Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

I am not here in any official capacity. This should be one of my half-days at Bath University where I’ve taught psychology for the past three years. That’s how long it’s been since I quit my clinical practice. Do I miss it? No. It lives with me still. I remember every patient - the cutters, the groomers, the addicts, the narcissists, the sociopaths and the sexual predators; those who were too frightened to step out into the world and the few who wanted to burn it down.

Liam was one of them. I guess you could say I put him here because I recommended he be sectioned and given treatment rather than sent to a regular prison.

Dr Naparstek has finished. She smiles and leans down to whisper something in Liam’s ear, squeezing his shoulder. Liam’s eyes swim but aren’t focused on her face. He is looking down the front of her blouse. Resuming her seat, she crosses her legs beneath her charcoal-grey skirt.

The judge looks up. ‘Is there anyone else who would like to address the tribunal?’

It takes me a moment to get to my feet. Sometimes my legs don’t do as they’re told. My brain sends the messages but they fail to arrive or like London buses they come all at once causing my limbs to either lock up or take me backwards, sideways and occasionally forwards, so that I look like I’m being operated via remote control by a demented toddler.

The condition is known as Parkinson’s - a progressive, degenerative, chronic but not contagious disease that means I’m losing my brain without losing my mind. I will not say incurable. They will find a cure one day.

I have found my feet now. ‘My name is Professor Joseph O’Loughlin. I was hoping I could ask Liam a few questions.’

The judge tilts his chin to his chest. ‘What’s your interest in this case, Professor?’

‘I’m a clinical psychologist. Liam and I are acquainted. I provided his pre-sentencing assessment.’

‘Have you treated Liam since then?’

‘No. I’m just hoping to understand the context.’

‘The context?’

‘Yes.’

Dr Naparstek has turned to stare at me. She doesn’t seem very impressed. I make my way to the front of the room. The linoleum floor is shining as daylight slants through barred windows, leaving geometric patterns.

‘Hello, Liam, do you remember me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come and sit up here.’

I place two chairs facing each other. Liam looks at Dr Naparstek, who nods. He moves forward, taller than I remember, less confident than a few minutes ago. We sit opposite, our knees almost touching.

‘It’s good to see you again. How have you been?’

‘Good.’

‘Do you know why we’re here today?’

He nods.

‘Dr Naparstek and the people here think you’re better and it’s time you moved on. Is that what you want?’

Again he nods.

‘If you are released, where would you go?’

‘I’d find somewhere to live. G-g-get a job.’

Liam’s stutter is less pronounced than I remember. It gets worse when he’s anxious or angry.

‘You have no family?’

‘No.’

‘Most of your friends are in here.’

‘I’ll m-m-make new friends.’

‘It’s been a while since I saw you last, Liam. Remind me again why you’re here.’

‘I did a bad thing, but I’m better now.’

There it is: an admission and an excuse in the same breath.

‘So why are you here?’

‘You sent me here.’

‘I must have had a reason.’

‘I had a per-per-personality disorder.’

‘What do you think that means?’

‘I hurt someone, but it weren’t my fault. I couldn’t help it.’ He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor.

‘You beat a girl up. You punched and kicked her. You crushed her spine. You broke her jaw. You fractured her skull. Her name was Zoe Hegarty. She was sixteen.’

Each fact resonates as though I’m clashing cymbals next to his ear, but nothing changes in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What are you sorry for?’

‘For what I d-d-did.’

‘And now you’ve changed?

He nods.

‘What have you done to change?’

He looks perplexed.

‘Hostility like that has to come from somewhere, Liam. What have you done to change?’

He begins talking about the therapy sessions and workshops that he’s done, the anger-management courses and social skills training. Occasionally, he looks over his shoulder towards Dr Naparstek, but I ask him to concentrate on me.

‘Tell me about Zoe.’

‘What about her?’

‘What was she like?’

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Did you fancy her?’

Liam flinches. ‘It w-w-weren’t like that.’

‘You followed her home from the cinema. You dragged her off the street. You kicked her unconscious.’

‘I didn’t rape her.’

‘I didn’t say anything about raping her. Is that what you intended to do?’

Liam shakes his head, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt. His eyes are focused on the far wall, as if watching some invisible drama being played out on a screen that nobody else can see.

‘You once told me that Zoe wore a mask. You said a lot of people wore masks and weren’t genuine. Do I wear a mask?’

‘No.’

‘What about Dr Naparstek?’

The mention of her name makes his skin flush.

‘N-n-no.’

‘How old are you now, Liam?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘Tell me about your dreams.’

He blinks at me.

‘What do you dream about?’

‘Getting out of here. Starting a n-n-new life.’

‘Do you masturbate?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t believe that’s true, Liam.’

He shakes his head.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You shouldn’t talk about stuff like that.’

‘It’s very natural for a young man. When you masturbate who do you think about?’

‘Girls.’

‘There aren’t many girls around here. Most of the staff are men.’

‘G-g-girls in magazines.’

‘Dr Naparstek is a woman. How often do you get to see Dr Naparstek? Twice a week? Three times? Do you look forward to your sessions?’

‘She’s been good to me.’

‘How has she been good to you?’

‘She doesn’t judge me.’

‘Oh, come on, Liam, of course she judges you. That’s why she’s here. Do you ever have sexual fantasies about her?’

He bristles. Edgy. Uncomfortable.

‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘About her.’

‘She’s a very attractive woman, Liam. I’m just admiring her.’

I look over his shoulder. Dr Naparstek doesn’t seem to appreciate the compliment. Her lips are pinched tightly and she’s toying with a pendant around her neck.

‘What do you prefer, Liam, winter or summer?’

‘Summer.’

‘Day or night?’

‘Night.’

‘Apples or oranges?’

‘Oranges.’

‘Coffee or tea?’

‘Tea.’

‘Women or men?’

‘Women.’

‘In skirts or trousers?’

‘Skirts.’

‘Long or short?’

‘Short.’

‘Stockings or tights?’

‘Stockings.’

‘What colour lipstick?’

‘Red.’

‘What colour eyes does she have?’

‘Blue.’

‘What is she wearing today?’

‘A skirt.’

‘What colour is her bra?’

‘Black.’

‘I didn’t mention a name, Liam. Who are you talking about?’

He stiffens, embarrassed, his face a beacon. I notice his left knee bouncing up and down in a reflex action.

‘Do you think Dr Naparstek is married?’ I ask.

‘I d-d-don’t know.’

‘Does she wear a wedding ring?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe she has a boyfriend at home. Do you think about what she does when she leaves this place? Where she goes? What her house looks like? What she wears to bed? Maybe she sleeps naked.’