‘It’s not about the coffee cup,’ said Mariana. ‘It’s about boundaries – the boundaries of this group, the rules we abide by here. We’ve spoken about this before. We can’t take part in therapy if we feel unsafe. Boundaries make us feel safe. Boundaries are what therapy is about.’

Henry looked at her blankly. Mariana knew he didn’t understand. Boundaries, by definition, are the first thing to go when a child is abused. All Henry’s boundaries had been torn to shreds when he was just a little boy. Consequently, he didn’t understand the concept. Nor did he know when he was making someone uncomfortable, as he usually was, by invading their personal or psychological space – he would stand too near when he spoke to you, and exhibited a level of neediness Mariana had never experienced in a patient before. Nothing was enough. He would have moved in with her if she’d let him. It was up to her to maintain the boundary between them: to define the parameters of their relationship in a healthy way. That was her job as his therapist.

But Henry was always pushing at her, needling at her, trying to get under her skin … and in ways she was finding increasingly hard to handle.

4

Henry hung around afterwards, after the others had left – ostensibly to help clean up the mess. But Mariana knew there was more to it; there always was with him. He hovered silently, watching her. She gave him some encouragement.

‘Come on, Henry. Time to go … Is there something you want?’

Henry nodded but didn’t answer. Then he reached into his pocket.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘I got you something.’

He pulled out a ring. A red gaudy plastic thing. It looked like it had come out of a Christmas cracker.

‘It’s for you. A present.’

Mariana shook her head. ‘You know I can’t accept that.’

‘Why not?’

‘You need to stop bringing me things, Henry. Okay? You should really go home now.’

But he didn’t move. Mariana thought for a moment. She hadn’t been planning on confronting him like this, not now – but somehow it felt right.

‘Listen, Henry,’ she said. ‘There’s something we need to talk about.’

‘What?’

‘On Thursday night – after my evening group finished, I looked out of the window. And I saw you, outside. Across the street, by the lamppost. Watching the house.’

‘It wasn’t me, mate.’

‘Yes, it was. I saw your face. And it’s not the first time I’ve seen you there.’

Henry went bright red and evaded eye contact. He shook his head. ‘Not me, not—’

‘Listen. It’s okay for you to be curious about the other groups I conduct. But that’s something we talk about here, in the group. It’s not okay to act on it. It’s not okay to spy on me. That kind of behaviour makes me feel invaded and threatened, and—’

‘I’m not spying! I was just standing there. So fucking what?’

‘So you admit you were there?’

Henry took a step towards her. ‘Why can’t it just be us? Why can’t you see me without them?’

‘You know why. Because I see you as part of a group – I can’t see you individually as well. If you need individual therapy, I can recommend a colleague—’

‘No, I want you—’

Henry made another, sudden move towards her. Mariana stood her ground. She held up her hand.

‘No. Stop. Okay? That’s way too close. Henry—’

‘Wait. Look—’

Before she could prevent him, Henry lifted up his heavy black sweater – and there, on his pale, hairless torso, was a grisly sight.

A razor blade had been used, and deep crosses carved into his skin. Blood-red crosses, different sizes, cut into his chest and abdomen. Some of the crosses were wet, still bleeding, dripping blood; others were scabby, and weeping hard red beads – like congealed, bloody tears.

Mariana felt her stomach turn. She felt sick with repulsion, and wanted to look away, but wouldn’t let herself. This was a cry for help, of course it was, an attempt to elicit a caregiving response – but it was more than that: it was also an emotional attack, a psychological assault upon her senses. Henry at last had managed to get under Mariana’s guard, under her skin, and she hated him for it.

‘What have you done, Henry?’

‘I – I couldn’t help it. I had to do it. And you – had to see it.’

‘And now I’ve seen it, how do you think it makes me feel? Can you conceive of how upset I am? I want to help you but—’

‘But what?’ He laughed. ‘What’s stopping you?’

