“It’s fine,” Jodi said. “I’m sorry I fucked up your day and stole your bed.”
“Boyo, that’s the least of my worries.”
* * *
“Okay, Jodi. Let’s go back to the last thing you remember before the accident.”
Jodi huffed out a sigh. This numb-nut psychiatrist was getting on his tits. “I already told you I don’t remember the accident, or the day it happened, or the day before that. Last thing I remember I was going for dinner with my girlfriend—who’s not my fucking girlfriend anymore.”
“Does that upset you?”
“What? That I don’t remember what I had for dinner that day? Or that I got dumped?”
The psychiatrist—Ken—tapped a pencil on his thigh. “What makes you think you got dumped? Do you remember Sophie ending your relationship?”
“No.”
“Then let’s stick to the facts, as you truly know them, for now. You’ve told me you remember going to meet Sophie for dinner. She told the police you were coming to meet her on the day of the accident. Do you think it’s possible that’s the occasion you remember?”
Jodi sighed. He’d been over this with Ken, and Sophie, more times than he cared to count. The only person who didn’t seem to want to talk about it was Rupert, which suited Jodi just fine. He hadn’t felt like leaving the flat much since his epic meltdown on the Tube, and Rupert’s quiet company was far easier to take than everyone else’s constant questions.
“Jodi?”
“What?”
Ken sat back in his wheeled chair and folded his hands on his desk. “All right. That’s enough for today. I can see you’re tired. I’m going to give you a little work to take home with you, though, if that’s okay?”
Jodi shrugged. He had a whole list of exercises—mental and physical—he halfheartedly practiced at home. One more wouldn’t make much difference.
Ken pushed a sheet of paper across the table. Jodi humoured him and cast a disinterested glance over it. It appeared to be a record keeper—a journal, maybe.
“What’s that for?”
Ken tapped his pen on the paper. “I’d like you to try and keep track of anything that makes you stop and think twice—things you might recognise, or think you’ve perhaps seen before but can’t remember where.”
“Like what?”
“Like anything,” Ken said. “People, places, sights, and smells. Even just a feeling ... a sensation, an instinct.”
The only instinct Jodi had was a strong urge to roll his eyes, but insolence had no effect on old man Ken, save encouraging him to stare harder, studying Jodi with a watery gaze that set his teeth on edge. “How many things do I have to write down?”
“As many as you like. Your OT has helped you with your handwriting, hasn’t she?”
Jodi nodded. It was true, though Sophie had gleefully informed him his handwriting hadn’t been much cop to begin with.“With your chicken scratch, Jojo, you should’ve been a doctor.”Right. So he could sit across the table from miserable gits like him? Fuck that.
He left Ken to his humming and pencil tapping and found Sophie outside, smoking a long menthol cigarette.
“Shit.” She stubbed it out, looking guilty. “I thought you’d be ages yet. Sorry.”
Jodi eyed the cigarette butt. “You don’t smoke.”
“I started after we split up. I liked the smell.”
“Oh.” Jodi was a little nonplussed. Not for the first time, the distinct impression that he’d hurt Sophie in some way crept over him. “Can I have one?”
“No.”
Okay.Jodi glanced up and down the busy street. His gaze fell on the Tube station. He shuddered and wondered if that was the kind of sensation Ken wanted him to note down. “Can we go home, then?”
