The door edges open and Richard's arm is outstretched for about five or so steps before he shakes my hand. Turning around, I'm tempted to wipe the dampness of his clammy hand on my trousers; right now, though, I fear that he has eyes in the back of his square head.
“How have you been, Marcus?”
“I can't complain really, not after what you told me last time I was here, Richard. What was all that about? Talk about throwing me a grenade...”
His wide, bug eyes flicker . Chunky thumbs tap against the side of the desk. It reminds me again of that exercise in my workshops where I instruct the interviewer to deliberately ignore the interviewee. All very well, only I'm paying for this horse shit. My voice slows as I start to lose confidence. Begin to feel stupid. I stop talking, mid-sentence. Deliberately. Richard looks down at his desk. A layer of perspiration seeps from his forehead, down towards his cheeks.
I glance at the clock and wonder whether the cuckoo is at home. I long to wave my hand in his face, see if anybody is there, but then, the last thing I want to do is mock the man. I've looked up to him, secretly idolised him, all these years, through thick and thin. I grip my wrist with my hand to prevent myself from doing anything with my spare hand.
“Richard...?”
He shakes his head as though flicking water from his hair. “Sorry,” Richard says, prising heavy eyelids open. Throaty laugh. “It was a late night. I couldn’t sleep. Please don’t mind me.”
I return his smile. It crosses my mind that maybe he is just having a moment. Maybe I’ve just become embroiled in disproportionate thinking?
Richard starts talking. This is reassuring. Richard loves talking, adores the sound of his own voice. This is more like the Richard I know. “It is like I said last time. Sometimes you need to adapt to the circumstances you are in, Marcus. Sometimes you need to be courageous enough to accept that what you're doing just isn’t working. And remember, if you do the same thing again and again you are always going to get the same result. Simple logic. We both need to be strong enough to accept that what you've done has not worked, that we need to try a different approach...”
“I disagree -”
“It is the fight or flight principle, like I said. By ignoring him you have, in effect, been taking flight. I assured you he would get bored but he hasn’t. I was wrong. I offer you my sincere apologies for that. He has only got stronger. He wants to fight. You need to fight him back...”
“Richard, if I fight him then I will lose...”
“It is your only chance. You are stronger than you realise. You are the strongest person I know. I wish I was as strong as you...”
Richard keeps on talking and talking. I love hearing him talk. Now, though, I despise it. Now he is a receptionist reciting the same words to yet another faceless guest. I squint. The beads, like raindrops, trickling down his cheek are not perspiration. They are tears. His fingers are no longer tapping away; they grip the edge of his desk. The whiteness of his knuckles contrasts starkly with the darkness of his skin.
Standing up, I start walking to his side of the desk. It isn't me who needs help right now. I've never been on the other side of his desk before. There is an invisible line that normally can't be crossed. Richard gets to his feet. I think he is going to thrust out his hands, order me to get back to my side, question what the fuck I'm doing. Taking liberties. He doesn’t. His forehead sinks into my chest. My shirt drowns out his sobs, smothers them. He pulls away. Looks up at me. Both eyes are bloodshot now. His teeth glisten with spittle.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His bulging eyes look like they are reading my thoughts. “I’m so very sorry.”
“Why? You've nothing to be sorry for, Richard. You’ve always been there for me. I'd never have made it this far without you. This is just a glitch. You're the one who tells me not to take things out of proportion.”
Richard shakes his head. “That's what makes it so terrible, so awful. I have always been there. Nothing hurts more than being disappointed by the person you thought would never hurt you. I've lived by that all my adult life. Never did I think I'd be the one inflicting the pain.”
I glance around the room from his side of the desk, at the bookshelf, the sofa, the rug. “What are you talking about?”
“You know when you are put in a position where you sacrifice yourself or you sacrifice somebody else? Do you throw yourself in the way of a bullet, or throw somebody else in front of the bullet? Well, now I know what type of man I really am. I threw you in front of the bullet, Marcus.”
“What?”
Richard moves back a step or two, then straightens his back. His fingers wipe tears from the underside of his eyes. “Don't you get it? Everything I've been telling you the last two sessions. I don't believe any of it. I've told you to do things I don't even believe in myself...”
I nod my head. I do get it. I suspected it after our last meeting. Knew something wasn't right. Knew something was horrifically wrong. He holds his arms up rigid, unsure how I'll react. I want to tell him how sorry I am, that I wish he never had to be put in this position, sorry I'd ever entered his life, just like I was sorry I'd ever
