White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller (10 page)

The doctor turned to Anthony. ‘I can only apologise for all that adult stuff, young man. Nothing to worry about. Nothing whatsoever! You’ve been through a tough time, my boy. But things will get better from here. Think of me as your friend. Someone you can talk to about absolutely anything that is worrying you. We will meet here, or sometimes at my home.’

Molly stiffened, and met his gaze. ‘Your home?’

Dr Galbraith turned to face her. ‘I see patients at my home on rare occasions if I consider they need more of my time than the clinic’s busy schedule allows. It may or may not prove necessary in Anthony’s case.’

Molly nodded nervously… Was Tony one of those children?

The doctor refocussed on Anthony, who was becoming increasingly bored as the session progressed. ‘So, you see, Anthony, we will get to know each other extremely well.’

Dr Galbraith paused briefly and smiled. ‘I’ll show you all the therapy room in a short while. But there is one important matter I wish to address first.’ He took a grey cardboard folder from his desktop, and handed an individual sheet of typed paper to each family member. ‘What you have in front of you is a therapeutic contract that confirms all our commitment to fully engage in the process for Anthony’s benefit. Let me talk you all through it:

1. Mr and Mrs Mailer will ensure that Anthony arrives for each appointment on time;

2. Anthony’s appointments will be prioritised above all else;

3. Mr and Mrs Mailer agree to follow the treatment plan;

4. Mr and Mrs Mailer agree to therapy sessions being video recorded when deemed appropriate by Dr Galbraith;

5. Mr and Mrs Mailer agree to Anthony being seen at any venue deemed appropriate by Dr Galbraith;

6. Mr and Mrs Mailer will ensure that Anthony completes his entire course of treatment;

7. Dr Galbraith will meet Anthony’s therapeutic need’s to the very best of his ability.

I’m sorry if all this appears extremely formal, but experience has taught me that it is essential that we all properly understand the crucial nature of the intervention. I have had several cases in the past where parents have not been fully committed to the process, sometimes with tragic consequences.’ He smiled from ear to ear. ‘Having talked to you all this morning, I am sure you will not be one of those unfortunate families. Do you all understand? Now is the time to say if there is anything at all that requires clarification?’

Molly and Mike both nodded their silent agreement.

‘Okay, it seems we’re all singing form the same hymn sheet, so to speak. I’ll collect those from you, and we can all sign the original copy.’ He handed Molly a clipboard and pen. ‘If you sign first, my dear, and then everyone can do likewise.’

Molly was about to sign, but hesitated.

Dr Galbraith blinked repeatedly as the pressure in his head suddenly escalated and made him flinch… What the hell was the bitch thinking? ‘Is there something worrying you, my dear girl?’

‘I was just wondering what is meant by other venues?’

‘Oh, that’s nothing to worry about, my dear. I may need to see Anthony at school for example, or at the consulting room at my home as I mentioned earlier. And, once a year, in the summer months when it’s warmer, I take a group of boys camping with other like minded colleagues. It’s a therapy we call intermediate treatment. It proves surprisingly effective; we all have a marvellous time. But, we mustn't worry about that at this early stage, must we, Molly.’ He laughed. ‘We won’t be camping in the Welsh winter. It’s far too cold for that.’

Molly signed, followed by Mike, Siân and finally Anthony, who wrote his name in unjoined script.

Dr Galbraith took the clipboard and pen from him, and signed the agreement with an exuberant flourish. ‘Thank you, Anthony. You've done an excellent job, young man. I will ask Sharon to make personal copies for each of you to take away with you. Now then, let me show you the therapy room before we arrange another appointment.’

The doctor stood up immediately, proactively avoiding any further discussion, and approached the therapy room, located just a few feet from where they all sat. When they were all crowded together at the entrance, Dr Galbraith pointed out the single red light above the door. ‘When therapy sessions are underway, they must not be disturbed under any circumstances. I really can’t stress that enough.’

After pausing to emphasise the point in his usual excessively exuberant manner, he finally opened the door. The room was brightly painted in a cheery primrose yellow, and had colourful cartoon murals on each of the four walls. There were large navy-blue bean bags and various toys scattered around the floor. A high tech video camera was mounted high in one corner of the room, and a video player and television set were positioned on the back wall opposite the door. The guided tour only took a couple of minutes, but served his purpose of bringing the session to a timely end without further potentially unhelpful questions.

