The Recipient

  The insomnia and the nightmares.

  If Kirkwood discovered either of these, she would surely have Casey committed.

  Thus, the game continued.

  “Casey?” Kirkwood repeated softly.

  Casey shifted on the sofa. She couldn’t even remember what they’d been talking about.

  “You were telling me you were concerned that the doctor had altered your dose of the anti-rejection medication again—that you felt that he was making too many changes too quickly.”

  Casey nodded, rubbing her forehead wearily with thumb and forefinger.

  Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

  “Yes,” she responded quietly. She offered nothing more.

  Kirkwood nodded, scribbling a note on her pad. “How’s work?” she asked, changing the subject. “You’re still consulting?”

  Casey sat a little straighter in her seat and lowered her hand to her lap. She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I am.”

  “And how is that going?” Kirkwood ventured.

  “Good. It’s good.”

  Kirkwood nodded. Casey fidgeted some more. More note-taking. Kirkwood’s eyes flicked from Casey to the page as she peered over the rim of her glasses.

  “Did you want to elaborate on that?”

  There was no sarcasm in Kirkwood’s voice, though she raised it just enough to imply exasperation at her patient’s noncommittal answers.

  Casey’s features tightened; she was searching for something, anything, to answer with. It was clear from the way she held herself that she was agitated.

  “I’ve just finished a job. A big one…enough for me to take some time off.”

  “And how do you feel about that? Taking time off, I mean. I imagine it’ll be hard for someone who thrives on work the way you do.”

  Casey shrugged once more. “I’ll manage.”

  “Manage?” Kirkwood echoed with slight puzzlement.

  “Yes,” Casey retorted, a little more sharply than she had meant to. “I am managing. Just like everyone else with busy lives is managing.”

  Kirkwood offered an empathetic smile. “Sometimes our lives can fill up with commitments quickly, can’t they? I’m sure you’re in demand.”

  Casey tilted her head. “It’s a living.”

  “How are you sleeping?”

  Casey shivered. Kirkwood noticed, but gave no indication that she had.

  “What?” Casey faked nonchalance, pretending she hadn’t heard the question.

  “Your sleep. I can imagine it would be hard to switch off sometimes. Are you having any problems?”

  “No,” Casey responded sharply. She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt.

  Kirkwood creased her brow and allowed silence to hang in the air for a long moment. “Your dad and mum? They’re busy, too, I expect. Your brother?”

  Casey’s brother’s face flashed in her mind. She very nearly smiled but quickly stifled it.

  Again, her expression didn’t escape Kirkwood’s notice.

  “Angus is well-established in London,” Casey said simply. “His firm gave him a promotion recently. I got a call from him on my birthday. That was nice.”

  Kirkwood removed her glasses and set them down on the chest in front of her.

  “What about your parents, how are they?”

  Looking away, Casey pushed down a rising lump in her throat. Without realising it, she had reached into her top and rubbed at the dressing that was just visible above her neckline. Kirkwood noticed this.

  “Dad is fine as always. Supportive…unobtrusive. He keeps things ticking along for me in terms of bookwork and accounts.”

  Kirkwood studied her, waiting for additional information, but Casey remained silent. Her eyes wandered nervously between Kirkwood and the garden outside. She reached again for the dressing on her chest and scratched at it.

  “What happened there?”

  Casey looked down and adjusted her shirt to cover it up. “N-nothing. Just an oil splash from cooking.”

  Kirkwood nodded. She lidded her pen and then set both it and the notepad down on the coffee table in front of her.

  The hands of a clock on the wall opposite ticked closer to the top of the hour, indicating that they were close to the conclusion of the session. Both of them knew it.

  “You didn’t mention your mum,” Kirkwood observed.

  Casey looked away and down into her lap. “No. I didn’t.”

  Kirkwood waited a few moments, opening her palms out towards Casey in silent encouragement.

  Casey remained silent.

  Both knew they had achieved very little. Only one of them was concerned.

