Free Black Cairn Point by Claire McFall Page A

grateful. It’s a reprieve, a chance for me to take a breath. Refocus.
    With an exaggerated tut, Petersen picks up the stylish handle and presses the brass-edged mouthpiece to his lips.
    ‘What?’
    I can’t hear the response, but Petersen’s eyes widen, then narrow.
    ‘I’m in the middle of a session, Helen.’
    Helen knows this. She let me in here, after all. Guess it must be important. Maybe important enough to cancel the rest of this ‘therapy’ session. I cross the fingers on my good hand hopefully.
    Just the phone call is a plus, though. It’s eating away at the minutes before I can leave. Because no matter how long we’re interrupted for, Petersen will despatch me precisely on the hour. Nothing messes with his meticulous schedule.
    He gives another sigh. I look away from the bookcase I’ve been examining – full of books with spines that are yet to be broken – and go back to gazing at Petersen. He’s looking right at me, frowning.
    ‘No, I can’t talk just now. I’ll have to call him back.’ Pause. I imagine I can hear the tinny whine of Helen wittering on the other end of the phone line. ‘Yes, I know that!’
    Ooh, snappy. Petersen immediately takes a deep breath, reining in his irritation. Not before I smile at him, though.
    It’s a fake smile. What I really am is disgruntled. How has insipid Helen managed to get under his skin when everything I’ve done – and I’ve done a lot to try to antagonise this man – has been met with nothing but measured calm? I tried to stab him, for God’s sake!
    ‘Tell him … tell him I will call him after my next patient … Yes, one o’clock.’ He hangs up, grimaces at me. ‘I am sorry about that, Heather.’
    Don’t be. I’m not. I’m back on the defensive. Walls up, mind alert, ears pricked. But that’s just on the inside. Outwardly, I’m slumped in the chair, eyes heavily lidded like I’m so bored I could fall asleep; feet scuffing against the carpet. I blow out a breath, making sure he knows I think that sitting here is dull and mind-numbing and beneath me.
    ‘You were going to tell me about the cairn,’ he prompts, when it’s clear I’m not going to acknowledge his apology.
    No, I wasn’t.
    I set my lips, stare at him. I don’t blink. I’m good at this, the silent treatment; I’ve been doing it to my mother since I was six years old. I can keep it up for a long time, easily long enough to see out the hour.
    ‘Do you want to talk about it today?’
    I can hear the oh-so-slight emphasis he puts on the word
today
and I know we’re about to take a trip through my previous transcripts. Back to the days when I actually tried to talk to him, tried to explain. Back when I thought he was here to help me, when I believed his bullshit.
    ‘Do you remember telling me about the burial site, Heather? Do you remember what you said, about the thing you took from the cairn? The artefact?’
    Not my exact words, no, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.
    He rifles in a drawer in his desk and comes up with a huge folder, papers spilling out. It’s my old file. Crazy Heather’s back catalogue. Spreading it out on the desk, he begins to flip through sheaf after sheaf. I can’t read what’s written there, but I can see row upon row of spiked calligraphy. Dr Petersen’s notes. All about me. I don’t want to read it, but at the same time I’d love to know what ludicrous theories the man has come up with about my ‘deluded’ state of mind.
    ‘Ah, here it is. You told me it housed the spirit of a druid, an ancient being. Sent back to wreak havoc and vengeance. Do you remember saying these things?’
    I stare at him steadily. It’s subtle, just the merest hint, but I know he’s mocking me. He may as well say,
‘Do you remember when you were off your head, Heather? Does that ring any bells?’
    No, Dr Petersen, I can’t say I do remember talking to you about that. But I remember having my arms hauled back so hard I thought my shoulders would