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through me?
    But then I get it. I know why I
came here tonight. It’s because I think he has the answers I need
to know.
    He’s a counsellor, and maybe he
can help me before I go completely insane.

6
     
    BEN
     
    I can’t get her out of my head.
I stare at the walls of the ward and think about what she tries to
hide beneath the surface. I’m in over my head, though. I don’t know
if she bought my lies, but instinct tells me she did. As a fighter,
I’m good at reading my opponents. It’s a skill that works well in
counselling, too. It means I can second-guess what might help
people before they even know it themselves. I can read her in the
same way, however much she tries to cover it up.
    The clock ticks annoyingly as I
wait for the doctor to do his rounds. I’ve got a mild concussion,
and other than a gigantic headache, I’m fine. Being here is doing
my head in. Training or teaching will be out of the question for a
couple of days, but I need to move. I feel claustrophobic in here,
and it brings back memories of being cooped up inside.
    A doctor who looks barely older
than me arrives. He picks up my chart hanging from the end of the
bed and examines it.
    I fidget with the covers.
    ‘How are you feeling?’ He sits
on the edge of the bed and shines a torch into my eyes.
    ‘I’m OK. I’ve just got a bit of
a headache, that’s all.’
    ‘Follow my finger with your
eyes.’ He moves his finger up and down, side to side. ‘Good. Any
nausea? Dizziness?
    ‘No.’
    He stands and jots something on
the chart. ‘Well, you just have a mild concussion. We wanted to
keep you in last night for observation, but I’m happy to release
you today.’ He hands me a sheet of paper with instructions on it.
‘If you have any of these symptoms, come back in as soon as
possible.’
    I study the instructions and
nod. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘You take care now, Mr Hardy.’
He gives me a brief smile and hurries to the man in the next
bed.
    The other people in the accident
are apparently OK and escaped with no injuries, just some damage
that my insurance company will sort out. My own car’s wrecked. It
was only a cheap, old banger anyway, but now I have no wheels. I’ve
been in Cambridge two years—ever since I got out. A new place, a
new job, a new start. Somewhere away from the memories. But I don’t
know the bus system, so I take a cab back to my flat. It’s dark and
cold when I step through the door. I bend down to pick up the post
from the doormat and dizziness overtakes me. I press my hand
against the wall, steadying me as I wait for the black and white
stars to disappear from my vision. When satisfied I’m not going to
keel over, I cross the open plan lounge/kitchen and sink into the
two-seater sofa, the post still in my hand. I flick through the
letters. Two are replies from recent job applications.
    I hold them in my hand for a
moment, wondering if they’re yet more rejections. Of course, I have
to disclose my criminal history to them, and even though I’ve paid
for my crime, I know how they’ll see it. I told Grace it was hard
to get a full time job as a counsellor, but I didn’t tell her the
reason why. Not many people want to take a chance on me. I was
lucky to find the part time work I have so far, and that’s all
thanks to my parole officer going out of his way to help me. The
last two years I’ve been counselling under supervision, working
towards my British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy
accreditation. It’s proved I’m good at my job. I just need an
employer to see that, as well, but maybe that’s asking for too
much.
    I open the first letter and scan
it.
    We regret to inform you that
we’re not taking your application further.
    I stop reading and chuck the
letter on the floor. I rub my pounding head then open the next one.
It’s from The Clover Project, a drop-in women’s centre.
    Thank you for your application.
We’d like to invite you for an interview on…
    I raise my eyebrows and