away, those dark shadows that formed when humans experienced too
much hurt, stress and grief to want to wake up in the morning. Those
dark shadows that tell another person they’ve already seen too much.
He had heard that she wasn’t coping since witnessing Linda’s
death. Clarke was keenly interested in seeing how Sienna would
present now she had been psychologically and emotionally disabled.
121
Little Wit & Creative Goth
Clarke was acutely aware of the ramifications of guilt on the
human conscience. He also saw this as an ideal opportunity to
get closer to her without arousing suspicion. His vested interest
in patiently biding his time had, as always, presented the perfect
opportunity. If Clarke had been a man of belief; his mantra would
have echoed that of everything coming to he who waits.
She continued to wait silently by the doorway, her expression sad
and withdrawn, as he motioned her towards the couch in the middle
of the room. He smiled his warm yet professional smile; the one he
kept especially for his clientele.
“Please, make yourself comfortable, Sienna. Lie, sit, whatever
makes you comfortable, don’t be shy, this is YOUR time focusing
on YOUR needs.”
Sienna glanced at him sidelong and began to move toward the
offered seating, quickly taking in her surroundings. His room was
deliberately cozy; cream walls, natural wood venetian blinds at the
tall panes of glass; he remained sat on the leather swivel chair behind a mahogany desk with a cluster of small flowering plants, a roomy
wine-coloured leather armchair to right angles of his desk, a matching
couch facing away from the windows.
She slid tentatively on to the edge of the couch, which had its
back to him.
“May I get you something to drink, Sienna . . . . tea, coffee?” She
shook her head.
“No, nothing? Very well.”
He rose to turn out the lights and closed the blinds, leaving only
the soft amber glow of a small table lamp sited on the right hand
side of his huge writing desk. Clarke sat himself in the chair directly behind her. Sienna could not see into the dim light, as the solid
wooden venetian blinds were closed but she could feel him staring
122
Behind Venetian Blinds
into the back of her head. After a few minutes she became highly
conscious of her own breathing . . . . the silence was deafening, and
she knew Clarke was watching her. After a further three minutes of
silence she spoke, as he had known she would, too uncomfortable
now with non-communication; he was impressed she had held out
for so long.
“Dr Ridgewood . . .”
“Clarke, please.”
Sienna cleared her throat, her words came out in a ramble;
nervous almost. “Clarke . . . Tim asked me to see you because I . . .
I . . . You see . . .”
“Calm, Sienna, take your time, I know why you are here. I know
you have not been able to come to terms with the traumatic event of
losing Linda. I will help, I’m sure I can. Let’s begin by you relating
to me exactly how it made you feel.”
Sienna closed her eyes and swallowed hard. He had hit the
pinnacle of what was causing her repetitive nightmares every time she
slept. Shit, but he was good. Or was he enjoying her discomfort? She
felt confused. She could not understand why she should be thinking
such things, and loosely interpreted it as a defensive mechanism. She
decided to go forward with what he asked. “It was strange, seeing
her standing there before she jumped.” Instantly, she felt stupefied
with such a glib and somewhat unfeeling comment, and wished the
ground would swallow her up.
Clarke remained stoic. Another minute passed, and he continued
to challenge her with silence. She had to say something.
“It was snowing heavily.”
“Relax, Sienna, you’re anxious right now and telling me things
you think I need to be hearing. You’re gabbling, grasping at straws . . .
just concentrate on breathing deeply.”
123
Little Wit & Creative Goth
She breathed. After another two minutes silence, he spoke.
“I like your necklace, Sienna; it sparkles even in the darkness,
who got you that?”
“My what . . . My necklace?, erm . . . Jay, my partner, it was
a present for my twenty-first.” She fidgeted uncomfortably, what
exactly had this got to do with Linda? Anything? She felt not, but
she didn’t fully understand Clarke’s way of working, and gave it the
benefit of the doubt.
“I see.” Now he really had her understanding in turmoil. “You
do?”
“It suits you perfectly, Sienna, very feminine, he has good taste, or
perhaps another female helped him choose. A pretty butterfly, what
does that signify to you . . . . let me guess.”
Sienna waited, baffled and in suspended animation. She mental y
shrugged off her uneasiness yet again, and continued to await his
answer. It came, and she felt pained at his conclusion.
“Freedom, the feeling of being free from the life restraints that
tie you down, the freedom from feeling earthbound, freedom from
entrapment of the relationship you are in . . . is that not so? You don’t need to confirm what we both already know to be true, so let’s not
waste any more time on this fruitless activity. Tell me, which of your
parents is Italian?”
Perhaps he was simply getting an idea about her personally, in
order to help her bereavement. That had to be it. There could be no
other explanation. This man prided himself on his professionalism.
