Blue Monday

Chapter Eight

When she had been in the neurology rotation of her medical training, Frieda had treated a man who had been in a car crash that had destroyed the part of his brain that dealt with facial recognition. Suddenly he was unable to tell people apart: they had become collections of features, patterns without emotional meaning. He no longer recognized his wife or his children. It had made her think about how unique each human face is and how extraordinary our capacity to read it. At home, she had dozens of books of portraits, some of them by famous photographers, but others that she had picked up in second-hand bookshops by anonymous recorders of unknown and long-dead subjects. Sometimes, when she was unable to sleep and even walking couldn’t tire her into oblivion, she would take down a book and thumb through it, peering into the faces of men and women and children, trying to see their interior lives in the expression in their eyes.

She recognized Alan Dekker at once as the man she had seen outside Reuben’s office. His face – round and creased, with faint, blotchy freckles – was not exactly handsome, but it was appealing. His eyes were a sad brown, and there was something in them that reminded her of a dog expecting to be beaten but asking for affection none the less. His voice shook and he punched one fist into his open palm as he spoke. She noticed his nails were bitten down to the quick.

‘You think – you think – you think …’ he said. He was used to being interrupted. He spoke to fill in the gaps until he could get the right words out. ‘You think it was easy for me to go to that man?’

‘It’s never easy,’ said Frieda. ‘It must have taken courage.’

Alan stopped for a moment, looking confused. ‘I went because of Carrie, my wife. She drove me there. I think I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. He made a fool out of me.’

‘He let you down.’

‘He wasn’t paying attention. He didn’t even remember my name.’

He looked at Frieda but she just nodded and waited, leaning forward slightly in her chair.

‘What’s more he’s being paid, out of taxpayers’ money. I’m going to deal with him.’

‘That’s up to you,’ said Frieda. ‘I just want to say clearly that there was no excuse for the way he treated you.’ She paused, thought for a moment and silently cursed. There really didn’t seem to be any other way. ‘Whatever you plan to do, I was hoping that you and I could talk things over.’

‘Are you trying to talk me out of it?’

‘I wanted to talk about your feelings, about your suffering. Because you are suffering, aren’t you?’

‘That’s not the point,’ said Alan. His eyes had filled with tears and he blinked them away. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

‘How would you describe it?’

Alan looked up at her. Frieda saw something yield in his expression as if he was surrendering himself.

‘I’m not good with words,’ he said. ‘Everything feels wrong. I’ve taken sick leave. My heart feels too big for my chest. There’s a taste in my mouth, like metal. Or blood. And I have thoughts, pictures going through my mind. I wake at night with them. I can’t – It’s like I’m not in my own life. I just don’t feel myself and I’m scared. I can’t …’ He paused and gulped. ‘I can’t make love to my wife. I love her but I can’t manage it.’

‘It happens,’ said Frieda. ‘You probably don’t realize how common it is.’

‘I feel terrible about it,’ said Alan. ‘About everything.’

The two of them looked at each other.

‘When you went to see Dr McGill you were taking the first step. It went wrong. I’m sorry about that. Do you think you can try again? With me?’

‘That’s not why I came here. I …’ He stopped and gave up as if the effort was too great. ‘Do you think you can help me?’

Frieda looked at him – his bitten nails, his anxious face splashed with pale freckles and badly shaved, his supplicating eyes. She gave him a nod. ‘I’d like to see you three times a week,’ she said. ‘I want you to treat it as a priority. Each session will last fifty minutes, and if you arrive late, I will still end at the same time. Do you think you can manage that?’

‘I think so. Yes.’

She took her diary out of the drawer.