Page 37 of You Can't Hurt Me

“Just stick to the task in hand, Anna. If you can.” She shoots me a pointed look. “But, in the meantime, can’t you be, I don’t know, a bit more imaginative? Take him away from the house. Change it up a bit.”

I think of Nate pacing up and down that study, both of us trapped in that windowless cell day after day. Her phone vibrates and I can tell from her expression that it’s Nate. I shift uncomfortably. She slides her phone across her ear.

“Hey,” she says. Her tone shifts, soft and girlish. She raises her palm to me. I’m excused. The razor-sharp line of her hair swings a little as she swivels her chair around. A hoot of laughter follows me as I leave the office.

Questions flood my mind. If Kath and Nate were really aligned on the inquest, why would she be off-limits for the book? And why would she admit that Nate wanted her to work on his memoir? Perhaps it’s a way of letting me know how disposable I am if I don’t give her what she wants. I was chosen, supposedly for my objectivity, my distance.

She’s right about one thing. A different context couldn’t do any harm. I can’t help thinking that, freed from the confines of his study, the rising tension between us may dissolve. I remember reading about Romney Marsh in one of Eva’s profiles, a desolate stretch of coast where she spent many childhood summers in her aunt’s clapboard house.

Her words circle as I push open the door to the toilets on the ground floor, open my knapsack and remove my spiky ankle boots. I replace them with some squashy running shoes and wrestle a shapeless black hoodie over my silk blouse. Almost there, except for one detail. I wipe away the scarlet gloss from my lips and draw my hair back into an austere ponytail. Suitably erased, I head home. On my way to the subway, I text Nate.

Hello! Thinking instead of meeting tomorrow as planned, how about getting out of the city for some inspiration?

Nate typing...

Sure, Priya mentioned a Plan B, I think good idea

Nate typing...

Let me know where you decide to take me

I think I already have

I open my communal front door. Old cigarettes, fried food and a floral note of cheap carpet cleaner cling to the air, the universal aroma of every shared hall I’ve ever lived in. My keys fumble in the lock and I let myself into my own apartment. The sitting room is deserted but the air is still warm and musky. There is an empty bottle of wine next to the sofa, somewhere else in the apartment I can hear talking. From Amira’s bedroom, I’m guessing.

I pick up her and Tony’s plates and glasses, wander into the kitchen and try to think how I can avoid them. Clearly, he’s put his travel plans on hold now they’re back together. I make myself some toast, creep to my bedroom.

Grateful to be alone at last, I lie back on my bed and take out my iPad in the one small space that counts as mine. So much for the brief respite from Tony and Amira. Nate and Priya. Their names circle.

Absentmindedly I google them. Priya’s recent announcement pops up first and I scan it. “There’s such a big appetite among the reading public for eloquent books that investigate grief, and this one won’t disappoint. I’ve known Nate for so many years, I’m thrilled to be working with him on his memoir,” she announced toThe Booksellera month ago.

I google her again but nothing interesting surfaces. I try Eva and Priya instead. And up it comes. A much older entry of both of them at one of her sculpture shows. I pinch the screen to expand the image. They look young, barely in their twenties, presumably long before Nate and Eva were an item. Priya’s hair is longer, wilder.

A shadow of a smile plays on Eva’s lips. Their heads touch, arms around one another.

How much does she really know about what happened to Eva? Why hasn’t she mentioned their connection to each other? I close my screen, shut my eyes, as their names swirl through my mind, Priya and Eva, Nate and Priya, a set of dots that refuse to connect.

Eva’s Self-Reflection Journal

5 March 2019

Me: “Do you ever talk about your anxiety with anyone?”

Patient X: “God no. Speaking to you like this, it feels like a huge step. Like nothing I’ve done before.”

Patient X holds my gaze and I try to break eye contact but there is something in their expression that is so eager to engage, to acknowledge me, that I find it difficult to look away. In these early sessions I think it is crucial to build on that trust. I’m mindful of a new feeling right now, of wanting to really step into someone else’s pain with them rather than experience it only within myself. Finally. I’m not as egocentric as I thought, ha. What a relief to help, to feel seen and appreciated for more than just my own condition.

Me: “That’s so good to hear. I want you to know I’m here for you, witnessing, hearing all these experiences you’ve been through.”

We sit for a moment in quiet reflection, smiling at one another until Patient X breaks the thoughtful silence.

“I’ve been having nightmares. You see there’s something that’s been nagging at me lately, a sort of secret that’s been weighing me down.”

“That must be psychologically tough for you. The feeling of keeping a secret can often be so much worse than the content itself.”

Patient X nods in recognition. “It’s just I’m very afraid of the person who could expose it, expose me.”

Me: “You mean they’re using the secret to...blackmail, or control you in some way?”

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