Chapter Two

Fourteen weeks earlier…

Hugo Mitchell was a devotee of capitalism in all its forms. Wealth and power were his Gods; status and prestige his spirit guides. An eminent psychiatrist with a highly profitable private practice in London, he enjoyed the trappings of his success. He knew that his peers grudgingly respected him but he had no real friends. He was prickly and arrogant by nature, but he was confident that any resentment directed at him was easily attributed to petty professional jealousy.

His particular specialism was addressing issues of trauma, though he had chosen to focus on the well-heeled clientele that could afford his fees to talk about the challenges in their lives rather than soldiers returning from Afghanistan or paramedics on the frontline of the COVID-19 crisis who were of more limited means. They could stick with the NHS and take their chances.

Not that Hugo’s patients were any less deserving; they came to him after assaults, robberies, rapes and abortions and were very definitely in need of care and counselling, but his patients appreciated his discretion, his willingness to provide both therapy and drugs, and the fact that he combined a stern patrician tone with a sycophantic devotion to his exclusive clientele.  Hugo felt very strongly that he had earned his success. After reading Medicine at Cambridge he completed his training at Guy’s Hospital in London. Following a spell at the Priory Clinic he established his own practice in Harley Street where he now oversaw a patient list of high-status individuals and their families. His patients included overpaid and overstressed corporate executives, Russian billionaires who had seen a tumultuous and often violent rise to power, MPs floundering in the political quagmire  and on occasion, the odd pro bono case referred to him by a homeless charity of which he was a trustee. These pro bono cases were something he could casually refer to over dinner at the Royal College as it was considered somewhat indelicate to disclose details of high-profile patients and in his world, discretion was of paramount importance.

His morning had begun as it normally did. A swim in the private pool in the basement of his apartment building, followed by a shower and coffee, urgent emails, scanning the news and then dressing for the clinic. He favoured suits by Anderson and Sheppard of Saville Row. With their most famous ambassador in the guise of Prince Charles, their classic silhouette suits were like a second skin and enhanced his authority and confidence with clients and associates alike. They complimented his stature and at five feet ten inches, his prematurely silver hair gave him a gravitas that belied his thirty four years. His drive to work was courtesy of a private car club that he used every day. As a member, he could select whatever luxury car, modern or vintage that he wanted and take it either to drive, or with a driver as he preferred. Driving in London was not much fun, parking even less so and this was a happy compromise between owning and maintaining a luxury car or having to suffer the travails of public transport.

On arrival he checked in as usual with his Clinic Manager, the formidable Mrs Rowntree who was responsible for his diary, patient billings and most important of all, ensuring the privacy and discretion that his patients demanded when they visited him. He had recruited her from one of the big five accounting firms and offered her a handsome salary in return for her management skills. She ran the clinic like a battleship captain and oversaw all movements both physical and financial related to his work. He had never yet failed to collect a fee and his patients, and their entourages had a healthy respect for Mrs Rowntree. Whatever she did clearly worked as evidenced from the rather impressive wine cellar that she had been gifted over the years.

“Good morning Doctor. Your nine am this morning is a referral from the Clipper Trust. Emma Dunbar, seventeen years old, living rough until a month ago and now in a shelter managed by the trust. I have her file here with notes from her initial meeting with the on-call NHS psychiatrist when she first arrived at the shelter but the team there thought that she would benefit from some more one on one time with you.”  He grunted an acknowledgement.

“Coffee?” She knew from experience that he wasn’t offering.

“In your office doctor and the young lady is already here. Shall I send her in?” Hugo picked up the file and exhaled.

“I’ll give you a couple of minutes to get settled and then buzz her in.”

He avoided the waiting room, and entered his office via the private door behind the reception desk. He valued his privacy and though on the reception side, it was simply a door marked private, from within his office, the door was disguised as a bookcase and he rather enjoyed pulling forward his copy of Galen’s ‘On the Therapeutic Method’ to access it. His coffee as promised was waiting. Like everything in his life, it was not just coffee but rather an expensive blend called Kopi Luwak produced in Java and Sumatra and consisting of Arabica beans picked by hand and then roasted in Malaysia. It achieved its unique flavour by passing first through the digestive tract of Civets who are fed the coffee cherries. Their waste is then used to make Kopi Luwak which remains the world’s most expensive coffee. To be honest, Hugo could not really tell the difference between it and something that you could buy in Waitrose, however, it was the best and he deserved it so Kopi Lowak it was.