  Kirkwood looked at her notebook, at Casey and then at the wall. The hands of the clock reached the hour.

  “We’re going to have to leave it there for today, Casey,” she said.

  Immediately, as though a school bell had rung, Casey stood and brushed herself down, while Kirkwood also stood and closed the notepad laying on the coffee table. Casey was already heading toward the door when Kirkwood spoke again and the psychologist almost had to skip to try and catch up with her.

  “Could we make a time for you to come and see me again in a week or so?”

  Casey opened the door and glanced back at Kirkwood.

  “I’ll call you,” Casey dismissed, passing through the door and striding down the hall, not bothering to wait for Kirkwood.

  Kirkwood considered following her, but paused at the door to her office and watched Casey go.

  She sighed heavily, noticing her next client waiting for her expectantly. Kirkwood acknowledged the man with a nod.

  “Just give me a moment, Bill,” she said, retreating back into her office and closing the door behind her. She stood there, holding the handle, attempting to process her thoughts. She looked over at the notepad on the coffee table.

  Geddie Kirkwood sat for a moment on the arm of her chair and skimmed the myriad notes she had made during the session. There were more words on the page than both she or Casey had spoken during the preceding hour.

  Kirkwood had written a number of descriptors as she observed and listened to Casey Schillinge. Concerns about the current treatment regimen. Depression indicators secondary to survivor guilt. Fear about current health trajectory and future. All of them had been crossed out by Kirkwood and adjacent to each, she had written: ‘Not currently relevant.’

  Further down the page, she looked over another grouping of notes.

  Agitation. Excessive fidgeting. Worsening withdrawal with an unwillingness to volunteer information, particularly about mother (? Conflict worsening in this area). Lethargy with signs of insomnia (medical notes indicate continued use of barbiturates).

  Below all of these notes and scribbles, near the bottom of the page, Kirkwood had inked a question mark followed by the following sentence:

  Casey is hiding something.

  CHAPTER 9.

  She was perched on the stool in front of her workstation. Her arm was extended across her knee and her fingers held a joint. Long, languid wisps of smoke curled upwards in the darkness towards the ceiling.

  It was the last one, Casey realised ruefully. She had not heard from her supplier in days now. Her calls to his number had gone unanswered which meant that he’d probably gone and gotten himself in trouble again.

  Another idiot to contend with.

  Cursing silently, her hand shook as she lifted the joint to her lips. She inhaled the smoke as economically as she could, then she reached for the glass of scotch—neat—that sat on the glass tabletop.

  Casey hadn’t moved from this spot for hours. Her emotions were fractious after the session with Kirkwood. As she had predicted, talking with Kirkwood yesterday had done little to help.

  She was sick of everyone’s fucking advice. She wished she could be left alone. And yet, there was a part of her that didn’t want to be left alone. That made her angrier.

  Even her apartment no longer felt safe. The walls here felt as though they we
re closing in, suffocating her and yet, to step outside right now would feel a thousand times worse.

  Casey glanced at the clock.

  It was 10PM.

  She glanced at the painting of Jeanne Hebuterne and smiled bitterly.

  “Thirty-six hours, Jeanne,” Casey remarked with a slurred and scratchy croak. The Randy Gardner world record flashed in her mind. “Wanna try for the record again?”

  Casey gazed at the portrait as if expecting a response, but when none came, she exhaled in disgust. She considered pitching her glass at the wretched print but she hesitated, then relented. She was too stoned to be bothered.

  The weight of her self-inflicted sleep deprivation bore down on her, yet she fought it by recruiting as much anger as she could, forcing a battle within herself that released her reserves of adrenaline.

  Dangling the joint from the corner of her lip, Casey reached across the table, tapped a key on her laptop and checked her cloud folder.

  Empty. Maddeningly empty.

  Still no requests for her services had come. Just like the empty folder on her cloud storage, her post office box—where a lot of her work usually came to—had also remained stubbornly empty.

