Page 56 of Wanting Mr Black

“Someone stabbed you. What the fuck is that all about? Did that happen in prison?”

“Yeah. When I first went inside, I was angry about everything. About losing Dad, about the accident. Most of all, I was angry with myself. I ended up pissing off the wrong people. One day, they cornered me in the communal room and stabbed me. Luckily, it missed my major organs. It just made me more determined to never go back there.”

His reluctance to talk about this suddenly becomes clear.

I turn round to face him. “You couldn’t tell me about how it happened because then you’d have to explain to me why you went to prison in the first place.”

He nods.

That’s one down. Now, onto the next hazy bit of his past.

“You said you were introduced to Savage when you went through a 'dark patch'. Was that before or after you were in prison?”

“Afterwards. For the nine months I was inside, more than the loneliness and the fear, the thing I hated the most was the total lack of fucking control I had over my own life. Every single fucking waking moment was dictated; every step I took was directed by someone else. My life was under their control. I was helpless, and I despised it. I get that’s part of the punishment, but it fucked with my head more than anything else. After I came out, the one thing I was certain of, other than the fact that I was never going back inside, was that I needed to get back in control of my life – or at least feel as if I was. Going to the club and being in that room for an hour a week meant I was in control of something. I was the one calling the shots for a change. I know it might sound stupid, but somehow, it really helped.”

Control. The word reappears again.

“Who introduced you to the club?”

He drags a hand uneasily through his hair and hesitates. “My therapist.”

The word ricochets around my head, looking for some meaning, and then it clicks. “Your mum told me you saw a therapist after your dad died and they helped you. Clearly, they went above and beyond the call of duty.” Bitterness drips from my tone as the reality of what he said sinks in. “She’s a therapist. She’s in a position of trust. Oh, but wait. You don’t care about that sort of thing, do you? Blurring the boundaries. If you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“It wasn’t the best decision I’ve ever made.”

“What was her name?”

“Aisling … Aisling Lonergan.”

“You know you’re meant to talk to them, not fuck them.”

“I’m not exactly proud of it.”

“How?” I demand. “How did you go from talking to her to fucking her?”

He dashes a hand through his hair and looks awkward. “I’d been seeing her for a couple of weeks. We got on well; she was my age, easy to talk to – well, that’s her job – and I needed that. I had a lot going on that I needed to deal with. One day, the session finished, and she said she didn’t want it to end. Sometimes, therapy can be really intense. It just happened.” He throws me a hesitant look. “She let me dominate her. Afterwards, she said she could introduce me to more of that type of stuff if I wanted, and I did – at the time.”

I can’t believe it.

“She made a pass at you? How very professional.”

I hate the thought of him being with any woman in this way, but this is another level of fucked up. The idea of someone abusing their position to prey on his vulnerability incenses me.

Jealousy and bitterness enmesh themselves in my heart. Despite his claims that she helped him regain his lost sense of control, I’m struggling to see it as anything other than she took advantage of a vulnerable client.

“You know that was gross misconduct on her part.”

His jaw works, and he carries on, looking at the floor.

I shake my head, still not quite believing it. “Did you always fuck her after a session?”

“No, it happened once.”

“And at the club, you said you partnered up with her the most?”

He drags his hands down his face, tiring of my interrogation. “Yes, but like I already told you, it was just sex.”

His attempt at reassurance fails to hit the mark.

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