‘So how does it work? Is this some sort of massage technique? Are you going to massage my stress away?’ Carol could hear the challenge in her voice. Must be my reptile brain.
‘No. I believe that just as our body heals from physical trauma, so our mind can heal from psychological trauma. I’m going to give you a set of exercises to practise on your own. We’re going to start with tiny eye movements that you can work on up to a hundred times a day. Telling your brain it’s safe to look. It’s called EMDR – Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing. I won’t bore you with the theory. There’s plenty of material on the internet. The principle behind it is that it will help you to reprogramme your reaction to the events that have traumatised you. You’ll find a way to reframe what’s happened to you in terms that no longer trap you in the feedback loop of trauma.’
Melissa demonstrated what she meant. It looked easy till Carol tried to do it repetitively. After a dozen eye flicks, she felt uneasy. ‘It gets more comfortable, I promise,’ Melissa said.
The therapist ran through a few more exercises. Pushing slowly and forcefully outwards with the arms, like a sort of breaststroke against imaginary resistance. Kicking the ground as hard as possible for short bursts. Sitting with her feet on the floor and going through the motions of running. Carol copied her, accepting corrections and adjustments. After less than a quarter of an hour, her heart was racing and she felt slightly sick.
‘You’ve done well,’ Melissa said. ‘I want you to do these exercises every day. Small groups of repetitions as many times as you are comfortable with. It should get easier and you should be able to do more as the days go by. I recommend a course of eight sessions so we can work through the changes. I’d like to see you again in two weeks. Will that be possible?’
Carol stood up. ‘I’ll be here. I want to get rid of feeling this way.’
‘And I imagine you would like to re-establish contact with your friend. That’s a goal worth having.’
‘I can’t even think about that yet.’
‘Are you heading back to Bradfield now?’
Carol nodded.
‘Driving?’
‘Yes, I’m parked a few streets away.’
‘Don’t get behind the wheel right away. There’s a lovely little café at the far end of the lane. Sit down and have a cup of tea and a scone. Breathe. It’s possible you might have a powerful emotional reaction to what we’ve done, so be kind to yourself.’ Melissa stood and put a hand on Carol’s arm. ‘Well done for coming here today. This was not an easy step to take. Go well.’
‘Thank you.’
Feeling slightly dazed, Carol stepped out into the lane. While she’d been inside, the day had changed. A broad slice of sunshine lit up her path to the end of the street. Her spirits rose at the sight. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she chided herself as she walked toward the café. ‘It’s just a trick of the weather.’
And yet, she couldn’t ignore a flicker of hope. Maybe she really had taken the first step on the road back to herself.
4
We have no difficulty treating extreme repetitious violence as a symptom of mental illness. It’s not such a great leap to the notion that most violent crime is a kind of illness. If we change our behaviour, perhaps we can change our outcomes.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Tony found that putting Vanessa out of his mind was easier in theory than in practice. A low hum of anxiety ran beneath his thoughts, making him edgy when he needed to be in command of himself. What he was about to attempt could set the climate of the rest of his prison term. Druse’s influence had dialled down the element of fear; but Tony wanted to amplify the element of respect. The only problem was figuring out how.
The answer had arrived a couple of days after he’d been moved to HMP Doniston, the Category C prison where he’d probably serve out the rest of his sentence. The atmosphere was less toxic than on the remand wing, but there was no mistaking the kind of institution he was in.
Nobody who had ever watched a prison drama would have been surprised by Doniston’s landings. Two sets of cells faced each other, separated by a corridor along each side of the wing and a void in the middle where stairs rose linking the floors. At ground level, the space contained a couple of pool tables and a table tennis table. The walls were brick, covered in several coats of institutional grey paint, the recessed doorways just deep enough for a man to squeeze into and remain invisible to someone walking down the wing. A perfect recipe for terror was to wait till the target grew level then leap out in front of them with a snarl and a grimace. No assault necessary; the shock and fear were enough to provoke the required response.
Tony’s cell was identical to every other he’d glanced into as he’d walked nervously down the wing, his arms occupied with bedding, spare clothes, a box of books and his precious laptop. He’d been the most interesting thing happening that morning. His fellow inmates leaned in doorways, shouting questions and incomprehensible catcalls as he passed.
It had been a relief