The Mailer’s followed Dr Galbraith into reception where Sharon was still working away at her desk. She looked up and smiled engagingly. ‘What can I do for you, Doctor?’

Dr Galbraith raised himself to his full six-foot-two-inches. ‘Now then, Sharon my dear girl, Anthony here needs another appointment as soon as possible.’

Sharon turned the pages of the appointments diary. ‘There’s nothing until half-past-ten on the thirty-first of this month, I’m afraid, Doctor.’

The doctor shook his head vigorously, desperately attempting to clear his mind and think more clearly… Focus, man, focus. Get a fucking grip.

He forced a scarcely credible smile. ‘That won't do. It won't do at all.’ He glared at Sharon with pleading eyes. ‘There has to be an earlier appointment?’

Sharon shrunk back into her seat with a startled expression on her face.

Too urgent, man. Far too urgent; the atmosphere in the room had changed. There was an undeniable tension in the air. Sharon had visibly stiffened. That wasn't good. It wasn't good at all. Was he in danger of blowing it? He had to say something. He had to rescue the situation. Say something, man. Come on, say something. ‘I apologise if I seem somewhat irate…’ Not a bad start.

He grinned anxiously, appearing slightly manic. ‘Anthony here needs my help. He needs my urgent help…’ Hadn't he said that before? Focus, man! For fucks sake focus. ‘I don’t want to delay therapy if at all possible. It wouldn't be in Anthony’s interests. Look again please, Sharon. We can't let this young man down.’ He relaxed as the pressure in his head subsided slightly… He’d done well. He was back on track.

Sharon turned the pages urgently. ‘I’m very sorry, Doctor. There really is nothing else free. I’m afraid you're booked solid.’

He grimaced as his facial muscles tightened inexorably, and a violent stabbing pain exploded in his head… Two fucking weeks was too long. Far too long.

He mopped his forehead with a clean white linen handkerchief taken from a trouser pocket, and felt his heart pounding in his chest, and the blood surging through his veins… Surely they could hear it? No, that made no sense. The mask was slipping. Get them out. Get them out as quickly as possible. ‘In that case, Sharon, the thirty-first will have to do. It will have to do. I’m sure you will keep a close eye on our patient before then, won’t you, Mum?’

Molly smiled and nodded with renewed enthusiasm… If the doctor thought it so very urgent, perhaps Tony needed more help than she’d realised?

Dr Galbraith spoke for one last time as the family were about to leave, ‘I won't need to see you all next time. If you bring Anthony along, Molly, I will see you both very briefly, and then it would be extremely useful for me to spend some time with Anthony alone. I will look forward to seeing you in two-weeks time.’

Molly put her arm around Anthony’s shoulder and guided him towards the exit. ‘Thank you, Doctor. We’ll see you then.’

Dr Galbraith smiled as the all consuming booming in his mind reduced to a barely perceivable throb… He hadn't lost his touch. He was well on course. He was back in control. The bitch mother didn't suspect a thing. ‘You’re very welcome, my dear. I’ll look forward to it.’

Traffic was surprisingly quiet on the return trip. Mike dropped Siân off at her secondary-school en-route as planned, and before very long he was parking the convertible directly outside the Mailer family cottage. Each of them had been somewhat preoccupied with their own thoughts during the journey, and nobody said very much at all, with the exception of Anthony, who was just glad to have both his parents in the same place at the same time.

Mike exited the car first, and immediately rushed around the rear to open the passengers side door… If he got under way quickly, he just might avoid annoying Mo more than he already had. He probably wouldn't get away with it, but it had to be worth a try. ‘Get a move on, you lot. Out! I need to get to work.’

Molly knew exactly what he was doing, but decided to let it slide… Further point scoring could wait for another time. The day had been stressful enough already.

Chapter 12

‘I
know you've been interviewed on video before, Donna, but I’ll quickly recap what we’re going to be doing. We’re undertaking a further interview due to the new things you told Alan at your foster-home. Is there anything you want to ask either of us before we make a start?’