He glanced at the girl’s file, arranged his notebook and pen, turned his phone to silent and sat down in the chair next to the patient sofa. Just then, the discreet buzzer under his desk heralded her arrival and the door was gently knocked. Ordinarily, he would open the door to his patient, greet them, conduct them to the sofa offering them a drink even though he knew that Mrs Rowntree would already have done so, but in pro bono cases like these he did not need to go through the motions. She was not paying a fee and would not be a patient for long. Generally, he managed to get rid of them quickly unless there was something of interest that he specifically wished to pursue.

As a psychiatrist he was experienced and usually accurate at forming a rapid initial view of his patients even before they opened their mouths. This girl was seventeen but looked early twenties. Clearly, she had been on the streets and the lifestyle was often prematurely ageing, but from what he could see showed no evidence of substance abuse or alcoholism. Her skin was clear, eyes bright and her hair, though tied simply in a ponytail was thick and glossy. Of course, her clothes were a giveaway as to her status. She wore cheap jeans, a simple white t shirt and a plaid lumberjack shirt over it but they concealed a slim figure and though she was clearly very nervous and unable to make eye contact, she offered a small smile as she entered.

He indicated a seat with a curt nod. She sat hesitantly on the edge of the sofa, still unable to meet his gaze and he became aware that she was very pretty indeed. He took a sip of coffee and moistened his lips. This appointment suddenly had potential.

“I don’t know how much you have been told about how this works, but today we are just going to have a chat about things, I can begin to understand a bit more about you, get to know you a little and we can decide if and then how we want to move forward. Does that sound ok to you?” She nodded but continued staring at the ground, her small hands pulling at each other as she tried to breathe through the nervous tension that she was experiencing. He could hear her shallow breaths from where he sat and he guessed that her heart rate would be somewhere north of one hundred right now. He crossed his legs and picked up his notepad. “Why don’t we start with some background information? Family, school, recent history etc? Take your time and try to relax. This is a safe space and I want you to be as comfortable as possible.” What followed was pretty much a textbook background to a patient in her situation. Happy family until her father died. Middle class upbringing, decent grades, lots of friends. Mother remarried a few months after her father had passed and her stepfather was a market town solicitor. Successful in his own right but harboured a deep need for booze, leading him to become verbally and occasionally physically abusive. He took a special interest in his stepdaughter and started visiting her after she had gone to bed. His new wife, a happy collaborator in the alcohol consumption was passed out in front of the tv by nine pm every evening, and the visits to his stepdaughter’s bedroom became both regular and progressive. One thing led to another and eventually, at fifteen, she was pregnant. Plucking up the courage to confide in her mother, she told her the whole grizzly saga but as is often the case, her mother sided with her husband who was outraged by the accusations. She was thrown out of the family home and went to stay with a friend, but inevitably her schoolwork suffered rapidly, her friends began to distance themselves and soon enough she was out of options.

A friendly female police officer picked her up on her first night on the streets. She must have stuck out like a sore thumb and she was taken to a shelter where again she relayed her tale. The next morning the police turned up at her stepfather’s office and despite his vociferous denials, arrested him for rape. If things were not already bad enough, they were about to get much worse. She received a call from her mother the evening after the arrest. The mother was sobbing, begging her daughter to forgive her and to come home. Emma packed her few things at the shelter and made her way home, to be greeted by her mother at the front door. Despite being in floods of tears merely an hour previously, her mother was as usual immaculately made up, hair perfect and seemed in full control of her faculties. Emma was coolly invited in but not offered refreshment. She was then told in no uncertain terms that she was to drop the charges against her stepfather immediately and never to return. Stunned, the child refused. She had been molested and raped, abused by someone in a position of trust.

“Don’t be so disgusting you little whore. Your stepfather doted on you. Even when your grades were suffering and you weren’t putting in any effort at school, he defended you. From the moment he moved in you were against him. You were sullen, you antagonised him, criticised him and you were constantly digging at him. He was so patient with you. He kept telling me that he was never trying to replace your father, and that eventually you would come around and see that. He believed in you. Of course, then you changed tack. You realised that there was another way to get to him. I saw it all. I saw how you would ask him for a lift to school, sit at the table with your homework hoping he would help you, wandering around the house in your netball uniform hoping that he would notice you. I saw everything and I foolishly kept my mouth shut, Even he, when he realised what you were up to confided in me that he was worried about what you were doing, that you might try to accuse him of something. And now, here we are. You actually have reported him for some made up offence and now you are trying to ruin his, and my life. You are an ungrateful little bitch and you don’t deserve anything. In fact you little slut, the only thing that you do deserve is this”. Her mother had been standing at the French doors in the kitchen diner, open because of the summer heat and providing a view across a sloping garden that led down to willow trees and a bench. She had grabbed Emma by the hair as her diatribe had come to a close and, pushed off balance by her mother’s lunge, the girl had tripped and fallen down the stairs.

