David Jackson - The Helper

‘The computer?’

‘Oh. Oh yeah.’

Gonzo digs the laptop out from his bag and passes it across to Doyle.

‘See you around,’ says Gonzo. ‘Good luck with the case.’

‘Yeah. Take it easy, kid.’

Doyle watches in his rearview mirror as the nerdy young man heads down the street with a gait that makes it look as though his shoelaces are tied together.

Gonzo was right.

The one thing which stands out from all the other entries in Cindy Mellish’s digital diary is the description of her encounters with Dr Andrew Vasey. Prior to that, the text is mostly made up of long flowery transcriptions of her thoughts about the beautiful, delectable, incredible Josh, followed by a series of interminably depressing passages about her longing for the now-absent hero.

Doyle finds himself deciding that his own daughter will not go through this kind of turmoil when she reaches her teens. He’s not going to allow it to happen. Just to be sure, he makes the further decision that Amy will not go out with boys until she is of sufficient emotional maturity to deal with any unfortunate circumstances. Which, in Doyle’s estimation, means no earlier than her twenty-fifth birthday.

The first mention of Vasey is in mid-September of last year:

September 17

I haven’t written here for a while. This summer was so bad. It just wasn’t the same without Josh. Mom kept trying to cheer me up, but it just didn’t do it for me. I needed Josh. He was all I could think about every day.

I’m glad to be back at college. It helps to take my mind off things. Plus it’s great to see M again. She’s so nice to me. She can see how upset I still am. Last night she gave me a business card for this therapist friend of her dad’s. His name is Dr Andrew Vasey. She said he’s amazing, and that he could really help me get myself together again. She said he would even do a session for free. I don’t think I’ll call him, but it was a kind thought.

Nothing much happens for the next few days. Then:

September 26

I’ve been a wreck this week. It’s been months since Josh and I split up, and I know I should be over him by now. But it doesn’t work like that. Not for me, anyway. I always thought he was the one.

M has made a decision for me. She’s booked me in with that therapist. I don’t really want to go, but she’s insistent. Maybe it’ll help. What the hell. It can’t get any worse.

There is another tedious interlude, but then it really kicks off:

October 8

Oh. My. God.

It still seems unreal. I’m not even sure I can write about this, but here goes. .

I saw Vasey today. It should have been a good day. It should have helped me. It should have been a lot of things it wasn’t.

Here’s what happened.

The session started off OK. He told me to call him Andy, which I did in the session. Now, though, it just seems way too familiar, and that’s the last place I want to go.

He asked me what was going on in my life, what was bothering me. It didn’t take long for me to get onto the subject of Josh. I mean, what else do I ever think about? He asked me more questions about why we split up and how it affected me. I started crying, just like I always do when I talk about Josh. But this time it was different somehow. I really felt like a weight was being lifted off my shoulders. It was so good to talk to someone who I felt could understand and help me.

But then the questions started to get weird. I mean really weird. I suppose I expected some intimate questions, because that’s what these people do, right? They get inside your mind. But not like this. I can’t even bring myself to write down the exact words he used. He wanted to know how Josh and I were when we were together. Sexually, I mean. What positions we liked, how I liked to be touched by him, whether we ever had oral sex. I mean, Jesus!

I asked Vasey if it was all right for him to ask me those things. He said that he needed to appreciate in detail how our relationship worked. I told him I wasn’t comfortable with that. He said all of his clients feel that way at first, but they soon get used to it. I didn’t know what to believe or what to say. He’s the professional, right? What do I know?

But then he did something which made me reach a decision pretty damn quickly.

He put his hand on my knee.

I mean, hello! This is not what doctors do, right? Questions are one thing, even when they get so personal. But touching?? I don’t think so.

So I was out of there. I muttered something about this not really helping, I grabbed my coat and I left.

Sitting here now, writing all this down, it feels like I imagined it. Like I’m telling somebody else’s story. But I know it happened. I’m just not sure how I feel about it. Later, I’ll probably get real upset. Or angry. Or both. Right now I’m just too stunned for words.

And what will I tell M? This is a close friend of her dad’s. Would it upset her? Would she fall out with me? I don’t know what to do.

Other than revealing that she decides not to say anything to M, whoever that is, Cindy doesn’t refer to the incident again until November of last year, a month after her consultation with Vasey.

November 10

Unbelievable.

He came back. Vasey. He came to see me at the bookstore today. He tried to apologize. He said he got carried away in the session, and that he wasn’t normally like that. I said it was OK, and that we should just leave it at that. I didn’t really want to speak to him.

But he wouldn’t go away. He kept saying that I’d had a huge effect on him. He said he couldn’t stop thinking about me. I wasn’t interested. I mean, jeez, the guy is at least thirty-five! And after the way he behaved, did he really think he could sweet-talk me?

And then guess what? He did it again. He touched me. On the breast this time.

So I slapped him.

I mean, I am not one for confrontation. I hate violence of any kind. But this was a reflex action. I didn’t even think about it. I just slapped him real hard across the face and yelled at him to get out.

He told me I was making a big mistake, and that nobody treats him like that. I don’t know what I said back. I just kept screaming at him. I may have even used some swear words, which isn’t like me.

But he went. I got him out of the store. He said he was going to come back again, but I don’t think he will.

And you know what? I feel proud. I stood up for myself. Maybe it’s the new me. Maybe I’m a lot stronger now.

Maybe my visit to Vasey did me some good after all.

When he’s finished reading, Doyle gets out of the car. He puts the laptop and the printout in the trunk, then locks them away. Before he goes back into the station house, he checks his watch. It’s a few minutes after two.

Less than ten hours before somebody gets what is possibly their final chance to hear the clocks chime twelve.

He realizes something is wrong as soon as he enters the squad-room. Jay Holden is giving him a stare he usually reserves for perps and people who have riled him. You don’t want to be on the receiving end of a stare like that.

Doyle starts toward his desk. He tenses when Holden stands up and intercepts him.

‘Can we talk?’ Holden says.

Doyle looks into Holden’s eyes and tries to find whatever’s bugging the man.

‘Sure.’

The two men find a room where they can be alone. It’s a room they use for interviewing suspects. It contains the obligatory wooden table and some plastic chairs, but also too many file cabinets that don’t really belong here.

Doyle leans against a radiator and folds his arms.

‘What’s up, Jay?’

Holden doesn’t take up a relaxed pose. He clenches and unclenches his fists, which in Doyle’s experience is not a promising start to any discussion.