Читать книгу Blue Sunday - Irma Venter - Страница 16

Thursday, 8 February, 18:15

“Tell me about your family.”

“Why?” I look at Doctor Kayla Arendse warily.

“Because that’s what we do here. We talk.”

“I’ll listen. So, lecture me if you must, but I don’t want to chat.”

“That’s not how it works.” She smiles. Her lively brown eyes lighten, and her mouth softens. She pulls her hands through long black hair in which the grey has already become prominent. Her hands move deliberately and precisely back into her generous lap, where she folds them neatly again. In control, probably just like everyone here at the Tuks psychology department.

I am beginning to suspect the universe is trying to teach me a lesson about control. Or my lack of it.

I hope I’m wrong.

“AJ. I told your hockey coach I would talk to you. And you committed yourself to the process. It’s not therapy. It’s a conversation. We’re just talking. The alternative is …”

“I know. An assault charge.”

“You hit him.”

“I didn’t mean to hit him. There’s a big difference. And the law is clear about that.”

“Was that really the case? Was it really an accident?”

I say nothing.

“The ball touched your foot and when Joe blew the whistle, you argued with him and hit his foot with the hockey stick.”

“I meant to hit the grass. I was frustrated. It was a goal. It was definitely a goal. And I was sure my foot hadn’t touched the ball.”

“You were furious and out of control. And not for the first time.”

“Then Joe should have remained the coach and not played referee.”

“It was a friendly match, AJ,” says Dr Arendse. “Between two clubs, which the Dutch team were going to use to warm up before their matches against the SA women’s team.”

“It doesn’t matter. The game is the game. If you don’t want to win, don’t play.”

The slight sigh gives her away. “You’re a captain in the police. It chills me to imagine what would happen if you lost your temper like that while you were carrying your weapon. Doesn’t it scare you?”

“I don’t do stuff like that when I’m armed. Never.”

“But what if it happened one day? What if you were tired and couldn’t think straight?”

“Then I’d probably be dead.”

“And doesn’t that scare you?” Dr Arendse’s eyes are locked on mine. “The idea of death? Of dying like that? All that violence?”

“No. There are worse ways of dying.”

“Like?”

I get up from the red armchair. Walk to the window. Students are walking and chatting, sitting on the lawns in groups in the early evening air.

“Okay, let’s talk about something else,” says Dr Arendse. “Where does this rage come from? Joe says you’ve been looking very stressed recently. That you’re playing more aggressively than usual.”

I turn around, lean against the windowsill. “I inherited a big case. Over and above the ninety dockets I already have.”

“That’s a lot.”

I nod, look at my watch. I want to get back to the Van Zyls’ house as soon as I can.

“Are you tired?”

“No. I like my work. A lot.” I wave off her interest. “Don’t go fishing there.”

“Nothing about work bothering you?”

“No.”

“Not even the fact that you’re overworked? Or that you could die? That you have to look death in the eye daily?”

“No. We all have to die one day.”

A slight hesitation before my answer.

Dr Arendse’s eyes say she heard it.

“Joe tells me three of your colleagues were shot and killed during an attack at the police station earlier this year. Two of them were your friends. And the one who survived is also your friend.”

Maybe I should have chosen therapy, where someone gradually extracts all your nonsense. Where you pay for a process, not this rip-the-plaster-off-and-see-how-much-you-bleed approach.

“Joe talks too much.”

I know she can hear the anger in my voice.

I look away, sigh.

“How angry are you, Captain? On a scale of one to ten.”

“At the man who stormed into the station? Eleven. We all are.”

She nods. “And what would you do if you met him in a dark alley where no one could see you?”

I stuff my hands into my pockets. “Nothing. He’s still in hospital. And he’s going to be in jail for a long time.”

“But you’re still angry.” She tilts her head. “Three of your colleagues are dead and the shooter is still alive.”

I cross my arms, sick of the questions. “How do you feel about death, Doctor?”

She shrugs and I almost want to laugh.

“It’s out of my control,” she says. “I can’t change anything about it.”

“I can’t either, I suppose.”

“But you can increase your chances of getting older. You can walk away from the murder and the blood. Get a different job. Be happier.”

I think of the Van Zyls. About Cath and her dreams. About the other ninety dockets on my desk.

“No. No, I can’t.”