Read Online The Trap by Melanie Raabe, Imogen Taylor - Free Book Online Page B

to detest him: for his questions, for his persistence, for the fact that he won’t leave me in peace. He instructs me to sit down again when I want to go to the loo. Reprimands me every time I want to drink anything. I’m not allowed to drink until I’ve confessed. When he saw me wrap my arms around myself because I was shivering, he opened all the windows in the room.
    Christensen has the habit of constantly clearing his throat. I didn’t notice at first, but when I did I dismissed it as an endearing mannerism. Now it’s driving me crazy, and every time he does it I want to jump up and yell at him to bloody well stop it. Stress brings out the worst in me—my irritability, my quick temper. Everyone has triggers. Mine are mainly acoustic: throat-clearing, sniffing, or that noise when someone chews gum and keeps popping the bubbles. Anna was always doing that, often only because she knew it annoyed me—I could have killed her!
    The thought has hardly taken shape in my mind before I’m ashamed of myself. How could I think such a thing? Christensen is tenderising me; I’m starting to yield. I’m tired, I’m cold, I’m hungry, I’m thirsty. Following Christensen’s instructions, I didn’t sleep last night and have hardly eaten all day. If I were in custody under his supervision, says Christensen, he’d have made damn sure that I went hungry and got as little sleep as possible.
    ‘It’s astonishing how quickly we start to crack up when we’re deprived of the mainstays of our physical wellbeing,’ Christensen had explained to me on the phone.
    I am not, it is true, going to be in a position to deprive my sister’s murderer of food or sleep, but I am at least learning to cope better in situations of tremendous stress. Who knows whether I’ll sleep at all in the nights before the interview with Lenzen—or manage to eat.
    Christensen’s questions go on and on. I’m sick of them. I’m tired. Above all, I’m emotionally exhausted. I’d really like to tell him everything, to get it over and done with. And why not—it’s only an exercise, after all.
    But I realise this is a dangerous way of thinking. Just the kind of self-justification that might trigger my capitulation. I notice that I’m sweating, in spite of the cold.
    When Christensen finally leaves, I feel as if I’ve been through a mincer. Physically and mentally drained. Burnt out. Empty.
    ‘Everyone has a breaking point,’ he’d said to me towards the end of the consultation. ‘Some people reach theirs sooner, others later. It all depends on how much a secret is worth protecting, or what far-reaching consequences a confession might have.’
    I open the front door to see him out. It’s late. He lays a genial hand on my shoulder and I try my hardest not to flinch at the contact.
    ‘You’ve done a good job today,’ he says. ‘You’re a tough nut.’
    I wonder whether I’d feel better if I’d given in—more relieved. Part of me wanted to share my secret. I wonder whether people like Victor Lenzen feel the same. I wanted to confess.
    But I didn’t reveal my secret. I didn’t reach my breaking point.
    I try to recover my equilibrium. I close the windows and warm myself. I eat and drink. I have a shower and wash away the cold sweat. Only sleep will have to wait. I divide my day up strictly. I write early in the morning, then I do research and work out, and after that I return to my desk, often working far on into the night. I’m so exhausted I’d love to take tonight off, but there’s still so much to be done if I’m to meet the deadline—and I have to meet the deadline.
    I sit down at my desk and open my laptop. If I’m going to proceed in sequence, I must now write something difficult about grief and feelings of guilt. I stare at the empty screen. I can’t, not now. I want to write something nice today, after such a strenuous day—one nice chapter in this horrific story.
    I sit and think. I remember what I was like twelve years