‘The appropriate time for me to give you support is during the group. You had that opportunity this evening, but you didn’t take it. We all could have helped. We are all here to help you—’

‘I don’t want their help – I want you. Mariana, I need you—’

Mariana knew she should make him leave. It wasn’t her job to clean his wounds. He needed medical attention. She should be firm, for his sake as well as her own. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to throw him out, and not for the first time, Mariana’s empathy prevailed over her common sense.

‘Wait – wait a second.’

She went to the dresser, opened a drawer, rummaged around. She pulled out a first aid kit. She was about to open it when her phone rang.

She checked the number. It was Zoe. She answered.

‘Zoe?’

‘Can you talk? It’s important.’

‘Give me a sec. I’ll call you back.’ Mariana ended the call and turned to Henry. She thrust the first aid kit at him.

‘Henry – take this. Clean yourself up. See your GP if you need to. Okay? I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘That’s it? And you call yourself a fucking therapist?’

‘Enough. Stop. You have to go.’

Ignoring his protestations, Mariana firmly guided Henry into the hallway, and out of the front door. She shut the door behind him. She felt an impulse to lock it, which she resisted.

Then she went to the kitchen. She opened the fridge and took out a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

She felt quite shaken. She had to pull herself together before she called Zoe back. She didn’t want to burden that girl more than she already had. Their relationship had been imbalanced ever since Sebastian’s death – and from now on, Mariana was determined to correct that balance. She took a deep breath to calm down. Then she poured herself a large glass of wine, and made the call.

Zoe answered on the first ring.

‘Mariana?’

Mariana knew at once something was wrong. There was a tension in Zoe’s voice, an urgency that Mariana associated with moments of crisis. She sounds afraid, she thought. She felt her heart beat a little faster.

‘Darling, is – is everything alright? What’s happened?’

There was a second’s pause before Zoe answered. She spoke in a small voice. ‘Turn on the TV,’ she said. ‘Turn on the news.’

5

Mariana reached for the remote control.

She switched on the old, battered portable TV sitting upon the microwave – one of Sebastian’s sacred possessions, bought when he was still a student, used for watching cricket and rugby while he pretended to help Mariana prepare weekend meals. It was rather temperamental, and it flickered for a moment before coming to life.

Mariana turned on the BBC news channel. A middle-aged male journalist was delivering a report. He was standing outside; it was getting dark and hard to see exactly where – a field, perhaps, or a meadow. He was speaking directly to camera.

‘—and it was found in Cambridge, in the nature reserve known as Paradise. I’m here with the man who made the discovery … Can you tell me what happened?’

The question was addressed to someone off camera – and the camera swung around to a short, nervous, red-faced man in his mid-sixties. He blinked in the light, looking dazzled. He spoke hesitantly.

‘It was a few hours ago … I always take the dog out at four, so it must have been about then – maybe quarter past, twenty past. I take him down by the river, along the path … We were walking through Paradise – and …’

He stumbled for a moment, and didn’t complete the sentence. He tried again. ‘It was the dog – he disappeared in the tall grass, by the marsh. He wouldn’t come when I called. I thought he’d found a bird or a fox or something – so I went to have a look. I walked through the trees … to the edge of the marsh, by the water … and there, there it was …’

A strange look came into the man’s eyes. A look Mariana recognised all too well. He’s seen something horrible, she thought. I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to know what it is.

The man went on, relentlessly, faster now, as if he needed to expel it.

‘It was a girl – she couldn’t have been more than twenty. She had long red hair. At least, I think it was red. There was blood everywhere, so much of it …’ He trailed off, and the journalist prompted him.

‘She was dead?’

‘That’s right.’ The man nodded. ‘She’d been stabbed. Many times. And … her face … God, it was horrible – her eyes – her eyes were open … staring … staring—’

He broke off, and tears filled his eyes. He’s in shock, thought Mariana. They shouldn’t be interviewing him – someone should stop this.