Thomas Blackthorne - Edge

"Perhaps I should check whether-"

She was intending to say, whether anyone else needed help, for she had already checked his hand and seen that he was married. The ring was white gold.

"I know someone who should see you," said Adam. "You're a professional therapist, I take it?"

"Yes, but my client list is…"

"My friend is very rich." Adam grinned. "If that helps."

A vision of her bank balance swam before Suzanne.

"I'd love a cappuccino."

Seven hours later she was back in the same Seattle's Finest, having passed through a cleaned-up piazza – the sculpture bare of colourful plastic, but still standing – to find the same seat as this morning. Her last session had finished at four, and this was a good time to wind down and review the day. Over the counter, a thin monitor displayed a weather map, with today's statistics scrolling down one side. Nine flash whirlwinds around the country, four fatalities in all. British summer at its finest.

"Suzanne."

"Hi, Adam."

"And this is Philip Broomhall."

Obviously Broomhall liked gold, from the four rings on each hand to the glimpsed knife hilt as he unbuttoned his jacket. When he shook hands, she noted the way he turned his hand palm-down, seeking to dominate. Alpha male, primate behaviour. No challenge at all for someone with a brain who kept calm.

He's a potential client, that's all.

Adam fetched drinks while Broomhall sat down and told Suzanne that she had a good reputation, with several respected clients recommending her. He'd obviously trawled the Web to check her out. In contrast to Broomhall, Suzanne noticed the lack of a bulge at Adam's hip as he rejoined them. Weaponless but confident.

"It's my son Richard," said Broomhall. "He's scared of everything."

"How old is Richard?"

"Fourteen. And a damned sight softer than I was at that age."

Adam's mouth made a stretched sideways S. "That's what all the old guys say."

"Well, in this case it's true. Anyhow, your clients, Dr Duchesne, say you make phobias disappear like that. A few minutes, and bang, it's gone."

"That's right," said Suzanne. "I maintain total confidentiality. Some clients post open reviews regardless, which is very kind of them."

She had her own downloadable statistics, digitally verified, identifying no one by name, to show the effectiveness of her work. For phobic behaviours, it was ninety-seven percent success in one short session. Broomhall had either read the results, she guessed, or employed someone to do it.

"My son needs help. From someone like you."

Adam's grimace was outside Broomhall's peripheral vision.

So the boy needs saving from his father too.

Perhaps there was something worthwhile here, more worthwhile than the fee.

"So what's his problem specifically?" She didn't believe people were broken like damaged toys – disliking the word problem and hating cure – but she framed her questions on Broomhall's terms. "You say he's afraid?"

"He's…" Broomhall's eyes shifted to the side. "He's hoplophobic, for God's sake."

"Hoplophobic?"

I so don't want this.

"Yes. It's embarrassing." Broomhall wiped his sweating face. "Excuse me."

What's embarrassing? His condition or your prejudice?

But she said "You can feel confident it's OK to talk about this. It really is all right."

"OK."

Adam leaned forward. "You want me to go?"

"No, no." Broomhall took a swig of iced coffee. "It's fine."

"So what happens to trigger his reaction? How does he do his fear?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know it's a strange question." One she'd anticipated. "If you were about to draw your knife, at what point would he look fearful?"

"The second I walk into the room, if I'm wearing it. He cringes if someone just mentions the word blade."

Suzanne understood that reaction. "I guess that is a problem, but I'm really not comfortable with-"

"I'll offer you ten thousand if you can fix him up. Another ten if he improves in school."

"Then I'll do it," she said.

If you couldn't accept the need to pay the rent, you were hardly an integrated personality, not as a grownup. She helped people for free at times – like the woman this morning – so perhaps it was her turn to get rich, doing what she loved to do. Maybe with a wealthier level of clientele, starting now.

She wondered what young Richard Broomhall was like.

"Glad to have you on board, Dr Duchesne."

They shook hands.

Marvellous.

Had she joined Broomhall's non-nautical crew voluntarily or been press-ganged? Was this a mistake, the arrangement she'd just committed to?

"It would be good to see Richard the day after tomorrow, if that's possible."

"I'll bloody well make sure it is."

The turrets and courtyards of St Michael's Academy were two centuries old and looked much older. Some of the boys lived in, but Richard's father wanted a "normal" upbringing for his only son, so a chauffeur-driven car took him home every evening, to their enclosed manor house in deepest, richest Surrey.

Grandfather Jack had been a merchant marine and an East End trader. There was an old family story about a dinner party when someone, hearing Jack was a trader, asked whether he was in bonds or derivatives, and Jack said: "Nah, mate. A barrow in the market." But that barrow had carried imported Japanese calculators, and over the next decade the barrow became a store on Tottenham Court Road, then half a dozen more around the country with an expanding mailorder business, before flourishing on the Web and diversifying into a dozen different sectors, from fashion to phones, continuing to boom.

Richard missed his grandfather, while knowing he himself was nothing like the tough old man. At the funeral, Richard had cried – his father called it blubbing – which caused embarrassment among the business associates at the graveside, and earned him more disapproval from Mother and Father. They dealt with the matter afterwards in the usual way: getting drunk on port from the cellar and shouting at each other. Mutual blame for their son's softness and other failings.

"Broomhall, you done your maths assignment?" It was Zajac who called out, coming across the quadrangle, swinging his bulky arms. "You have, haven't you?"

He made it sound as if Richard had been up to something dirty, whereas he was really after a copy-and-paste of Richard's work.

"I can't help you, Zajac."

"Help? Why would I need your bastard help? Just for that, I'm going to-"

But Richard had taken another step, into view of the courtyard cameras. Mr Dutton, the Head of Geography, was across the way, looking at him and Zajac, frowning. Zajac muttered something in Slovakian, then walked off.

This was not a good start to the day.

Within minutes, Richard was at his desk, and the big flatscreen monitor at the front of the class was displaying stacked panes of images: tropical cyclones with white surf smashing over palm trees and single-storey buildings; arid reddish dust bowls where verdant savannah once lay; concrete tower blocks in the outer banlieues of Paris where armoured cars of the Police Judiciaire patrolled; the three year-old steel border wall separating CalOrWashington – the Left Coast Republic – from Arizona and the rest of the US; the latest bomb atrocities in Amsterdam, Harare, and Jakarta; the cumulative death toll of the Adelaide Flu.

Beijing was threatening sanctions against the US if President Brand didn't stop the arms build up on the Mexican border where "At least the wetbacks are Christian," according to one right-wing pundit who was trying to explain why the Left Coast was Sodom and Gomorrah – the true Obama legacy requiring destruction – while South America was a land where the real US could expand, bringing freedom to repressed citizens. They might have said the same about Canada; but the Canadians had nukes.