Waiting for Wednesday

likes to have power over people. But you’ve
listened to Danielle, you’ve responded to her concern and you’ve acted on
it.’
    ‘She thinks I could do something –
well, something that could get me into trouble. Not just killing a cat. And she’s
right. I think so too.’
    ‘You’re telling me that
you’re worried you could seriously hurt someone?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And is that all you have to tell
me?’
    ‘
All?
Isn’t that
enough?’
    ‘Apart from Danielle’s worries,
which you share, are there other things that are troubling you?’
    ‘Well.’ He shifted in his chair,
glanced away and then back again. ‘I’m not great at sleeping.’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘I go to sleep all right but then I
wake and sometimes that’s fine and sometimes I just know I won’t go back to
sleep. I lie there and think about stuff.’
    ‘Stuff?’
    ‘You know. Little things seem big at
three in the morning. But everyone goes through patches of not sleeping. And I’ve
lost my appetite a bit.’
    ‘You don’t eat
properly?’
    ‘That’s not why I’m
here.’ He seemed suddenly angry. ‘I’m here because of my violent
feelings. I want you to help me.’
    Frieda sat quite straight in her red
armchair. The sun poured through the window, ran like a river through the room where she
told patients who made their way to her that they could tell her anything, anything at
all. Her ribs hurt and her leg ached.
    ‘No,’ she said at last.
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘I can’t help you.’
    ‘I don’t understand. I come here
telling you I might seriously harm someone and you tell me you can’t help
me.’
    ‘That’s right. I’m not the
proper person.’
    ‘Why? You specialize in things like
this – I’ve heard about you. You know about people like me.’
    Frieda thought about Dean Reeve, the man who
had stolen a little girl and turned her into his submissive wife, who had stolen a
little boy and tried to make him into his son, who through Frieda’s carelessness
had snatched a young woman and murdered her just because she got in his way, who was
still alive somewhere with his soft smile and his watching eyes. She thought of the
knife slashing at her.
    ‘What are people like you like?’
she said.
    ‘You know – people who do bad
things.’
    ‘Have you done bad things?’
    ‘Not yet. But I can feel them inside
me. I don’t want to let them out.’
    ‘There is a paradox here,’ said
Frieda.
    ‘What?’
    ‘The fact of asking me for help might
suggest that you don’t really need it.’
    ‘I don’t know what you
mean.’
    ‘You’re worried about being
violent, about a lack of empathy. But you listened to Danielle. And you’re asking
for help. That shows insight.’
    ‘But what about torturing
animals?’
    ‘You shouldn’t do that. But you
said it was a long time ago. So: don’t do it again.’
    There was a pause. He looked confused.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
    ‘What about
“goodbye”?’ said Frieda.
    Seamus left and Frieda went and stood by her
window, her eyes resting on the site across the street. Once there had been houses
there, before a wrecking ball had swung through their walls, smashing them into dust,
and diggers and cranes had moved in among the rubble. For a while, it had been a
construction site, with Portakabins and men in hard hats drinking tea. Boards had gone
up round the perimeter, announcingthe imminent arrival of a brand new
office block. But then work had stopped: this was a recession after all. The men had
left with their diggers, though one stumpy crane still stood in the middle of the space.
Weeds and shrubs had grown up where the rubble had been. Now it was a wild place.
Children played there; homeless people sometimes slept there. Frieda occasionally saw
foxes roaming through the brambles. Perhaps it would stay like that, she thought,
reminding people that even in a great city like London some things have to remain
uncontrolled, unpredictable, sending up nettles and wild flowers and even a few stray
vegetables, the stubborn survivors of gardens that had been demolished.
    No. She couldn’t help Seamus Dunne,
although the image of him cutting his father’s hair remained with her, the bright
blades opening and closing in her mind.
Dearest Frieda, I do understand that
you can’t make any plans just now. Just don’t make plans without me, OK?
I went to see some very purple paintings today. And I bought some pots of herbs for
the balcony – though I don’t know if they