Newly qualified psychologist Gaby McCray is delighted to be invited to join the prestigious ETHOS, even though her fatherâs mysterious suicide is tied in with it. But immediately two of her patients invite Gaby to play sinister mind games to find out what they know about her fatherâs death and she canât resist.
Regarding them as the psychopaths, Gaby plays their degenerate games, but becomes like them. And the more like them she becomes, the more disturbing the memories surfacing of the day her father put a bullet in his brain.
Retreating to her childhood home for solace, she discovers her fatherâs death was at her own hand, and both her patients know. Compounded by the discovery of CHIAROSCURO, a secret organisation of psychopaths set up within Ethos by her father, she forces the truth from the Director of Ethos. Chiaroscuro comprises ruthless psychopaths with an âon/offâ switch enabling them to function both normally or as a psychopath, at will. She is one too; a âsleeping Behemothâ as the Director puts it. Threatened with exposure by both patients she seeks Chiarosuroâs help, knowing one day she must reciprocate. Until then the Behemoth lies dormant, guarding herself and her child.
Newly qualified psychologist Gaby McCray is delighted to be invited to join the prestigious ETHOS, even though her fatherâs mysterious suicide is tied in with it. But immediately two of her patients invite Gaby to play sinister mind games to find out what they know about her fatherâs death and she canât resist.
Regarding them as the psychopaths, Gaby plays their degenerate games, but becomes like them. And the more like them she becomes, the more disturbing the memories surfacing of the day her father put a bullet in his brain.
Retreating to her childhood home for solace, she discovers her fatherâs death was at her own hand, and both her patients know. Compounded by the discovery of CHIAROSCURO, a secret organisation of psychopaths set up within Ethos by her father, she forces the truth from the Director of Ethos. Chiaroscuro comprises ruthless psychopaths with an âon/offâ switch enabling them to function both normally or as a psychopath, at will. She is one too; a âsleeping Behemothâ as the Director puts it. Threatened with exposure by both patients she seeks Chiarosuroâs help, knowing one day she must reciprocate. Until then the Behemoth lies dormant, guarding herself and her child.
Heâs going to tell me why heâs done it. Heâs calling my name to get my attention and his mouth is opening and âŚ
And nothing.
I open my eyes and the blank ceiling is staring back down at me, a single exploded paint bubble mimicking Dadaâs mouth â open but wordless. Just the dream again. And I havenât had it in ages.
âDamn!â
I say it softly to the smoothness of the freshly painted ceiling and the open-mouthed paint bubble. It merely pouts back at me, a soft âooohâ like that last, lingering breath before death. Why today, of all days? I close my eyes, and wait for the unease to dissipate, but it lingers until I slam the alarm off just as it starts to buzz. The timebomb of a new day canât be avoided even if the dream can. And today is the day.
I sit upright, impatiently kicking the drift of bedclothes onto the floor and looking along the line of my body. Me. Long, lean, languorous â but now also with that creeping sense of bewilderment the dream always brings with it. Outside the hum of rush-hour traffic has already started and Iâm conscious of the need to go with it. Come on, I mentally chastise myself. Not the same old dream and the same old bewilderment today. That is all behind you. Today is your fresh start so move it, baby, or youâll be late and then what will they make of the new girl? And you ought to check your notes again before you leave. Be on top of things â a real professional for your patients, not a facsimile of one. Correction, clients. They donât use patients at Ethos. No one is sick at Ethos, only seeking assistance.
That does it. I cannot linger in the past when the present is so much more pertinent. I roll out of bed and dig my toes into the luxury of new carpet. Everything new today, including me. The smell of new wool is overlaid by the smell of fresh paint. Iâm not sure which is the less attractive â or the most abrasive. Both odours will dissipate in time, of course. Everything does, even uncertainty. Who said that? I shrug. Me possibly â in a whimsical moment. I laugh at the thought and stretch. The tightness in my neck reminds me of Romaineâs concern yesterday as I left.
âYouâre going to be entirely on your own there. Are you sure âŚâ
âIâll be fine. Iâll be busy. And you could visit? Thereâs a spare room, you know.â
âI know. I will. But youâll still be on your own until then. What if âŚâ
âThat hasnât happened in ages now.â
âI know,â and then that momentâs hesitation. âBut promise me you wonât dwell on it nevertheless.â
âI wonât dwell on it.â
But here I am, dwelling on it. Both of us dwelling on it. Secretly. Reluctantly. Guiltily.
