Author's note: Oops, I did it again. Not for the first time, I fear I have buried the sexual content under a heap of scene-setting, backstory and chit-chat. If you want rapid gratification, look elsewhere. But if you do read on, and enjoy it, you might offer a little word of thanks to the real Angie (she is drawn from life) whose name is not really Angie, and who does something different for a living these days.
*****
Dr Sandhu was polite and patient, as always, but she seemed tired. She took her glasses off and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Your brother's condition is much as it was at your last visit, Miss Wheeler. His psychological condition, I mean. Physically, he is doing well. The wound to his wrist is healing well. He is eating, drinking and sleeping healthily. He looks after himself, washes and shaves - shaving under supervision, of course. He reads his books. He has shown no sign of repeating the self-harming behaviour. But he still has not spoken, nor shown any emotional expression at all. Not a tear, not a smile. He is in an emotionally frozen state, suspended between rage and grief. It has been four weeks now, as you know. I have had a therapist try to communicate with him, but there is no response at all. And I must say I am not prepared to discharge him from the clinic while he is in this state. He needs to talk. I need him to talk. Even a smile would be a start. And until that happens, we wait. I'm sorry, Miss Wheeler, I realise this must be dreadfully distressing for you."
"It's all right, Dr Sandhu," said Helen. "I appreciate all you are doing for David."
"Miss Wheeler, it is not strictly my place to say so, but I imagine that you are physically and emotionally exhausted. It is important that you look after yourself, and seek support if you need it."
"Thank you, Doctor." Helen was, indeed, shattered by the events of a month ago and their aftermath. She thought back to the moment when her safe, comfortable world had been turned upside down.
*******
Four weeks earlier
A normal Saturday evening in early summer. A knock at Helen's door. Two young, uniformed police officers, a man and a woman. Hats off, serious faces. "May we come in, Miss Wheeler?" Sitting awkwardly on her sofa. "Miss Wheeler, we have some very grave news concerning your brother, Professor David Wheeler. Swiss police have identified two bodies recovered from the scene of a road traffic accident near Lausanne as those of your brother and his wife. I'm terribly sorry."
Helen gave a short, high laugh. "But David's in London! I saw him, at his home, at lunchtime today! His wife - Marie-Claude - oh God, yes, she is in Lausanne. A conference. Oh no ... oh no, poor Marie-Claude ... what has happened to her? But David's in London. There must be a mistake."
The female officer consulted some notes. "Marie-Claude Wheeler was identified by means of a Swiss passport which was on her person. The passenger in the car was carrying no identification. But his clothing, and what could be discerned of his appearance, matched descriptions of a man who had been staying with Mrs - Doctor - Wheeler, in a double hotel room booked by her for herself and her husband, during an academic conference. Mrs Wheeler had rented the car."
Everything fell into place. Marie-Claude. Poor, dead, brilliant, beautiful, faithless, fatal Marie-Fucking-Claude. What have you done, thought, Helen, what have you done to my brother? Helen tried to explain to the police. "You see what's happened, you must see ... the man in the car, in the hotel, it wasn't David ... she was having an affair, passed the man off as David ... oh Jesus, oh God ... you will have to tell him. Please let me come with you, please. He is a ... sensitive man. This will do him terrible damage."
The ride in the police car to David's house. You must give him the facts, Helen was telling them. He will not tolerate speculation, evasion or vagueness. Only facts, all the facts. Pulling up outside his house. David answering the door with his shy smile. The police giving him the facts. All the facts. His face turning bewildered, then blank. David saying, very calmly: "Gianluca. Gianluca Biasi. The man in the car. A postgraduate student of hers. I had suspected for some time that she was having an affair with him. Now I know. Thank you. Will you excuse me for a moment?" David going into the kitchen.
A moment's silence, then the sound of a glass breaking. Helen and the police officers running into the kitchen. Helen hearing her own screams as if from a distance. Blood, blood everywhere, so much blood. David holding a shard of glass in his hand, his face expressionless. A sickening gash in his left wrist. The police officers' first aid skills. Her own screams, still. The ambulance, the Accident and Emergency department. The duty psychiatrist. The referral to the private psychiatric clinic. Dr Sandhu, polite and patient.
********
"You see, Miss Wheeler, your brother is in a suspended state emotionally, but it is not a stable one. He vibrates inwardly, silently, between rage and grief, each straining against the other. It is vital that I find a way in; a channel of communication, a way of unlocking the tension. I have been trying to think laterally; outside the box, if you will forgive the trite expression. An idea has started to form, but it is unorthodox, and you may be offended by it."
"To be honest, Doctor, I don't know what could be worse than this waiting," said Helen.
"I am thinking that David, at present, is surrounded on all sides by the terrible events of last month: the simultaneous discovery of his late wife's infidelity and death; his own self-harm. He cannot see past them. I am wondering whether another powerful, unexpected experience - this time a positive one - might help."
Nothing offensive so far, thought Helen. The doctor continued.
"And the other thing is this. One aspect we have not really looked at so far is the sexual dimension of this case. You may not readily think of your younger brother as a sexual being, but he is. Marriage is to a great degree sexual, and the infidelity was clearly sexual. Part of his loss is a loss of the sexual part of his life; and it has also been violated by his late wife's affair. Miss Wheeler, would I be right in thinking that your brother was not confident in relating to women, and did not have many relationships before he met his late wife?"
"Yes, that's exactly right, Doctor. He was a classic withdrawn, socially unskilled academic. He didn't have girlfriends when he was growing up. I remember a couple of names from when he was at college, but never met them. I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised if he had still been a virgin until he met Marie-Claude, which was when he was 25."
Helen recalled the family Christmas dinner when David, shy, unworldly David, had, amazingly, introduced them all to his new (first?) girlfriend. Marie-Claude from Switzerland: a charismatic, blonde, staggeringly beautiful fellow doctoral student. The match was so ridiculously unlikely that it had to work. And for a long time, it did. Their careers flourished as opposite types of the brilliant, high-flying academic: he the ivory-tower recluse, she the cosmopolitan media darling.
