Page 2 of The Mercy Chair

She opened the file on the desk. The man could see handwritten and typed notes, held together with plastic-ended treasury tags. He saw photographs of his injuries, particularly his eye socket. He winced at the memory.

‘Shall we begin?’ Doctor Lang asked.

The man shrugged.

She offered a sympathetic smile. ‘As you know, your employer made this referral after some concerning behaviour at work—’

‘I made one mistake,’ he cut in. ‘“Concerning behaviour” is a stretch.’

‘Nevertheless, they saw fit to pay for three sessions in advance. What does that tell you?’

The man didn’t answer. Doctor Lang removed a slim document from the file.

‘This is the self-assessment form you completed,’ she said. ‘I would like to thank you for being so candid. Not everyone is.’ She tapped the document with her fingers. Her nails were short and unvarnished. ‘This is a good place to start.’

‘If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right,’ the man said.

‘So why don’t we dive in at the deep end? I understand you’re still having headaches?’

The man touched the thick, lumpy scar tissue around his eye socket. ‘I am, although I don’t know if that’s because of my injury or because I’m not sleeping.’

‘Probably a bit of both,’ Doctor Lang said. ‘But not sleeping will exacerbate the head trauma.’ She checked the file. ‘It says here you’ve refused zopiclone.’

‘I have.’

‘Why is that? It’s commonly prescribed for patients with sleeping difficulties.’

The man didn’t respond.

‘Are you self-medicating? Is that why you refused it?’

‘Self-medicating?’

‘Excessive alcohol, depressants such as benzodiazepines or barbiturates. Maybe even heroin. Someone as resourceful as you would have no problem securing something to help him sleep.’

The man smiled. ‘I’m not self-medicating, Doctor Lang,’ he said.

‘Then why won’t you take zopiclone?’

A knock on the door made the man turn. The shaven-headed man entered the room. He was holding a tray. ‘Got tea for you,’ he said.

He put two disposable cups and a paper medicine dispenser filled with sugar lumps on the desk. He left the room and shut the door behind him. The man picked up one of the cups and took a sip. He grimaced. The tea was lukewarm. Doctor Lang studied him over the rim of hers. If she’d noticed anything about the tea’s temperature, she kept it to herself.

‘What happens when you try to sleep?’ she asked.

‘I lie awake until morning.’

‘And yet you still refuse common medications.’

‘I do.’

‘You don’twantto go to sleep, do you?’ Doctor Lang said.

After a few moments the man shook his head.

‘Because when you sleep, you see things you don’t like?’

He nodded.

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