Hugo listened as her voice tailed off, her story almost complete now. Of course the fall had caused the early stage pregnancy to fail. The girl had been taken to hospital but there was nothing to be done. Unwilling to press charges against her stepfather and prolong the ordeal any further, she had slipped away, back on to the streets where she had kept her head down, reduced now to begging and bin raiding to survive. The night she was picked up by the trust, she had been trying to avoid the pimps and dealers who would have recruited her whether she liked it or not. The trust had been a lifeline, but the experience had clearly left her seriously scarred and vulnerable. She was sobbing now, all too aware that her life had changed monumentally over the last few months. Gone was the promise of grades, university, and a future. Instead, she was in a shelter, homeless and petrified.

Her tears at an end, she remained on the edge of her seat, her arms wrapped around a cushion, a damp tissue in hand. Her pupils were dilated, her complexion flushed. She pushed back a loose strand of hair and Hugo felt damp sweat in his underarms. He adjusted his tie and sat back as he considered his next steps.

“Thank you for being brave and talking to me Emma, I am so sorry for the things that have happened to you. I promise you that we can make this better; that you can get through this. I am here to help you and I will do whatever I can to turn things around. How is life at the shelter? I understand that it’s a good place to start to rebuild wouldn’t you say?”

“They have been kind. I have my own room; I help to cook sometimes, and I can come and go whenever I want. I am hoping that eventually they will find a job for me and maybe I can get my own place sometime.”

“That’s great. Now often there are conditions or rules attached to a place like that. Have they mentioned this to you?”

“The girl looked confused and glanced up at him, meeting his eyes briefly for the first time. ” There are some rules.”  She hesitated, not understanding why he was asking. “Alcohol and drugs are banned, I am not allowed overnight guests, any illegal activity is banned and once I choose between restarting school or getting a part time job, I have to stick with it.”

“Ok, well that’s not too bad. Is there anything else, any treatment related conditions for example?”

“Oh, yes I forgot that. I have to take any medication that is prescribed, see a doctor whenever asked for check ups and tests, undergo random drug testing, and attend counselling sessions as requested.”

“Again, not too bad. I think we can make this a bit easier though. From what you have told me, and from what I have seen, I am absolutely sure that I can help you. I think it would make sense if I inform the trust that I will be taking over as your principle attending physician and I will conduct any counselling sessions, and prescribe any drugs. How does that sound? You are of course welcome to stick with the NHS, but it can often mean that things move very slowly. With me, you will get treatment immediately, we can work closely together several times per week to move your treatment forwards and avoid any delays. I like my patients to trust me and I think you could do that. Maybe, hopefully we can become friends and I can help you get better.”

Hugo drummed his fingers lightly along the spine of his notebook and flashed the girl a languid smile. “Of course if you decide on an alternative, I don’t know how long it will take to get you signed up for treatment and I’m not sure the trust will allow you to stay if you aren’t making efforts to improve your situation. By letting me take over your treatment, you will be able to rest easy that your room at the shelter is yours and then in time, we can help you find your own place. How do you feel about all of that?”

She looked up at him for the second time since she had entered the room, and this time she held his gaze for as long as she spoke. “I can’t go back to the streets. I really can’t. I need this shelter and I need this chance. If you are willing to be my doctor, then I will do whatever it takes to get my life back.” They looked each other in the eye for just a second more, but intent was both communicated and understood. A contract was established. Calculating and enthusiastic on one side, resigned and acquiescent on the other. His pulse quickened and his erection was hidden by his crossed legs. Vulnerability was his heroin, and he knew it. Young, reluctant but keen to avoid any consequences – she was perfect. Previous experience told him that he would ghost her in a couple of months, but she was eminently disposable and once back on the streets, would just fade away forever. He loved that she would be willing to do anything, even though her willingness would be fighting against every fibre in her body to avoid being exploited and used. The dichotomy with what she wanted to do and what she would force herself to do was what so excited him. Combine that vulnerability with her petite innocent looks and the fact that she would tell no one left him with a raging hard on. He uncrossed his legs and stood up. Her eyes fell to his crotch and she quickly followed his lead and stood too. She looked back at him as she stepped towards the door.

“Be sure to make another appointment with Mrs Townsend for the day after tomorrow. I will report back to your case officer and we can go from there.” There was no expression on her face as she stepped out but he could hear her quiet voice as she did his bidding. He picked up the phone to make the necessary arrangements. She was already getting the message loud and clear.

Next Chapter: The Fall