Five Fatal Flaws: A Psychological Whodunnit with a #MeToo Thread by Louise Mangos

Author:Louise Mangos [Mangos, Louise]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mana Publishing
Published: 2024-07-23T00:00:00+00:00

39

TRUDY

Present day

The faces in front of me double and merge like a multiple ocean swell. The police conference room is hot and bright. As we wait for the news appeal to begin, a high-pitched ringing in my ears warns me I might pass out. Benny has officially been missing for almost twenty-four hours.

A monotonous murmur of voices accompanies the sound of shifting bodies and the soft clack of extra lighting equipment being moved into the room. Why so many people? And on a Sunday? In the centre on a tripod is a large camera, its deep black eye ready to capture my tortured expression and words.

I sway on my feet and my calves push the chair backwards. It honks on the linoleum as I sit down heavily, my thighs digging into the rim of the hard seat. Every head turns towards me; reporters, journalists and police staff momentarily silenced by the sound. I’ve done the one thing I hadn’t wanted to do until it became necessary – drawn attention to myself.

Harry sits down next to me, leans over, puts his hand on my knee.

‘Are you okay, love?’ His voice is fuzzy.

I swallow, but the pebble in my throat doesn’t shift.

‘I think I’m going to faint.’

‘Trude, you need to be strong. Benny needs you to be strong.’

At the mention of my baby, the pebble grows bigger, pushing a wad of cold sorrow up the back of my head and filling my eyes with tears. I press my lips together, determined not to lose control.

I try to concentrate on the minutiae, the thing I’m always telling my patients to do. I think of DS Flatman recommending waterproof mascara. A tender, but peculiar piece of advice from such a burly man. That tube of mascara in my bag is the first thought I can grab, a line to a dubious mental lifeboat. I cling on to other things in the mush of my brain to avoid thinking about the crowd in the room. The hiss of the bottle as Harry pours me a glass of mineral water, the shape of the microphones, like two Liquorice Allsorts on the table in front of us. And I remember something clearly – the velvet muzzle of my favourite old grey mare at the farm on Saturday, her whiskers against Benny’s fingers making him giggle with delight.

The last time I held my baby in my arms.

A rapid-fire click and whir of a camera draws me away from my guilt, bringing my focus back to the people in the room. How wretched will I look in print or on the screen? I recognise nobody, but as I look from one face to another, they morph into the members of my group therapy.

I think of what they’ve been through, those long-suffering former patients of mine. I recall the fragments of memories they’ve shared, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle to help them collectively address their individual issues. Each of them recognising and accepting the traumas they’ve experienced and moving on from them.

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