He puts a hand to his ear. Sometimes I wonder what the point of certain body language is; I know, for example, where his ear is. I wait for Richard to take all the glory for my progress, to tell me how much I have improved since I first sat in front of him, how his techniques must be working. I'm already grinning, waiting for the inevitable. Bizarrely, this is the calmest I've felt since I sat in that board room, acting the brute, interrogating the poor girl who bravely stood up and delivered a presentation to her colleagues. It was all part of the workshop, of course: there to challenge and test. Part of me thrived in those sessions, though: loved playing the role.
"I think now is the time we should try a different approach, Marcus..."
I double-take. My rapid thoughts rebound in so many directions that I think somehow they've tangled together, taken the wrong direction.
"What did you just say?"
His broad, white smile vanishes. Suddenly, his face is an ordinance survey map of lines and creases. I've always admired my counsellor's youthful glow, his baby-face, but now Richard appears different: he looks every single day of his age. "I think we should try a different approach to the one that we have been employing," he says.
I sit back in my chair, creating further space between us, a divide. "Why? You just said you're proud of me. Said it is music to your ears. Listen, if the music is too loud then I'll turn the volume down. This is the approach you've been drumming into me for years, over and over. It is working, so why change now? Why change something that is working? How does that make any sense?"
I grip the underside of the swivel chair; I want to keep my trembling hands out of sight. Richard glances around the room. I try to catch his eyes, to see what they're telling me, what secrets they expose, but they just won't stay still, not for a millisecond. He clears his throat. "From what you have said, this is a massively tricky period for you. He has returned. The seed has been planted. Your circumstances have moved onto a totally new playing field. I don't think you can keep ignoring him, and if you do, then you're a sitting target, there to be shot. I don't think he is going to go away. Not yet, anyway. This time he isn't going to go away just because you are ignoring him. He is going to keep on knocking on that door until it drives you insane. This time, the noise will be too much for you to cope with. You are nothing without your sanity, Marcus, nothing..."
The room is shrinking. Reminds me of when the walls start coming together in the trash compactor in Star Wars. I want to - I need to - get out of here before the walls crush me, turn my skull and bones to dust. Somebody is squeezing my temple so hard it feels like it will explode.
"You always said that if I ignored him then he would go away. I believed you. It is what I've always believed. Were you lying?"
Richard puts up his hands. "No, no, no...no. I think you're taking things out of context here, Marcus. That was the right approach at the right time. And it worked, didn't it?"
"Damn right it worked," I say. My voice is high and it is loud. "It has kept me alive all these years. That's my fucking point. It worked. So why the hell are we changing it?"
Richard manages to hold my look now. With any other patient he'd ask them to tone it down, to curb their language, to keep things professional. His eyes are watery and bloodshot, his eyelids heavy and droopy. I feel his pain, but don't care because my own is so much more intense. He doesn't want to tell me this, does he? The poor sod feels compelled to do so, I can see that. "It worked for all the different situations you were in. This is different. Each problem does not have the same solution. Sometimes you need to adapt, even if that takes you way out of your comfort zone. Sometimes you have to adapt especially when it takes you out of your comfort zone..."
"So you say we have to do it differently, I get that at a push. Just what are we going to do, though? What do you suggest now?"
"You know about the fight or flight theory...?"
The palm of my hand slams down against the flat of my forehead. I physically want to push these thoughts from my mind. I remove my hand and catch Richard flinching. Both my hands disappear underneath the table. Both hands resume gripping the side of the chair, holding on for dear life, just to keep them under control. "Of course I know about the fight or flight theory," I say. "You think I'm dumb? You know me, Richard. You know how long I have been coming to these sessions. You know everything I've been through, and for how long. I'm not new to any of this. I'm not in kindergarten. Please don't patronise me."
Again, Richard holds his cumbersome hands up in protest. He does know what I'm like, and whilst he expects me to challenge and to question, I'm beginning to push the boundaries of
