Алекс Михаэлидес - The Silent Patient

“I wanted to ask you,” he said, leading me away from the goldfish bowl. “What should we do about Mr. Martin?”

“What do you mean?” I looked at him, surprised. “You mean Jean-Felix Martin? What about him?”

“Well, he’s been here for hours. He came this morning to visit Alicia. And he’s been waiting since then.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me? You mean he’s been here all this time?”

“Sorry, it slipped my mind with everything that happened. He’s in the waiting room.”

“I see. Well, I’d better go and talk to him.”

I hurried downstairs to reception, thinking about what I’d just heard. What was Jean-Felix doing here? I wondered what he wanted; what it meant.

I went into the waiting room and looked around.

But no one was there.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I LEFT THE GROVE and lit a cigarette. I heard a man’s voice calling my name. I looked up, expecting it to be Jean-Felix. But it wasn’t him.

It was Max Berenson. He was getting out of a car and charging toward me.

“What the fuck?” he shouted. “What happened?” Max’s face was bright red, contorted with anger. “They just called and told me about Alicia. What happened to her?”

I took a step backward. “I think you need to calm down, Mr. Berenson.”

“Calm down? My sister-in-law is lying in there in a fucking coma because of your negligence—”

Max’s hand was clenched in a fist. He raised it. I thought he was going to throw a punch at me.

But he was interrupted by Tanya. She hurried over, looking just as angry as he was—but angry with Max, not me. “Stop it, Max! For Christ’s sake. Aren’t things bad enough? It’s not Theo’s fault!”

Max ignored her and turned back to me. His eyes were wild.

“Alicia was in your care,” he shouted. “How did you let it happen? How?”

Max’s eyes filled with angry tears. He was making no attempt to disguise his emotions. He stood there crying. I glanced at Tanya; she obviously knew about his feelings for Alicia. Tanya looked dismayed and drained. Without another word, she turned and went back to their car.

I wanted to get away from Max as fast as possible. I kept walking.

He kept shouting abuse. I thought he was going to follow, but he didn’t—he was rooted to the spot, a broken man, calling after me, yelling piteously:

“I hold you responsible. My poor Alicia, my girl … my poor Alicia … You’ll pay for this! You hear me?”

Max kept on shouting, but I ignored him. Soon his voice faded into silence. I was alone.

I kept walking.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I WALKED BACK TO THE HOUSE where Kathy’s lover lived. I stood there for an hour, watching. Eventually the door opened, and he emerged. I watched him leave. Where was he going? To meet Kathy? I hesitated, but decided not to follow him. Instead I stayed watching the house.

I watched his wife through the windows. As I watched, I felt increasingly sure I had to do something to help her. She was me, and I was her: we were two innocent victims, deceived and betrayed. She believed this man loved her—but he didn’t.

Perhaps I was wrong, assuming she knew nothing about the affair? Perhaps she did know. Perhaps they enjoyed a sexually open relationship and she was equally promiscuous? But somehow I didn’t think so. She looked innocent, as I had once looked. It was my duty to enlighten her. I could reveal the truth about the man she was living with, whose bed she shared. I had no choice. I had to help her.

Over the next few days, I kept returning. One day, she left the house and went for a walk. I followed her, keeping my distance. I was worried she saw me at one point, but even if she did, I was just a stranger to her. For the moment.

I went away and made a couple of purchases. I came back again. I stood across the road, watching the house. I saw her again, standing by the window.

I didn’t have a plan, as such, just a vague, unformed idea of what I needed to accomplish. Rather like an inexperienced artist, I knew the result I wanted—without knowing quite how to achieve it. I waited awhile, then walked up to the house. I tried the gate—it was unlocked. It swung open and I stepped into the garden. I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. An illicit thrill at being an intruder on someone else’s property.

Then I saw the back door opening. I looked for somewhere to hide. I noticed the little summerhouse across the grass. I raced silently across the lawn and slipped inside. I stood there for a second, catching my breath. My heart was pounding. Had she seen me? I heard her footsteps approaching. Too late to back out now. I reached into my back pocket and took out the black balaclava I’d bought. I pulled it over my head. I put on a pair of gloves.

She walked in. She was on the phone: “Okay, darling. I’ll see you at eight. Yes … I love you too.”

She ended the call and switched on an electric fan. She stood in front of the fan, her hair blowing in the breeze. She picked up a paintbrush and approached a canvas on an easel. She stood with her back to me. Then she caught sight of my reflection in the window. I think she saw my knife first. She stiffened and slowly turned around. Her eyes were wide with fear. We stared at each other in silence.

This was the first time I came face-to-face with Alicia Berenson.

The rest, as they say, is history.

PART FIVE

If I justify myself, mine own mouth shall condemn me.

—Job 9:20

CHAPTER ONE

Alicia Berenson’s Diary

FEBRUARY 23

Theo just left. I am alone. I’m writing this as fast as I can. I haven’t got much time. I’ve got to get this down while I still have the strength.

I thought I was crazy at first. It was easier to think I was crazy than believe it was true. But I’m not crazy. I’m not.

That first time I met him in the therapy room, I wasn’t sure—there was something familiar about him, but different—I recognized his eyes, not just the color but the shape. And the same smell of cigarettes and smoky aftershave. And the way he formed words, and the rhythm of his speech—but not the tone of his voice, it seemed different somehow. So I wasn’t sure—but the next time we met, he gave himself away. He said the same words—the exact same phrase he’d used at the house, burned into my memory:

“I want to help you—I want to help you see clearly.”

As soon as I heard that, something in my brain clicked and the jigsaw came together—the picture was complete.

It was him.

And something in me took over, some kind of wild animal instinct. I wanted to kill him, kill or be killed—I leaped on him and tried to strangle him and scratch his eyes out, bash his skull to pieces on the floor. But I didn’t succeed in killing him, and they held me down and drugged me and locked me up. And then—after that I lost my nerve. I started to doubt myself again—maybe I’d made a mistake, maybe I was imagining it, maybe it wasn’t him.

How could it possibly be Theo? What purpose could he have in coming here to taunt me like this? And then I understood. All that bullshit about wanting to help me—that was the sickest part of it. He was getting a kick out of it, he was getting off on it—that’s why he was here. He had come back to gloat.

“I want to help you—I want to help you see clearly.”

Well, now I saw. I saw clearly. I wanted him to know that I knew. So I lied about the way Gabriel died. As I was talking, I could see he knew I was lying. We looked at each other and he saw it—that I had recognized him. And there was something in his eyes I’d never seen before. Fear. He was afraid of me—of what I might say. He was scared—of the sound of my voice.