It seems to take forever, but there’s a light at the end of the tunnel as I start to get some feeling back in my hands and the breathing slows.
I grip his hand. Scared that if I don’t, I will drown.
‘Amy,’ he says, almost like he’s in another galaxy. ‘What happened to you . . . ? You’ve changed. I barely recognise you . . .’
He won’t understand. He can’t. That level of . . . of shame, of just wanting to claw at your own skin until you just don’t exist anymore.
I shake my head, still not quite ready to speak. The light in the room is amber and starry, but that might be my tears.
I look up at him and his eyes, his dark eyes, are looking at me completely without judgement. It turns my heart to dust.
He can’t be trusted, don’t fall for him again.
I shift a little, away from him. In one, deft movement, he wraps his burly arm around me and tugs me into his rock-solid chest, where it’s warm and smells of him. He puts his hand on my head, stroking my hair.
‘It’s okay, Amy,’ he says, and I feel his voice rumble in his chest. ‘It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re alright. I’m here.’
I feel so tired, I could almost sleep into him. Just as long as he keeps hold of me and never lets go. I peel open my eyes and I can just see black cotton, his shirt, and the way it moves over his rippled body as he breathes. I think I should move. Everything is starting to ache, and the fear has been replaced with crippling embarrassment.
At last I lift my head and he eases away from me. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘go sit on the sofa.’
He stands and helps me to my feet, then leads me to the soft grey sofa. I sit down and curl myself into a ball. I don’t want him to sit down next to me. If he does that, I don’t think I can resist snuggling up to him again.
‘I’ll go downstairs and make you a tea,’ he says.
I nod, shivering. ‘Thank you.’
By the time I hear him putting the mugs down on the table in front of me, I’d been dozing a little. My arms and legs feel like lead.
I draw my knees to my tummy and hug them.
‘The checks. How long has this been going on?’ he says, sitting on the wooden chair opposite me.
I sit up. ‘I can’t . . . ’ I say, my voice hoarse, my throat raw. ‘I’ll be fine. I appreciate the tea but don’t ask for more than I can give.’
I risk picking up the mug with trembling hands. I take a gulp of tea. It’s hot. And surprisingly, the tea is better than my own. He watches me while I drink. He looks bone-tired too.
‘You remember how I take my tea,’ I say.
‘I remember everything.’
Those words start the tears falling again, and I plop the mug down and cover my face with both my hands. I half-expect him to come over. Hold me. I brace myself for the shock of it. But he doesn’t move. After a few moments, I open my eyes and find a box of tissues on the table in front of me. I give a short laugh and take one, wiping my face.
‘You eaten, Amy?’
‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t ever apologise for something like this. Not to me. Not to anyone. Not ever.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I heard you crying.’
‘You should have left me to it.’
He shakes his head. ‘Couldn’t do it.’
Why does he care?
He drinks some of his coffee. ‘Are they getting worse, the panic attacks?’
I shake my head, too frightened to use words. Too frightened I’ll confess all my dark secrets.
‘Was that a bad one?’ he says.
I shrug. ‘I’ve had worse.’
He’s watching me steadily, appraisingly, like a doctor. I’m his damaged patient.
I finish my tea at the same time he does.
‘I had to take your key away. You gave me no choice. You check the front door like it’s broken and you need to make a new one with your own hands. It was every single time you left or came back. It ain’t right.’
I’ve caught the eye contact and now I can’t look away.
‘Why won’t you let anyone help you?’
No matter how much the therapists over the three years have told me that talking will help, I don’t believe them. Control and secrets are all I know.
‘I don’t know what the point would be,’ I say. ‘Talking won’t change the past.’
He gives a little shrug. ‘Not checking a thousand times, maybe it could give you some more free time?’
Does he think this is some kind of joke?
‘What are you, Shepherd? Really, I mean? This unorthodox torture you’re putting me through. Are you even qualified?’
He bends his head down. He says, ‘So long as I’m trying to help you, does it really matter?’
‘It should.’ I narrow my eyes towards him. ‘Are you really telling the truth? Or is this another cruel joke you’re playing on me? Am I just a lab rat for you to poke with?’
His eyes are blank. ‘It’s the truth.’
‘I think you’re too young to be a psychologist.’
‘Yeah. So what? Seen lots of OCD cases. You need to fix this — now. Or you’re gonna die in this hellhole.’ He looks closely at me. My face heats up under the intense stare. I gulp. ‘I think you’ve misunderstood your current situation. I’m not giving you a choice.’
He sounds like my father and it scares me.
‘No, Shepherd, this can’t happen. Why
