Every Second Counts

Chapter Ten

I GET INTO BED AT 4 A.M. and have the best five hours sleep in ages. The knowledge that I am on the track of Reuben Houston is the best sleeping pill imaginable and I contemplate maybe getting off my meds. But, by lunchtime I think better of it, because I get a phone call.

'Miss Morisot. My name is Felicity Caldwell and I'm on the Board of Psychiatrists. You will be aware Patrick Gladstone has passed away in tragic circumstances?' She doesn't wait for me to acknowledge this question and carries on with, 'We are contacting all of his patients and we want to transition you to another Psychiatrist with the least amount of disruption as possible.'

'Um...' is all that comes out of my mouth while I realise this is a golden opportunity to get some info.

'We have several excellent practitioners we can refer you to and I would like to make an appointment with you to discuss your options,' she tells me.

'OK.. Obviously I would want to see someone who can help me with my issues. Have you or anyone read my case notes?' I ask and hold my breath.

It would appear Felicity Caldwell is holding her breath too, because the longest moment passes before she clears her throat and says the best words I've heard in ages. 'We, the Board and myself are very upset to discover Patrick Gladstone had destroyed every client file before...he...um...died.'

The relief is immeasurable. He could have had some files elsewhere, but thank the Lords, NO!

'Obviously, if he hadn't destroyed his files, it would have been easier for his clients to transition to another psychiatrist, but as it is, every client will need to go over their history again. As I said, it is most unfortunate that Mr. Gladstone took that course of action.'

NO IT FUCKING ISN'T!

'I apologise to you. It must be distressing enough to have to transfer to another Psychiatrist without knowing you have to discuss all the details again.

I couldn't give a flying fuck that my file and all my paranoid ravings had disappeared... I am over the moon that everyone's else's files of that ghastly degenerate of a Psychiatrist has been erased. And more importantly the women he had blackmailed for so long will all now know they can get their lives back on track. A shiver of sadness ripples through me as I acknowledge Fiona never had the chance to get her life back on track.

'That really is most annoying,' I say, because it sounds like the sort of comment one should make.

'Yes, it appears Mr. Gladstone did not have a backup.'

The win is huge. The relief is so fan-bloody-tastic!

When Felicity Caldwell finishes her call, I run around Red's apartment like a lunatic. Whooping and giving a high five in the air...several times with Floppy leaping about like a demented. One minute she's frisking happily at my feet, the next minute she's barking at the door. I take no heed of her strange behaviour as the dog acts pretty strange a lot of the time.

But, when I sit down, the euphoria starts to evaporate. Something is wrong. I feel it in my gut. And then it clicks. It's Thursday afternoon. Tomorrow night at 8 p.m. I have another video link with the girl in the dark room.

And now I know exactly what the feeling in my gut is. Tension. The girl in the dark room brings all my misery back. Her role in my life is to help me remember so I can carry on with my mission...to get the motherfucker who pulled the trigger and gunned my parents down in cold blood!

Just for a moment, I wonder if I can do this on my own. Get Reuben Houston all by myself without depending on my psychotic on-line psychiatrist. I spend at least five minutes thinking this is a possibility before I am resigned to the fact that the girl in the dark room will be with me for some time yet and right on queue I have to rush to the toilet and throw up my lunch. Christ, I've got nearly 30 hours of this tension. I'm going to be a mess by Friday night.