"Ah," Richard says, puckering his rubbery red lips into an enormous smile. "That is where the little blighter got to. Now we can really get started, Marcus. Now we can really get this show on the road."
Glancing at the tip of the black biro he has finally located, I suspect, after all that, the pen probably won't work. I am convinced Richard puts the pens that don't work back in his bag, for hardly any of his pens actually manage to write. Richard's cheeks become unusually rounded when he smiles. Richard has an unusually rounded face, for he is usually smiling. His skin is so alarmingly smooth and free of creases that he is almost boyish, and yet I am sure the man sitting in front of me is in his fifties. His black hair is shaven close to his scalp on the sides but it is frizzy and wild on the top. I look down on him when he stands up. His perfectly round belly reminds me of a Buddha. Richard is far from being an attractive man, but his face is so amenable I often gaze at him with sheer fascination.
"So how have things been with you since our last session, Marcus?" Richard asks. His red, watery eyes glance at the blank pad. He scribbles with the pen, then sighs when nothing comes out. Richard puts the pen down and rests both elbows on the table. He knows I've noticed that the pen doesn't work but decides to ignore this. He rubs the thick stubble on his chin with the underside of his thumbs.
"It has not been a great week," I say. "I have given into some temptations that I would normally resist-"
I am about to tell Richard more, when he interrupts me and says, "Tell me more."
We normally avoid specifics. For me, today, this is just as well. I don't particularly want to tell him that I woke in the middle of the night, my fists sprinkled with my girlfriend's blood, that a dark cloud has been following me since the first day of the month. For me, today, I want to be as general as possible and just hope he doesn't probe deeper.
Our sessions focus on three key things: thoughts, behaviours and feelings. We discuss how our thoughts and behaviours directly affect how we feel. The events of the previous week - however unexpected and interesting - can usually be broken down into these three things. There is usually no need to delve into specifics.
This week has been different, though, hasn't it? This has not been like any other week.
I tell Richard that, after all these years, he has re-entered my life.
"And you let him in?" Richard asks, leaning forward.
This was the question I just knew Richard was going to ask. I know him just as well as he knows me. This time it was the obvious question to ask, though. I lower my eyes. I don't want to see his reaction when he realises I let him down. "I opened the door," I say.
"Why did you open the door? What was different this time? What thoughts brought about this behaviour?"
"I think I opened the door mainly out of uncontrollable curiosity. It has been so long, so many years. I think that, initially, and possibly only for a few moments, the curiosity was just too much. I opened the door just enough to look outside and see him-"
"And what did you think?"
"So many different things. I felt fear and I felt hatred. That was clear. That was expected. But there was something else..." I theatrically dangle my fingers like I'm playing an imaginary piano. "There was a sense of familiarity. Of a time that I used to know, that no longer exists."
Richard's face gives nothing away. "We are drawn to familiarity. It makes us feel safe, however dreadful it may be. We fear things we don't know, of course, even though they often excite us, too. The allure would have been strong. You know what the crucial question is, though, don't you?"
I nod my head.
Richard sits back in his chair. He folds his arms across his chest. "So, did you?"
I shake my head. "I only opened the door wide enough to take a good look at him. I longed to open the door wider. I had to forcibly push the damn thing shut. But I did. I didn't open the door wide enough for him to come in, for him to enter."
The effect of my words is instant. His dark skin glistens. There is a brightness to his glassy eyes. "You're not telling the truth, Marcus," he says.
"I am," I reply. "I swear to God I am."
Richard smirks. "I believe in your story, Marcus," he says. "And unlike you, I actually believe in God. But you are deceiving yourself when you say you haven't had a great week. Sure, it sounds like you've had an awful week. My knees are wobbly just from listening to it, and I'm supposed to be a big, strong man. But you cannot worry about things that are outside of your control. Those AA guys did have at least one thing right. You were tested. Who wouldn't be? You are human. If I stuck a needle in your arm then you would bleed, just like every human. You think. You act. You feel. But you had the courage and the sanity to amend your thoughts. And then you acted on them. You resisted the initial destructive thoughts. You beat the temptation. You closed that door. You didn't let him in. Do you
