Time for what? I grip the note tightly in my clammy hand until it crumples, all the while shaking my head in denial, but I know I can’t avoid it any longer.
I need tofind out exactly what happened that night.
I need to find out what I’ve done.
----
Mr Henderson answers the phone on the first ring.
‘Can you hypnotise me?’ My words come out in a garbled rush before I have even said hello.
‘Of course, when would?—’
‘Today. Now.’ My voice cracks.
He barely hesitates before he says: ‘I can see you at eleven.’
As I’m shaking biscuits into Branwell’s bowl I call Jules to cancel our coffee and, when I tell her where I’m going, she insists on coming with me and I’m grateful. I’m nervous about what I might uncover but I can’t stick my head in the sand. If whoever is sending me the notes goes to the police, as they’ve insinuated, it’s better I know what happened, to give myself a chance to think. Formulate aplan. A lie says that little voice, and I bat it away.
----
Mr Henderson’s treatment room is stark white, certificates in gilded frames hang in a perfect line. I can imagine him alternating his tape measure with a spirit level. He’s so meticulous. I’ve never been in this space, which was once his garage. It’s odd to think our garage, next door, is crammed with Matt’s golf clubs, the ellipticaltrainer I never used, the Christmas decorations. ‘Everything but a car,’ Matt used to joke. Smoke spirals from an incense stick, jasmine, I think, filling the air and I wonder whether he’s lit one to mask the faint trace of damp. I’ve never known him to burn one in his house. Despite the orange bars of the electric heater blasting out heat, there’s a chill emanating from the bricks.
‘It’snot too late to run,’ Jules whispers loudly, staring at the treatment table as though it is a medieval torture contraption. I shush her, aware that Mr Henderson can probably hear her from the hallway, where his footsteps echo and the tea tray rattles.
Mr Henderson kicks the door closed behind him. ‘Help yourself.’ He rests the tray on the polished-to-perfection mahogany coffee table. Theroom is sparse but spotless. There’s not the thin layer of dust that often coats the photographs in his living area.
He sits on the high-backed chair opposite me, crosses his legs and picks up a clipboard and pen. Today he’s wearing a tie, and this is a formal side to him I’m not used to. The dynamics of our relationship has changed, and I take my time spooning sugar into tea, splashingin milk, to mask how uncomfortable I am. I’d thought I’d be sitting in his squashy armchair in the lounge I’ve sat in a hundred times before, that it would be almost like a social call.
Jules, on the other hand, has no qualms about saying what she thinks. ‘I don’t believe in all this.’ She sweeps her arm around the room dramatically.
‘You don’t believe in hypnotherapy?’
‘Anyof it,’ she says firmly. ‘It’s like homeopathy. How can it be that you can dilute something with water and it becomes a cure?’ She shakes her
----
There’s a dragging sensation in the pit of my stomach as I drive home. That Sunday evening, back-to-school-tomorrow dread, or returning to work after a sunshine summer holiday. My fears are realised as I heft my bag from the back seat and release Branwell from his car-boot prisonand I see it. On the step. A padded brown envelope. I look over my shoulder before scooping up the package.
ALI
Scrawled in the same black marker. The same block handwriting.
Once inside I run my fingers under the seal, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet like a boxer psyching himself for a fight before I can look inside. There’sa small rectangular box. Antidepressants. A neon yellow Post-it note stuck to the outside.
In case you can’t live with what you’ve done. Tick Tock, Ali, time is running out
Time for what? I grip the note tightly in my clammy hand until it crumples, all the while shaking my head in denial, but I know I can’t avoid it any longer.
I need tofind out exactly what happened that night.
I need to find out what I’ve done.
----
Mr Henderson answers the phone on the first ring.
‘Can you hypnotise me?’ My words come out in a garbled rush before I have even said hello.
‘Of course, when would?—’
‘Today. Now.’ My voice cracks.
He barely hesitates before he says: ‘I can see you at eleven.’
As I’m shaking biscuits into Branwell’s bowl I call Jules to cancel our coffee and, when I tell her where I’m going, she insists on coming with me and I’m grateful. I’m nervous about what I might uncover but I can’t stick my head in the sand. If whoever is sending me the notes goes to the police, as they’ve insinuated, it’s better I know what happened, to give myself a chance to think. Formulate aplan. A lie says that little voice, and I bat it away.
----
Mr Henderson’s treatment room is stark white, certificates in gilded frames hang in a perfect line. I can imagine him alternating his tape measure with a spirit level. He’s so meticulous. I’ve never been in this space, which was once his garage. It’s odd to think our garage, next door, is crammed with Matt’s golf clubs, the ellipticaltrainer I never used, the Christmas decorations. ‘Everything but a car,’ Matt used to joke. Smoke spirals from an incense stick, jasmine, I think, filling the air and I wonder whether he’s lit one to mask the faint trace of damp. I’ve never known him to burn one in his house. Despite the orange bars of the electric heater blasting out heat, there’s a chill emanating from the bricks.
‘It’snot too late to run,’ Jules whispers loudly, staring at the treatment table as though it is a medieval torture contraption. I shush her, aware that Mr Henderson can probably hear her from the hallway, where his footsteps echo and the tea tray rattles.
Mr Henderson kicks the door closed behind him. ‘Help yourself.’ He rests the tray on the polished-to-perfection mahogany coffee table. Theroom is sparse but spotless. There’s not the thin layer of dust that often coats the photographs in his living area.
He sits on the high-backed chair opposite me, crosses his legs and picks up a clipboard and pen. Today he’s wearing a tie, and this is a formal side to him I’m not used to. The dynamics of our relationship has changed, and I take my time spooning sugar into tea, splashingin milk, to mask how uncomfortable I am. I’d thought I’d be sitting in his squashy armchair in the lounge I’ve sat in a hundred times before, that it would be almost like a social call.
Jules, on the other hand, has no qualms about saying what she thinks. ‘I don’t believe in all this.’ She sweeps her arm around the room dramatically.
‘You don’t believe in hypnotherapy?’
‘Anyof it,’ she says firmly. ‘It’s like homeopathy. How can it be that you can dilute something with water and it becomes a cure?’ She shakes her
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