Eight-year-old Donna Bevan shook her head and said, ‘No.’

‘Right then, Donna. Go into the interview room with Alan and make yourself comfortable. I’ll switch the recording equipment on in the control room I showed you last time, and join you in a minute or two. Okay?’

Donna nodded reticently, entered the small egg-shell-blue painted rectangular room with its wall mounted video camera and self-levelling microphones, and sat on a large purple bean-bag stuffed with polystyrene beads.

Alan Garret sat opposite the young girl, noticed she was trembling, and smiled warmly… Kids shouldn't have to go through this shit. ‘She won't be too long, Donna. You know how this works by now. As soon as Pam joins us, she’ll say who we all are for the tape, and then ask you about what happened. It’s important not to feel pressurised to try and answer any questions you don't know the answer to. Just say I don't know. That’ll be fine. You may be asked about anything you say today in court if any of the men are prosecuted. You do understand that, don't you?’

The girl’s facial muscles tensed as she broke into a frown. ‘Yes, I remember.’

WPC Pam Forsyth entered the room, closed the door behind her, and sat immediately next to the experienced social worker on the low level two seater black fabric settee. She proactively met Donna’s eyes, smiled and nodded. ‘All right, Donna. If you're ready we’ll make a start.’

The eight year old girl shifted uneasily on her bean-bag, forced a thin smile, and said, ‘Okay’ in a quiet high pitched voice resonating with obvious emotion.

‘It’s 3:23 p.m. on Friday 17, January 1992. Present are: Detective Constable Pam Forsyth, Alan Garret, child protection senior social work practitioner, and the interviewee, Donna Bevan, d.o.b. 11, January 1985. Is there anything at all you want to ask us before we make a start, Donna?’

The girl closed her eyes and quickly reopened them. ‘No thanks.’

‘If I said I was wearing a red dress, would that be the truth or a lie?’

‘A lie.’

‘And if I said I was wearing a blue jumper, jeans and trainers, would that be the truth or a lie?’

The girl smiled again, slightly more convincingly this time. ‘The truth!’

‘It’s very important that everything you tell us today is the truth, Donna. Do you understand?’

She nodded and said, ‘Yes.’

‘Then we’ll get on. Am I right in saying that at approximately half-past-seven yesterday evening you told Alan that you were assaulted by several men in addition to your father?’

The girl’s reply was barely audible.

‘It’s important to speak a little louder, Donna. Did you say, yes?’

Her response was a little louder this time. ‘yes.’

‘That’s much better; I could hear your answer nice and clearly that time.’

‘Okay.’

‘We will need to talk about the details of what they did to you later, Donna. But first of all I want to ask you some other questions about what happened. If you need to take a break at any time, just say.’

‘Okay.’

‘Can you remember how many men assaulted you, Donna?’

‘A lot!’

Alan Garret took a deep breath, taken aback by the girl’s haunted expression… Was she really capable of continuing? ‘Take your time, Donna. I know this isn't easy.’

Pam Forsyth met her eyes. ‘Alan’s right, Donna. Take your time. There's absolutely no rush. We can take as long it takes.’

The girl’s breathing became more erratic. ‘Okay.’

‘How many do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Less than five or more than five?’

She raised her knees and lowered her head, appearing smaller. ‘More than five!’

‘Less than ten or more that ten?’

She hugged her knees tightly to her chest and closed her eyes. ‘More, I think.’

‘But, you can’t be sure?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry, Donna, I didn't quite hear that.’

‘No!’

‘When did these things happen, Donna?’

‘It’s been happening for as long as I can remember. It only stopped when I went to live with my foster-parents.’

‘How old were you the first time it happened?’

‘I can’t remember. Very small, I think.’

The WPC frowned. ‘How often did it happen, Donna?’

‘A lot!’

‘Every week, or every month, or every year?’

‘Depends.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Sometimes it happened every week when men came to the house. But we were only taken to the farm about two or three times a year.’

‘When you say we, who exactly do you mean?’

‘Me, my brother and sister, and lots of other children.’

The WPC took a deep breath. ‘We will talk more about that later, Donna. But I need to understand a little bit more about how things happened first. Is that all right?’

She shook her head despondently. ‘I suppose so.’