me about the others?”
“No.”
Why this skirting of the issue? wondered Ella. Why not get to the point, the crux of the matter?
“Would you like to talk about him?”
Abel. Where are you, Abel?
“Why didn’t he kill me too? I was delivered into his hands, and I was helpless. He could have done it, despite being interrupted. There was enough time before he fled.”
“Why do you think he spared your life?”
She held the cup in both hands and raised it to her lips. Tasted chicory. Instant coffee. She wanted the taste of proper beans, the aroma of a strong Java.
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“I understand, Ella. Your head is spinning. We’ll take it slowly. But it’s got to come out; everything has to come out before recovery can begin.”
Recovery. Self-reproach.
“Trauma,” continued Dr Landsberg, “is serious emotional shock and pain caused by an extremely disturbing event. Divorce, job loss, death, crime, a car accident, sickness – anything you see as negative that changes your view of yourself and your world. Everyone experiences that kind of shock at least once in his or her life. You’re no exception. I looked into your background, read about your father.”
“A policeman. Shot in the line of duty.”
“Who’s been in a coma ever since, with no hope of recovery. Is that why you joined the police force? For your father’s sake?”
“I can deal with my father’s situation.”
“Yes, but now this incident. You never had counselling, after what happened to your father?”
“No.”
“Strong emotions tend to accumulate over time. You feel guilty, you feel angry, you’re anxious to arrest the killer. Not only do these emotions exhaust your spirit, they’re also detrimental to your physical well-being.”
“My body? I’m back at the gym, I work out again, I jog. I’m fit.”
“Allow me to explain it to you right from the start: when a bad shock like this occurs, your adrenal glands release a large quantity of adrenalin into your bloodstream. Your body, as you’re sitting here, is pumped with energy that has no outlet elsewhere.”
“It does find an outlet: I work out.”
“Exercising helps, but we have to treat the cause, not the symptoms. Those can be headaches, pain in the shoulders, arms, back and stomach, nausea, forgetfulness, tearfulness. Your sleeping pattern may be disrupted; you may be moody and aggressive.”
Yes, she’d caught herself cursing silently, or even aloud.
“Is that how you want to feel while you’re hunting a serial killer? To sum up: these emotions must be aired, approached from all angles. Are you ready?”
She nodded. She had suffered from headaches, muscle pain, sleeplessness, tearfulness …
“Your family, your colleagues, everyone cares about you. Embrace them – don’t push them away. You can’t deal with this thing alone.”
“This ‘thing’?”
“The thing in your head. All the conflicting emotions.”
She’d been to Bela-Bela to see her parents. Her mother had hugged her; she’d cried on her mother’s comforting shoulder. Let everything out unreservedly, without shame. Her mother had wiped her tears, and through her warm hands Ella had felt a transfusion of strength. Her mother was gentle yet strong. She had to be to have survived all these years with her father and the bullet in his head.
Her father, in his vegetative state, could not embrace her, so Ella had embraced him. His eyes had been closed, his chest rising and falling rhythmically every time the machine at his bedside inflated his lungs. But his skin was warm and the stubble on his chin was comforting against her cheek.
“It’s like a virus,” said Dr Landsberg.
“I manage,” said Ella.
“You have a virus in your hard drive,” said Dr Landsberg. “You can try to isolate it, put it in quarantine. But you’re not going to get rid of it. It’s going to multiply and erode your –”
“I do have a safety net of family and colleagues who care.”
“That’s good. It’ll help. But we have to clean the hard drive, reformat it. Reboot it, if you will.”
Silas and Mara cared, and Jimmy Julies and Tabs and Stallie. Not Fred Lange. Fred was like a virus. She’d never done anything to offend him, never given him reason to contaminate her hard drive. Fred was just Fred: old school, set in his ways. To Fred, change was a threat.
And Fred didn’t like her. She suspected it wasn’t just because she was a woman or that she belonged to a younger generation with newer insights and methods. She suspected his reasons were more personal. Could his animosity be traced back to her father? Her father had enjoyed regular promotions and, even while comatose, had been awarded a certificate for bravery. Fred had lagged behind. Then she’d come along, a pipsqueak, once again trying to steal his thunder. An upstart, his own children’s age. Sucking at the front tit, she could imagine him saying.
“Do you like music, Ella?”
Of course she liked music. Who didn’t? Even Abel Lotz was keen on music: the violin by Paganini.
“Do you play? The guitar, the piano maybe?”
“No.”
She did play. But not the guitar, nor the piano. There had never been money for a piano. What policeman could afford a piano? Except the commissioner, perhaps. When she was ten, her father had bought her a second-hand lyre. She still had it. Sometimes she took it from the top shelf of her wardrobe. After her father had been shot, she’d taken it out. Sometimes for Zack, and when she’d come out of hospital.
“Music is therapeutic, Ella. Especially if you can play music yourself. If not, listen to Bach. Bach’s music calms the brain.”
Yes, yes, she knew that.
As a child, gently strumming the small child’s harp – a seven-string Hermes – she’d begun to experiment with melody, harmony, rhythm. The tunes were still in her head now. Oh, how she’d practised “Yankee Doodle” and “My Darling Clementine”.
Later she’d hoped that the calming influence of harp music might help her father recover. With him lying in his bed, she’d made him listen to a recording of Sofia Gubaidulina’s “Garden of Joy and Sorrow” for harp, flute and viola. To Marjan Mozetich’s “The Passion of Angels” for two harps and orchestra. To Carlos Salzedo’s harp concertos.
It was no good.
Her
