I am distracted for a moment. But then I see it. In his hand. There is something in his hand. The light rebounds from it so sharply that I cover my eyes. I glimpse over the top of my hand and I watch him raise his own hand, high above his head.
Suddenly, I can move. My body has never felt so free, so light, so capable. I jump up from the chair. My fists are like shovels. I swing with speed, with force. My fists sink into his face. I grip his skull. I have so much power that it feels like I can crush his skull until it disintegrates like dust. He squeals like a pig, but my teeth are sharp and I have never felt so fantastic.
The cabin stops moving, stops swaying from side to side. Comes into focus. My forehead is damp. I feel slender arms clinging tightly to my body. He talks to me, pleads with me.
"Stop, Marcus. Please, stop."
My eyes are open, wide like hollows. I pull away, sit up. I pull my hands behind my back and twist them together to stop me throwing wild and dangerous punches, to stop them from doing anything.
Erica pulls her own hands to her face. She looks tinier than ever, more fragile and delicate than I've ever seen her, so feline and childlike, lying with her back pressed against the bed sheet. I dab my forehead with my finger and realise that the dampness is a dreadful cocktail of sweat, tears and blood.
Erica's blood.
I lean down and nestle my forehead against hers. Her hands part and her arms wrap around me. I tell her that I am sorry; tell her again and again.
"It is okay," she says. Her breathing has calmed. She whispers the words. They are soothing. Her fingers caress my naked back now, run down the curve of my spine. "It is just a dream. Everything is fine, Marcus. Everything is fine."
I bury my head in the warmth of her neck. My hand caresses her long, soft hair. Her body is floppy and relaxed. My own body is rigid. I cling to her tighter. I need to wash the blood from her forehead, need to clean her up, but for now she is content to just drift, to daydream, safely wrapped in my arms.
I have a nagging thought, that just keeps repeating in my mind. I try to push it away, but it pushes back, even stronger.
It would be so much better if this whole nightmare was just a dream.
DAY TEN 10TH JUNE 2018
Twisting his face into an array of shapes, Richard digs his hefty hand inside the dark depths of his even heftier black bag. He has placed the bag on the table that separates us, and it stretches all the way up to his chin. Pulling out a banana, all bruised, brown patches and decaying yellow, Richard crinkles his nose like he has never seen one quite like this before.
"What on earth...?" he says, returning the banana back into the bag.
My eyes are drawn alluringly to the fabulous cuckoo clock on the wall to my right. Even I know it is nine minutes past eleven, though since I quit my job in the city five years ago, I try my best not to take much notice of the time. The slip of paper on the table has my name and then '11am' scrawled on it in Richard's fantastically messy handwriting. I'm forever pulling these slips out of my pocket with the odd coin and tissue. Why is he only searching for this now? Surely this cannot be his first appointment of the day? I smile. I thought I was supposed to be the one that needed help. It doesn't bother me, really. I am not often in a rush to be anywhere else.
To think, though, I thought I might be late myself this morning. I just knew I needn't have worried, that however late I might be, Richard would surely be even later. Erica made an early start. Her parting kiss was a distant memory when I finally rose from my pit. It was only when I was ready to leave I realised I couldn't locate the door key. Normally this wouldn't be too much of a worry - I'd just leave it unlocked; not any more. I checked an array of pockets, a range of hiding places. Nothing. My temperature was beginning to rise, my temper starting to be tested. I was just about ready to pull my phone from my pocket, ring Richard and tell him that I wouldn't be able to make it today, when I spotted it. I blew air from my mouth and cursed myself for being such a drama queen. I picked it up from the doormat and hurriedly went on my way, just about ahead of time. I must have dropped it after I'd unlocked the door last night.
This room is like a second home, I am here so often. It must be ten years or so since the letter unexpectedly dropped through my letterbox in Clapham inviting me for an appointment with Richard McCoy. I say unexpectedly, but by that time I'd come to expect the unexpected.
I’d been receiving support for my mental health ever since the attack. Back then it wasn’t fashionable to see a psychiatrist or a counsellor, especially for men. Mental health was another term for madness. It was spoken about in hushed tones, if at all. This was a million miles from the Prozac age that followed in the nineties. Initially the support I received was mandatory. I was a victim and so I needed support. Even as a naive and pretty dumb eighteen-year-old kid lost in the big city I could see that there was a