  She sensed Prishna’s hand in this, manipulating events in the hope it would trip up Casey. If Prishna had made contact with Casey’s underground associates, they would be running a mile from any potential attention they might attract. The consequences were not worth the risk of dealing with her.

  There had to be something she could do. Checking the clock again, a plan began to form in Casey’s mind. Launching from her stool, she grabbed her keys from the kitchen counter and made for the door of the apartment.

  ___

  Scott made his way downstairs, scanning the crowd in the front bar. He’d received Casey’s text message and was concerned; it had seemed agitated, off balance. It wasn’t like her. Stepping into the crowded bar, it didn’t take long before he spotted her.

  Something was off. Casey appeared dishevelled and she was clearly stoned. She gripped a beer bottle and lifted it to her mouth, emptying it. Approaching her, Scott noticed a male patron in a business suit leering at her. He immediately stood in between the sleazy patron and Casey.

  Casey jumped as he tapped her arm. When Casey turned and glared up at him, Scott could see that everything about her was tense.

  “Come on,” he said, nodding towards the stairs. “Let’s go and have a talk.”

  Once they had settled into their usual table up on the rooftop garden, Scott set a glass of water down for her and a beer for himself, which did not escape her notice.

  “So. You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  Unexpectedly, Casey began to shake. “Oh, everything,” she choked, fighting tears. “Everything. Where do I start?”

  “How about at the beginning,” Scott suggested evenly, watching as Casey fished in her pocket for the remaining portion of her joint. She held it up and attempted to light it with her Zippo, but Scott snatched it from her grasp and crushed it in his fist.

  “What the fuck!” Casey exclaimed angrily.

  “Jesus, Case, you can’t go lighting up that shit in a public venue,” Scott shot back. “Do you want me to lose my job, yer midden.”

  Casey’s expression lurched between hurt and shame. She slumped back in her seat, wiping angrily at her eyes. “I need something, Sasquatch. I’m going out of my mind sitting around and pretending like I’m enjoying taking all this time off. I’m desperate.”

  Scott shifted uncomfortably. “Look. The thing is…I’ve asked, Casey,” he began apologetically. “It’s just that there’s nothing out there. I put the feelers out—more than once—but the usuals are being cautious. They’re not willing to offer much just now. Because…”

  His voice drifted off and Casey glowered at him. The way he said that last sentence caused her to bristle.

  “Because why?” she challenged, much more forcefully than she intended.

  “There’s been talk, Casey. About you. You’ve been in Cyber-Crime’s pocket for a long time and the word is getting out. That detective friend of yours—”

  “She’s not my friend.” Casey cut him off.

  Scott continued, undeterred.

  “Well, she’s been sniffing around. And it’s gotten a few of the grey hats nervous. A lot of them suspect that you’ve been double dipping. Playing both sides.”

  His last sentence, in particular, stung Casey.

  “That’s not fucking true and you know it!” she blurted viciously, causing numerous patrons nearby to turn in her direction. “You know I’ve always protected the Circle.”

  Scott held his hands out in an attempt to placate her.

  “I know it’s not true, Case.” He lowered his voice and sat forward in his chair. “Believe me, I know. But look…until things settle down…maybe it is best that you continue to lay low for a while.”

  He allowed the import of his words to register with her. But Casey seemed to grow more agitated by the minute.

  “Look at yourself,” he said, exasperated. “You look like shit. Why don’t you take your old man’s advice and get yourself out of here. Go catch some sun and reboot.”

  Casey’s expression twisted and she gripped her glass so tightly her knuckles turned white. “I’m so sick of everyone giving me advice!”

  He flinched as her spittle struck him in the eye.

  Her pupils dilated and she snarled at him. “You sound just like everyone else. Why don’t you all just go and fuck off!”

  Bolting upright, she slammed the glass down on the table and it cracked in her hand. Both of them blinked and looked down to see a rivulet of blood sliding down the glass from underneath her grip.

