Fast-Tracked And Other Stories

The Couch of Confession

'Let me get this off my chest and then I'm out of here,' the man sitting on the edge of Dr O'Malley's couch was saying. The man, Barry Hamilton, aged fifty-four, was a local— from across Ballykittery— who had worked in the bulb factory since he was fourteen. According to the usual police check Nurse McCafferty had requested, he was clean. No penalty points, no parking fines, no Saturday night scuffles. Clean as a whistle.

'Nice family,' Hamilton said, nodding at the photograph on the psychiatrist's desk. Five freckly, ginger-haired children stood beneath an oak tree, smiles beaming and teeth jutting every which way. Then, without pause for breath: 'Didn't this used to be O'Brien's funeral home? You've spruced the place up well.'

Dr O'Malley took his seat. 'What's on your mind today?' He sensed Hamilton would ramble till the cows come home if left unguided.

'I killed some people.'

'Do you mean you've been considering murder or—'

'I mean I ended their lives. One in 1987, another in 1991 and another 1998— at Easter.'

O'Malley turned off the dictaphone. 'Why are you telling me this?'

'I need to tell someone. My bird, Trish, is ready to pop out our first bairn and I want to bring him into a death-free home. A fresh start, like. We're getting one of them no-death mantras put in.'

The psychiatrist was wordless.

'I'm not a quack, doc. I didn't come to talk through some childhood trauma or drug addiction.'

'I'm listening.'

'The toothy kid in '87 was asking for it. That wee runt called me a sissy, a pussy, and plenty more besides. I got him by the scruff of the neck, threw him into my car and took him for a drive. One way, like. You couldn't love him if you reared him.'

O'Malley placed his clipboard slowly and carefully on the desk. 'And how did that make you feel?' He asked indifferently.

'Every Tom, Dick and Harry has knocked off a Paddy or two.'

'Is that so. Have you been sleeping okay, Mr Hamilton? You look tired. Lie back and let's try some breathing techniques. Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Draw it past your lungs and down into your stomach.'

'That's good, doc. Real good.'

'Now, take the cushion and try to do the same, this time through the cushion. This exercise will help strengthen your lungs for such times when it is difficult to breathe.' O'Malley said understandingly. 'Good.'

Silently he crossed the room. Sean. The toothy little runt's name was Sean. There wasn't a day that O'Malley didn't think of his brother who disappeared in 1987. And now—

'I'm going to apply some gentle pressure, Mr Hamilton. Don't be alarmed. Remain focused on your breathing. Good.'

A tear tracked down O'Malley's cheek. Today's a new day, Sean. Move on from your torment. I'll see you in paradise!

Three minutes later Barry Hamilton's feet hung slackly over the end of the couch.