CHAPTER 5
Sitting in the deep leather armchair, its winged sides making me feel like a horse with oversized blinkers, I gaze unwaveringly at the man opposite as the silence between us deepens.
He plays this game at each of our sessions, waiting patiently for me to speak, to unburden; as if to my confessor.
Barnaby has been my therapist for the past eight months. I’d discovered him quite by chance one summer morning when I’d been following Munroe’s daughter as she left home for work. Most of my classes at college don’t start until nine thirty so I had plenty of time to discover her favoured route.
On this particular morning she’d stopped off in the local mini-supermarket to buy a bottle of water. Following her in, I’d busied myself reading their noticeboard which was where I’d first see