  She immediately regretted her words. Staggering back from the table, Casey knocked over her chair. She felt an awful snapping inside her head as she glared at her speechless friend.

  The rooftop garden began to spin. Her eyes darted left and right. Everywhere she turned, Casey was confronted by the faces of patrons staring at her in shock.

  Her drug-fuelled fog was beginning to fade and tendrils of panic began to finger the back of her neck.

  “I’m…” she stumbled, letting go of the glass which toppled onto its side before rolling off the edge of the table and smashing on the ground. Looking down at her hand, she saw a deep gash in her palm. Without thinking, she wiped the hand against her top, smearing blood all across it.

  Casey turned and stumbled from the rooftop garden and down the stairs, disappearing to the street.

  ___

  Slamming the industrial door shut, Casey slapped the locking mechanism across and shoved the padlock securely in place.

  She was panting, her mind reeling from having verbally assaulted her best friend. She couldn’t believe she had behaved so awfully and choked at the recollection, bringing her bloodstained hand up to her mouth.

  The metallic taste caused her to recoil and she looked at the thick laceration she had inflicted. Tears streamed down her cheeks, distracting her from cleaning the wound. Instead, she fumbled with her phone. She wanted to call Scott right away, apologise to him, try and make things right, but she had no idea what she would possibly say. Faltering with the device, she set it down on the kitchen counter. As she did so, it began vibrating and she blinked at the screen.

  It was Scott calling.

  She shook her hands wildly, afraid to pick up the phone.

  I can’t!

  Reflexively, Casey slammed her thumb down on the touch screen, hitting the dismiss button and she slapped the phone away. It shot across the counter and clattered noisily to the floor on the far side, out of view.

  She went to the kitchen cupboards, throwing open the doors above the stove and spilling their contents at her feet. She dropped to her haunches, searching for the tin box in which she usually stored her marijuana. The box had toppled to the floor along with containers of flour, rice, bread crumbs and other assorted condiments and she looked down, identif
ying the upturned container with its lid open, in the mess. Her stomach plunged. The box was empty, as she knew it would be.

  “Fuck!” she cursed out loud.

  Undeterred, Casey sprang drunkenly to her feet and fumbled her way up the stairs to the mezzanine level, throwing open the door to the unused guest room.

  Stumbling over a maze of boxes, disused furniture and a queen bed that was covered in plastic, she identified a bedside cabinet on the far wall. Leaping over the bed, Casey fell to her knees in front of the cabinet, tearing the drawers from it. She desperately picked through the contents, picking out several plastic zip-lock bags, searching for one that was filled.

  Again, she was thwarted. There was nothing here either.

  Her anger peaked and she clutched at the handle of one of the discarded drawers, flinging it across the room. It struck the opposite wall and shattered into a dozen jagged pieces.

  Screaming at the top of her lungs, she grabbed another drawer, and then another, hurling them and watching them obliterate in a similar fashion to their counterpart. Then she was on her feet, upending cardboard boxes, another bedside table, the bed itself. She destroyed anything she could get her hands on. Her anger could not be assuaged and she relished in it.

  Exhaustion quickly crept upon her and all at once her remaining energy left her. She stopped abruptly and fell to her knees. Blinking at the destruction she had wrought, Casey suddenly laughed out loud.

  She lurched to her feet, swaying back and forth. Her laughter disintegrated into loud, wracking sobs and her legs buckled. She collapsed to the floor, oblivious to the chaos. Shards of broken glass from a small vase cut into her lower legs and the tops of her feet. Blood bubbled forth from the wounds.

  She was oblivious to any pain.

  Without warning, a loud rapping at the door downstairs broke through the silence in the apartment. Casey jumped, gasping in the darkness. A moment or two passed before the knocking repeated itself, followed by a voice.

  “Casey!”

  It was her father.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  Shaking her head, desperately trying to clear it, Casey staggered and lurched forward, tripping over the disaster zone as she made for the door and then the stairs. Stumbling down them, she darted across the living area to her bathroom.