Page 32 of Parker
“Not exactly. Something triggered your anger and violence that night. We need to find out what it was. We need to make the judge understand why your father ended up dead. You’re taking responsibility for your actions, and you deserve to serve the correct punishment. No more.”
I stared at his lips as they moved, panic rising like bile. I was going to end up in the nuthouse. My mother told me about a great aunt who began losing her marbles. They carted her away, and none of the family ever saw her again.
“A psychoanalyst,” Graham said, more loudly than necessary. I brought my eyes back to his, so he knew I was listening. “They’re specialists in helping people recover repressed emotions and forgotten experiences. Their role will be to help you find insight into why you reacted as you did. Identify your trigger.”
I sat silently in contemplation. His words made sense.
“This is about you and your future, Nicky. I know this is the last place you expected to be. But you are here now, so we needto work with the toolkit we have to ensure the best possible outcome.”
“Does not feeling guilty make me a monster? Evil?” I’d been considering this question for the past twenty-four hours. As upsetting as my situation is, my father’s death didn’t sadden me. No guilt was hiding in my heart. The fact he was dead didn’t bother me.
“You? No. You don’t strike me as evil. And believe me, I’ve stood beside worse than Satan.”
Guards removed me from my cell and took me to an unfamiliar room the next day. This one was smaller, but still clinical.
The furniture was basic: a steel table bolted to the floor, four hard plastic chairs arranged around it, a narrow shelf mounted on the wall holding a few old books—dog-eared paperbacks with titles faded from the sun or age. A half-hearted attempt to make the place feel normal, maybe.
The doctor was already in the room when I entered. She smiled kindly and gestured for me to take a seat at the table.
The elderly woman across from me was the last person I expected a psychoanalyst to look like. Dr. Cheryl Petrie sat at the table on the black plastic chair. I swear she could see through me. Her tightly permed gray hair was so firmly in place that I doubted a single strand could move. Age and laughter lined her face, and thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. She looked more like someone’s granny than a professional qualified to crawl through the wreckage of my mind.
A larger woman, she had to squirm in her seat to get comfortable as the ankle-length floral dress she wore floated around her. From her gigantic tweed shoulder bag, she removed her phone, a flask, an old-fashioned biscuit tin, and a notebook. I noticed she had tucked her pen behind her right ear. She continued to rummage around in her bag.
“Where’s that blasted pen?” she mumbled.
I cleared my throat to get her attention, and clear blue eyes met mine. “It’s there,” I said, gesturing to her ear, and she laughed.
“Silly me. Cup of tea?” she asked, like we weren’t in prison discussing manslaughter.
Being disarmed by biscuits and kindness was the last thing I expected, but she was successful. This graying granny peeled back my layers and got me to bare my soul to her. So many memories rushed to the surface, prompted by her questions, events buried deep inside me, hidden from view. We hadn’t talked about that night during this session; she said it was too soon, and she wanted to get to know me first.
“When will I see you again?” I asked, not wanting her to leave. There was something calming about her presence.
“Graham requested two sessions per week now. Your sentencing is scheduled for six weeks’ time. We have plenty to discuss between now and then. We’ll sort this out, Nicky. Believe me when I tell you this is a glitch in the road. Life doesn’t end in prison—for some it begins there.”
Back in my cell, I laid on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Throwing and catching a tennis ball kept me sane as I reran my first psychoanalyst session in my head. The process was surprisingly freeing. Digging through the old ground, unearthing issues long suppressed, had been cleansing for me.
Q. What is your earliest memory?
A. I was six and attending a friend’s birthday party. Everyone was in fancy dresses, but my mum had forgotten mine. I sat in the corner and cried for the entire party. The other kids kept teasing me and pulling my pigtails.
Q. Do you remember the last time you lost your temper?
A. The night I killed my dad.
Q. The first time you remember losing control of your temper?
A. I was thirteen. Back then, I played on a girls’ football team, and neither of my parents came to my matches. But this one Saturday was the area cup final. They told me they would come. On the morning of the game, my father told me he had to work. I found out a week later he had been drinking with his mates at the pub. My fury stemmed from him letting me down and prioritizing himself over me. I smashed up the TV.
Q. A regret from your childhood?
A. Never meeting anyone’s expectations. I constantly felt inadequate, failing to meet my expectations in both my studies and sports. In the end, it left me feeling hopeless and unwanted. I regret not trying harder.
Q. A special moment with your dad?
A. Um… I’ll need to think about it. A family holiday in the caravan, perhaps. Nothing comes to mind, but there must be something. There must be.
Cheryl hadn’t voiced her opinion on any of my answers. She’d just listened and let me mull over the words. With sudden clarity, I knew what my trigger was—betrayal.