“I believe it was my father.”
“You believe?”
“Well, so I’ve been told . . . but I’ve never met him.”
“You’ve never met your father?”
“No.”
124
Behind Venetian Blinds
“Tell me more about your father, Sienna.”
“He left my mother when she was pregnant with me. I guess I
wasn’t part of his global plan.”
“You never saw that as significant, did you?”
“What?”
“To describe yourself as half Italian by a father you’ve never met?”
“I wouldn’t say I ever have, no, it’s not of significance to me.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “It’s irrelevant. It has always been this way. I am
not the only one in the world without a father.”
“And you see yourself as Irish?”
“Yes.”
“But nobody else does, not even the Irish see you as Irish?”
“No . . . I suppose not.”
“And the Italians don’t view you as Italian.” It was more of a
statement than a question.
“No . . .”
“It must be hard, not fitting in anywhere and not being able to
relate to where you have come from.”
She could hear him smile in the darkness. This wasn’t right, but
it must mean something, it had to, why else would he be pursuing
this line of question?
“You must have appeared strange in Ireland with your looks.” He
sat back behind her; drinking her in. He smelled her fresh scent of
shampoo and soap. “You are curious, you know.” No, Sienna didn’t
know. She still said nothing.
“How do you like to relax or unwind from stress?”
“I dunno, I find myself staring into space a lot and daydreaming . . . .
all my school reports used to say, ‘ Sienna daydreams all day long and
125
Little Wit & Creative Goth
is full of empathy for others . . . she would do better to pay attention
in class’,” . . . . she mimicked an authoritative voice, laughing drily.
“Empathy? An expression I find bandied around far too much for
anyone’s good, a lot of people use this description, Sienna, but many
fail to correctly understand it, what does it mean to you, Relate to
when you were at school, let’s stay with that for a moment.”
She thought hard for a minute for an example and found
something simple, not too incriminating.
“If someone else fell over and hurt their knee, I’d be the one that
ended up crying and taking them to the school nurse; suppose it
makes me sad to see others upset.”
“Anyone can feel sad when another becomes upset, give me
something else; that could also be interpreted as sympathy. What
else do you have?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure; I would have to think about it.”
“What drugs do you use to unwind?”
She stalled and made to face him. “No, remain where you are,
please.”
She shuffled her bottom back around. What exactly was he
implying? “Nicotine.”
Clarke gave a small laugh, not an unkind one, however, more one
of disbelief. “And . . . what else? This is all confidential, don’t worry.”
She raised her guard. “Why do you think I use anything at all?”
“Because I know you” He knew her? “Alcohol.”
“Let’s get to the bare bones of this shall we, Sienna, what is your
drug of choice?”
“I just told you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Fine, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Marijuana.”
“Ahhh . . . Yes . . . . Good, good . . . . What else, Sienna?”
126
Behind Venetian Blinds
She let out a small tut. She couldn’t help it. She was not finding
this particularly useful, just fucking nosey. Her tolerance waned. Her
tone was a little snappy, but she was now thinking about her duties
backing up. At this rate she wouldn’t be out of the building any time
before midnight. “Sorry if this is impolite but, really, what does any
of this have to do with Linda’s death? If you really must know . . .
LSD, cocaine when I can afford it, speed, magic mushrooms when
the season’s in, pills when I go dancing . . . . although not so much
since I had Freya . . . anything else about my personal life?”.
He ignored her sassy attitude and pressed on. “How are you
coping with family life and the new addition of your first child?”
She softened at the mere thought of her daughter, and smiled in
automatic response. “I can’t imagine life without her, even though
she’s only eleven months old.”
“Your family life, Sienna. What about Jay . . . does Jay continue
his social activities with such fervour, or has he settled down into the bliss that is fatherhood?”
She let out a snort. “He does what he wants.”
“Not so keen then . . . . It must be hard looking after Freya with
no support.”
Sienna felt attacked, and defended her position although she
didn’t really understand why. Clarke was pointing out the obvious;
nothing more. “I would never stop him from going out with his
friends.”
“So it’s your job to look after everyone, is it?”
She shrugged noncommittal y and said nothing. She hadn’t real y
faced herself with the bare bones of this, even though she knew it
somewhere in the recess of her mind. She knew it and she tolerated
it, be that right or wrong.
“Was it your job to look after Linda too, Sienna?”
127
Little Wit & Creative Goth
It poured out, he had her. In one fell swoop he had her.
“I failed her, I should have known, she could be here today, it was
my fault . . . . my decisions that evening cost Linda her life . . .” Sienna wanted to vomit. She wanted to physically spew this infestation that
had been gnawing her guts since that day. It had been churning up
her insides like a metal grinder; sitting like a huge bolus at the back of her throat that refused to let anything up or down. Her breathing
tightened, Sienna pulled her Ventolin from her pocket and sucked
on it furiously.
