When the Evil Waits M Lee (e book reader .txt) 📖

less personal, because the last thing he wanted, with a therapist appointed by his employers, was to reveal his true feelings. She didn’t have to know he still talked to Polly.

‘…instead the memories become stored in the brain. What you saw, what you felt, the rawness of the experience in its original unprocessed form, these memories rise to the surface and are labelled as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. When memories like this in the present refuse to go away, it is because they are often linked to memories in the past.’

Ridpath gripped his chair. She was going to ask him about his childhood again. All he really wanted was the coping strategies she gave him, ways of handling anxiety and stress. He didn’t need to dig up his father again, not his slow death from cancer or his mother’s reaction to it. He just wanted to cope with the present.

With Polly.

With the fact she was dead.

With the knowledge he caused it.

‘…this is one of the symptoms of PTSD; the past seems always present. Particularly, the feelings and emotions of a particular event appear heightened, almost visceral, leading to anxiety and tension. EMDR gives us the ability to control those memories and strategies for coping if they re-occur. Shall we begin today’s session?’

‘I thought we had.’

She blushed. ‘You’re right, of course, but I’d like you to dig deeper and search for your touchstone memories, if you can? Are you ready?’

Ridpath nodded.

‘Now, you remember the safe place technique you learnt?’

Ridpath immediately went back to the top of the hill in the Peak District, the wind flowing through his hair, the sun shining, him looking down at the valley below. His breathing slowed and a gentle warmth flowed over his body.

‘Good, now you can return to this safe place any time you want both during and after our session. Shall we begin?’

Ridpath nodded again.

‘I’d like you to close your eyes and imagine the incident. What image or memory represents the worst part of what happened?’

Immediately Ridpath flashed to Polly lying on the ground, blood oozing from her wounds.

‘When you hold the memory in your mind, what comes up for you?’

‘Helplessness.’

‘And where do you feel it?’

‘Across my chest like a heavy weight, I’m unable to breathe.’

‘Focus on those feelings and let your mind wander back to childhood and notice the earliest memory that comes up eliciting the same feelings. Anything?’

Involuntarily, Ridpath went back. Approaching his father’s bed. The man he knew and loved lying there, unable to breathe, his eyes red, bloodshot, staring at him. Reaching out his small hand and touching the paper-thin skin on the back of his father’s arm. His father weakly signing for him to come close, closer. ‘Help me,’ his father had whispered in his ear.

Ridpath could do nothing even though he’d tried.

Back in the clinic, the same person, now grown up, shook his head. ‘Nothing. I don’t remember anything from my childhood, the only memory is of Polly’s death.’

‘Not to worry, with some people the memories are harder to access.’ Dr Underwood sounded vaguely disappointed. ‘Now, I’d like you to go to your safe space again. And this time I’d like you to add a butterfly hug. Bring your arms onto their opposite shoulders and tap four or five times slowly, remembering your safe space. How does this feel?’

‘Good, my breathing slows and I feel calm and relaxed.’

‘Now, repeat this technique often, and the simple tapping of your shoulder will induce the same feelings of calm. It’s a useful coping strategy, particularly in situations when you can’t close your eyes. How do you feel?’

‘Good, relaxed.’

‘Great. We still have some work to do to elicit your touchstone memories but I think we’ve done enough for today.’ She pulled out her diary. ‘How does this time on Monday suit you for the next session?’

‘I’m fine with that. How many more sessions do we have to do? I’m back at work now.’

‘I’d like to do at least three more, and that was my agreement with GMP – we continue to monitor you for the first month of your return.’

She stood up and escorted him to the door. ‘See you on Monday, Thomas, and keep building on what we do here. Remember to use the coping strategies every day.’

‘Thank you, Dr Underwood.’

Ridpath stepped out of the office into the blaring traffic of a Manchester rush hour. He did find the sessions useful but he wasn’t going to let the therapist get into his head.

That was the one space he kept for himself.

Chapter 21

Back home that evening, Ridpath was sat in front of the silent TV, eating another cheese and ham sandwich and devouring the case reports Chrissy had given him, making notes as he went along.

Emily was right. Turnbull had run the case by the book. He had done everything in the correct sequence and at the right time. He had been slow but systematic, following the SIO handbook for a murder investigation to the letter.

The only errors Ridpath could see were releasing the photofits to the press and perhaps not pushing Jon Morgan harder. But those were easy mistakes to make in the maelstrom of a murder investigation.

He finished off the sandwich and drank the tea. Suddenly, the desire for the sweet, bitter taste of a glass of whisky came over him. He glanced at the shelf, but the bottle wasn’t sitting in its usual place.

In the weeks after Polly’s death, he had hit the booze badly, looking at old videos and photos of himself and Polly, wallowing in his grief. He couldn’t remember how much he had drunk, but from the evidence of the empty bottles, he’d made a serious dent in the Scottish whisky industry’s stocks.

Then one night Polly appeared next to him.

‘It doesn’t help, you know.’

‘What doesn’t help?’

‘Drinking.’

He glanced down at a near-empty bottle of Laphroaig. ‘But it does. It makes me feel… comfortably numb,’ he slurred. ‘It fills the emptiness. You know, there were nights when I used to wake and just listen to you snoring