The Therapist

The Therapist

nial giacomelli

Fairlight Books

First published by Fairlight Books 2019

Fairlight Books

Summertown Pavilion, 18-24 Middle Way, Oxford, OX2 7LG

Copyright © Nial Giacomelli 2019

The right of Nial Giacomelli to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by Nial Giacomelli in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. This book is copyright material and must not be copied, stored, distributed, transmitted, reproduced or otherwise made available in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

ISBN 978-1-912054-91-6

www.fairlightbooks.com

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd

Designed by Sara Wood

Illustrated by Sam Kalda

www.folioart.co.uk

About the Author

Nial Giacomelli spent his childhood between England and the US. He attended the University of Portsmouth, studying Media, before becoming a software developer. The Therapist is his debut novella.

For Tora. For everything.

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

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VIII

IX

X

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XV

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XLI

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Acknowledgements

I

When the anguish between us grows so palpable that it manifests veins and a nervous system, an entire body that darts from beneath bed frames and behind dressers to howl the night away, I finally relent and agree to meet with a therapist. The promise floats round in the dark of my mind until finally it materialises and I find myself alone one afternoon on country roads.

I drive west as a heavy snow begins to fall, leaving the distant murmur of the city for more rural country. I pass sleepy houses with sash windows and steeped dormers, an old asylum with an imposing portico, the vague shapes of evening shoppers among a quaint collection of storefronts, until gradually the houses begin to disappear, replaced instead by a series of abandoned warehouses and outbuildings. They tell a sad history of slow, generational death, their sheet metal falling away, their brickwork slowly crumbling, until they themselves are gone.

When I finally spot the black mass of the therapist’s stately home I have all but given up hope. It comes into focus through the early evening light and I feel my apprehension like a stone at the pit of my stomach. The property is alive with Gothic spires and buttresses, a mess of stonework and wooden lattice. It looks like something out of a Shirley Jackson novel and as I pass beneath the cast iron gate and ascend the path beyond I begin to consider the impossibility of my own reality.

From the car I take a moment to inspect the black shingles of the house. There is such a sense of dereliction to the place that I am almost surprised when I notice a woman watching from one of the upstairs windows. She has a shock of white hair and stands so still that I think for a moment she must be a trick of the light.