Clarke’s voice came through her fog like silk. “It`s okay, Sienna,
the feelings you are experiencing are perfectly normal.”
The softness and compassion in his voice soothed her angst. If
she had thought his line of counsel ing was odd, she let her initial gut feeling slide, she was so grateful that someone was willing to listen
to her she wanted to weep, that large boulder that sat in the middle
of her chest was going to crush her to death if she didn’t talk to
someone; April seemed more distracted than usual at the moment for
her to approach. She let out a slow breath and continued. “I couldn’t
get Linda out of my head the night before she . . . I kept thinking
about her . . . and I didn’t know why . . . now I do . . . it was a sign . . .
and I didn’t listen. And the day of her death I saw her cry.” Sienna
shook her head. “I had never seen her cry before and . . .”
She closed her eyes and her head began to pound like it had every
night since her death, she heard the screech of the train and then she
couldn’t remember a clear sequence of events after that; it all seemed
jumbled and disjointed.
Clarke touched her lightly on the shoulder. She jumped, and
snapped her eyes wide open, remembering where she was.
His hand on her body; Clarke hardened in his pants and adjusted
his position to make himself more comfortable. He looked at her
128
Behind Venetian Blinds
hair again; fine and silky as it swayed softly around as she shook
her head. “I want to help you, Sienna, Linda’s death was not your
fault.” Sienna turned to face him. She stared at him like she was
looking at something from outer space. She could have hugged him
as he spoke those words. The emotional burden of Linda’s death had
eased slightly. Maybe he was right, maybe he could help her. He
smiled gently and laid his hand on her thigh, patted it tenderly as if
in comfort.
“Run along now, little Sienna, or you’ll be late for my ward round,
and I have someone to see just beforehand. I will see you here again
next week.”
As he finished his sentence there came the obligatory knock on
his door.
Sienna rose. “Yes, of course . . . I’m sorry to take up so much of
your time . . .”
He held his hand up in dismissal, shook his head slightly. “Not
at all . . . Until next week.”
She nodded, moving toward the door. “Next week.” Grasping the
handle she opened it feeling somewhat rejuvenated and lightened; she
went back to work, nodding politely at Clarke’s secretary waiting to
be called inside as she passed.
*
Clarke found he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He double-
checked her personal details which he had retrieved earlier from
the hospital personnel system. Circling her residence a few times,
confident that he had not drawn attention to himself, he finally
parked where he could command a good view of the back of her
house.
129
Little Wit & Creative Goth
Having her alone in his office this afternoon had made her more
vividly real and his intentions towards her more alive. He hunched
over the steering wheel of the car, absently puffing on his cigarette,
waiting with infinite patience. It paid off when he saw the bedroom
light flicker on. He stared at her form from behind his tinted windows
as he watched her strip down to her cotton bra and panties; her figure
outlining a slight silhouette against the window as she moved to close
the blinds.
Every last, glossy haired, dark eyed, round breasted, curved hipped
and ripe pussy inch of her was his very own important business, if he
was to accredit her with assistance to heal her thoughts and improve
her standing in life. She was his responsibility as his staff member and he her mentor. He felt it a pity that the mental health nurses did not
wear uniform. Sienna in such a blue uniform; her cleavage tantalizing
and spilling out between the V of the neck line, her shapely legs
clad in black nylons, her raven hair pinned exposing the nape of her
slender neck, tendrils falling softly around her swarthy skin.
His breath quickened and he rasped three shallow breaths as
he climaxed into his Armani boxer shorts. It had taken him by
surprise. Pleasant surprise, as he hadn’t even been manipulating
himself. Cleaning himself up as best he could with his embroidered
handkerchief, he started the ignition and headed for home. Clarke
fastened his seat belt and flicked the CD player on. Turning the
volume on his stereo up, he hummed along to ‘The World’s Greatest
Love Songs,’ and lost himself to Celine Dion, his eyes luminescent
and wet with emotion at the sound of her voice; images of Sienna
floated through his mind. Nobody understood what it felt like to be
him. Sometimes the pain of the greatness bestowed upon him was
just too much to bear.
130
Chapter 16
I just want to blow you off and forget about being catholic.
Little Wit
Since Dolly, Gavin daydreamed of cock during every waking
and sleeping moment and found he could think of nothing
else. He was constantly hard and consumed himself with
thoughts of being fucked or of fucking that male someone else.
He had had more than his fair share since that night, but he was
finding it was now all-consuming; he was bordering dysfunction.
