TRAUMA
I'm sure that I'm not the first person to think about the fact that Quinn and Alex are both psychologists and wonder what would happen if they met, but I might be the first to write it down here!
I don't own anything - Chris Cole - Quinn
Matt and Ash - Alex and Gene
Writing for fun - not for profit, but I love reviews - like to know what people think.
The conference.
Sitting in a moulded plastic chair and pretending to read the notes from an open A4 note folder Quinn watches the rain making drizzly maps on the classroom's wall of window panes. He gives each new arrival to the gradually filling room a cursory glance followed by a polite nod of acknowledgement before he returns to his solitary contemplation. It's been a long time since he's seen rain. He's surprised to find it oddly settling. A brush with the familiar after all the madness of the past two months.
Of course he couldn't stay on the island permanently. Not on his own. Not with his skin. Eight weeks after he'd first arrived (seven after he'd claimed the villa and the money as his own) he'd realised it was just too bloody hot, in summer at least. At least that's what he told himself. And so he returned to England. By air. Economy class - to avoid suspicion.
Not that there was anyone or anything to suspect. Fortunately the police corruption had stopped at Maria.
Once his statement - to the effect that she and Dominic had killed each other - had been fed through the dour-faced disinterested translator and repeated in stilted and possibly inaccurate terms to her replacement, he'd been left alone. He surmised (correctly) that the local force was now so busy chasing all the petty criminals trying to step into the power vacuum left by Dominic's death that they had little time to wonder about the miraculous survival of the reticent Englishman occupying the villa like a lonely ghost, dipping in and out of the pool, going for lonely walks and making only brief forays for essentials into the town. As far as anyone could see his only company had been Alvo's strangely cheerful groundsman, to whose sharp shooting skills, had they but known it, Quinn owed his life.
Despite being back a month he's seen no logical reason to contact the others – he presumes they are busy getting on with their lives; nestling in the bosoms of their families, trying to forget the trauma of that crazed week. He tells himself that arriving on their doorstep would only aggravate a difficult situation. Cause them revisit things best left to the dark recesses.
He's considered going back to his old life, the lecturing, but has realised the only part of academia to appeal is study. Now he has no financial need to work he has decided to go for the qualification which has previously alluded him through lack of funds: a doctorate, a phd.
Doctor Quinn - he can imagine the fun Rick and the boys would have with that one if they knew.
He knows he must consider his phd proposal carefully, especially if he is to devote years of his life to it. He's thought about it for a while, but one subject keeps circling his brain like a vulture: trauma.
It's why he's here. A week-end academic symposium on that very subject.
The attendees of the 'trauma; the roles of attention, memory, the therapeutic relationship in relation to psychological trauma', session spread themselves awkwardly around the room, awaiting the arrival of the guest speakers. He detects the reek of dusty books mingled with lavender. It's so quiet and middle-class and boringly tame Quinn contemplates breaking the atmosphere with a joke, but even the most buttoned up of the bookish women and macro-biotic oddballs present have probably heard the one about the psychologist being banned from a bar for being too Jung.
The only other joke he knows has all kinds of troubling memories attached to it and involves him shouting out the word 'COCK' very loudly, and he's not sure he's up to receiving the kind of attention doing that would cause.
He's saved from potential social embarrassment by the arrival of a nervous young man, a cross between junior office boy and security guard, who tells them their guest speaker has been delayed, and if they would like they can help themselves to coffee and tea from the kitchen two doors down on their right he will let them know when the speakers arrive.
A murmur of polite disappointment ripples through the room. Quinn sucks in a breath. It's no use. The pull of nicotine has reared its ugly head yet again. He heaves his bag to his shoulder and reaches into the pocket of his light brown linen jacket for his cigarettes and lighter. The office junior starts in alarm at the sight.
'I know I'm one of societies lepers,' Christ anyone would think he'd just pulled out a gun, 'but there must be somewhere….'
'In the carpark - there's a shelter. If you'd like to follow me.'
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Alex sits twisting her hands in the passenger seat. Margery is driving. They're in her meticulously restored pale blue Morris Minor: Alex contemplates their relationship. Patient and therapist, and now she supposes, colleagues. She should feel relieved and empowered by Margery's belief that she's getting better. Margery tells her that she is adjusting to life since the coma well, but Alex still feels raw inside. She still has more questions than answers. Still feels at odds with the world because despite getting what she fought for two long years for she feels lost.
Attending this conference is Margery's idea. Margery tells her she's there for her expertise on the subject, but Alex knows she's just there as an exhibit. A 'here's one I counselled earlier' aren't I great!
Alex is not allowed to work yet. Even in Margery's over positive estimation she's not quite right, but she's getting desperate to get back to what she does best. She may be a mother, but two years is a long time to miss in a child's life. Two years for Molly to get used to Judy - her father's wife. She knows Molly misses their baby, her half sister and she can't understand her mother's sudden mood swings when all she wants to do is concentrate on her own.
Alex knows she needs to work. Not just for her but for Molly too. They both need to feel like she's firing on all cylinders and not merely hanging around waiting for something miraculous to happen and everything to click into place.
Alex knows she needs to get busy to forget.
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Quinn stands under the shelter looking out on the dismal sea of cars and puffing on his cigarette. The rain is bouncing off the tarmac, splashing his sandalled feet, spraying the ends of his linen trousers with grimy residue. He should have known. England equalls rain and dressed more appropriately, less like a lost ex-pat.
He's grinding his spent fag butt under his foot when he senses someone is watching him. No, not watching him - staring. He turns to look across the car-park automatically seeking out the cause.
He sees the curly mop of hair of a woman locking up her car, but it's not her who's been staring. It's another woman, her hair pulled sharply back from her face, a pretty face, he notes, her mouth open in shock. She starts running towards him slowly at first and then faster, and for a moment he's terrified, re-living the awful moment when the dwarf appeared out of no-where with a gun. Even though he can see she's unarmed his now honed instinct is to look for an escape, and it's just as well because he sees it then, the car heading for her if she doesn't stop, and he's spurred into action because he can't see someone else get killed before his eyes.
He's running across the car-park towards her and he sees her face transform, and he can't quite equate the expression of joy on her face with her apparent death wish, but his frantic waving has halted her progress and she's stopped running. He's also attracted the driver of the car and the collision has been averted, and he's just in time to catch her in his arms before she faints.
TBC