At any given opportunity he was fiddling with himself. As Gavin
wanked himself furiously in the toilets at work, he realized this was
his fifth go that morning and it hadn’t yet reached eleven o’clock;
he needed sex like he needed air. By the afternoon, he was touching
himself up under his desk, over a copy of Buttman magazine and
the accompanying full page photograph; a close up of an eighteen
boy, smooth and untarnished, legs folded beneath him so his hairless
genitalia was thrust forward. He couldn’t even be bothered to make
it to privacy. He had his own office, and it aroused him even more
to sit with door open; his secretary eyeing him dubiously now and
again, wondering what he was up to; a large team of staff spread out
directly in front of him across the open plan room. He was becoming
131
Little Wit & Creative Goth
a sex crazed fiend, with that wild crazy twitch thing happening in
his left eye; he wondered briefly if he could get something from the
doctor to medicate this tick. He felt his load explode as he fucked
his hand furiously. Looking around to see if anyone had observed his
activity; he stuffed a Kleenex down his Calvin Klein boxers to mop
up the sticky mess and casual y returned his attention to his computer
screen. He lasted all of two minutes before he felt himself grow hard
again. He couldn’t concentrate at all.
Making hasty excuses, he left work early to make it to a sex party
he had seen advertised in the classifieds column under the guise of
‘house warming . . . rear entry only . . . ;’ where he got lucky with a young fresh-faced nineteen year old boy; a copper who insisted on
having a siren going off in the background whilst Gavin gave him
head; and a retired sixty old army sergeant whose favourite game was
to get Gavin to yell out “YES SIR” with every thrust.
The following evening Gavin went to the council park, a well-
known hang out for drug users and gays each evening. He fucked
himself stupid with any man willing and stayed out all night; he
turned up to work late Wednesday morning looking unshaven and
unkempt, with semen stains all down his shirt. His secretary had
tentatively asked if everything was OK at home. Was he unwell?
Gavin had told her to mind her own business and that she was
there to do his administration work and not to pry into his personal
affairs. Unable to concentrate once more, he cried off sick before
lunch time and spent the rest of the day at a gay bar, starting by
becoming quickly inebriated; he could not recall what had happened
when he came to at six o’clock in the evening, to find himself naked
and bleeding from his rectum in the cooler room at the back of the
establishment.
132
Behind Venetian Blinds
On Thursday he fucked some homeless guy on his way to work
with the promise that he would return later with a hot lunch, and
on Friday he rocked up to work late for the fifth time that week,
looking worse than the homeless guy he had revisited for a blow job,
and was instantaneously sacked. Gavin returned home in a rage, and
a fucking taxi, for crying out loud, bastard public transport, because
his operations manager had demanded he leave his company car there
without delay. None of this was his fault; slamming the door behind
him, he threw his keys across the unit in fury when he realized April
wasn’t home. The stupid bitch was never home these days, always
working at the nut house. Why the fuck wasn’t April home when he
needed her, he could really do with using her as a punching bag right
now. Picking up the phone, he dialed her work number.
133
Chapter 17
Fear of fear itself is the most debilitating disability that we can
possess. It makes me sad to see people trapped in relationships where
there is cruelty and dominance. We must learn to believe in ourselves
and have faith that we possess the power to change the direction of
our lives. Even if we fall flat on our face, this is still progress. Learn
to like yourself because what we think about ourselves determines
what we al ow to happen to us. Believe that you are beautiful.
Little Wit
April woke in now familiar quarters, Damon’s. She had
spent every possible spare moment there she could without
arousing suspicion at home. Rol ing toward the edge of the
mattress she slapped her hand palm down across the flat button to
cease the shrill alarm.
Damon groaned beside her and shifted over, folding his arms
around her chest as he did, settling his head on her shoulder as he
relaxed again. April rested a while before angst took over. She tapped
his arm several times in rapid movement and began to pull away
from him.
“Damon, c’mon, I gotta get moving.”
“No . . . Fuck it . . . Stay here, I’m tired of this . . . Fuck him.”
134
Behind Venetian Blinds
“You know I have to be home on time so he doesn’t get suspicious.”
Damon threw the bedclothes to one side and sat up, reaching for a
cigarette.
April sighed, she knew what was coming next. He had been on
at her for the past month to move in with him. It was fast becoming
a bone of contention between them.
“April, move in with me, I’m sick of you going back to him all
the time, I want you here, I worry about you every time you leave. I
hate the thought of that prick being anywhere near you.”
“It’s not that simple, Damon . . . it’s so messy.”
“So you keep saying.” He lit a cigarette, threw his legs out of
bed, and started pacing the room. “Leave, April . . . You can make it
simple if you want to. Just go home and pack your bags. Take yourself
out of the situation and stop making excuses . . . You’re letting him
hold you. What are you holding off for, what do you think he’s going
to