No! I breathe in and out slowly and do some stretches. The tension in my neck releases a little as the mental notes start forming to be successfully ticked off. Shower, dress, check the Ethos notes. I pad into the bathroom, avoiding the bathroom cabinet. I donât need whatâs in there any more, even though I keep it there to remind me. I step into the shower, turning it on full force and it hammers on my skull before shattering into droplets over my skin. I can see a shadowy reflection of myself in the shiny new shower screen until it mists over. Blonde hair plastered to my head and face like a tarnished gold swimming cap, full lips partly open, tongue catching the water droplets as I had as a child when it rained. Blue-grey eyes observe a partial me as Iâm gradually engulfed by the steam. Now I see me, now Iâm gone. Maybe thereâll be a different me in my place when the steam clears? I play the game I always play at times like this. Which me shall it be? I run my hands over my body since I can no longer see anything in the clouded bathroom. I close my eyes and feel, skimming the curves, lightly touching the curling down between my legs and then letting my hands slip to my sides as the water purges me. Itâs good to have a sense of yourself. Thatâs what Iâve had drummed into me from infancy, all the way through university and on to training afterwards. Know who you are. Accept who you are. Act on who you are. Unless you do that, you will always be weak, at everyoneâs whim.
Dada wasnât weak, he was strong, but still he âŚ
I shake the thought away.
âI know who I am,â I say decisively to the hazy form in the shower screen. Despite the damn dream, I swear I have moved on â so far, I can barely even see where I was anymore. âI am a shooting star,â I tell the blurry impression of me. Director Anhelm called me a shooting star, when he read my CV. Didnât that confirm it? âAnd I will be fine,â I add on the tail end of that thought, although whether Iâm reassuring me or the image of me, Iâm not sure.
Dressed and groomed, I head to the kitchen. Everything in here is as new and shiny as in the bedroom and bathroom. The brand-new coffee machine is the first thing I spot. I need coffee the most this morning. A prompt, not a crutch. I set my laptop up on the breakfast bar and log in, then head back to the coffee machine. The laptop screen flickers into life behind me but I am too busy fiddling with the coffee machineâs switches and dials to bother with the news headlines for the moment. I select what looks to be the programme for a latte, one cup. I load the coffee capsule into the top, fill the water container at the back and slide a mug in place to catch the coffee. The machine hisses and spurts into the mug but doesnât stop when it reaches the top. It overflows onto the counter and dribbles onto the floor.
âShit!â I say, searching for something to mop up with as the jaunty ring of a Skype call chooses precisely the same moment to come through. Iâm about to ignore it when a glance at the screen changes my mind. It is Director Anhelm. âOh God â now?â I sigh and leave the overflowing coffee to talk to my new boss.
âDr McCray â Gaby!â He is moonfaced-happy, grinning expansively at me.
âHi,â I say, trying to emulate his grin. His eyes flick from my face to the coffee lake behind me. âEverything OK?â
âYes, oh yes,â I say breathlessly, the smile now slipping into the right place on my face. âItâs fine. Everythingâs fine. Really great.â
âGood.â He sounds like heâs praising a small child. âHad the place completely refurbed for you so Iâm glad about that.â I donât miss the hint of gentle admonishment in his tone â so donât mess it up⌠He hesitates â fractionally â but enough for something to stir in my stomach. âLook, Gaby, Iâm ringing with my apologies. Iâm afraid Iâm not going to be there to greet you today after all. In fact, none of us will â apart from Jenny. Sheâll be able to help you.â
âJenny?â
âMy PA. Probably knows more than me anyway â or so she tells me.â He laughs at his own joke, but I take note anyway. Jenny. âIt's this conference. Didn't expect it to go quite so well for us, but hell, when you're the talk of the town ... Anyway, it means we're all staying on for the rest of this week to capitalise on it. There's a lot of money riding on this so I know youâll understand. Iâve uprated your status to compensate. And you will be great, of course.â Heâs nodding and smiling at me and I know from the way heâs smiling that Iâm meant to wholeheartedly agree.
âOf course,â I repeat, without being entirely sure what Iâm agreeing with. My stomach is starting to dip and wheel now, like it used to.
âGood.â The same unctuous smile. âWe'll be back next week, so do whatever you feel comfortable with in the meantime. Iâve told Jenny you only need tackle what you fancy to begin with, so itâll be a gentle lead in for you, even without us there. I've emailed you the basics. Keep an open mind and your opinions to yourself and we'll talk strategy next week.â He casts a glance over his shoulder at a distant knock on the door. âOh, must go; breakfast calling. The full English here is to die for.â
The call ends but a little letter icon flickers at me on the top menu of the screen. The Directorâs email no doubt. Great. I canât help it, but already I donât like him. Who abandons their new member of staff on their first day? A man expecting their new member of staff to be able to cope, is the wry accusation in my head. OK, I will â even if my rapidly beating heart suggests otherwise.
I read the email from the Director as I sip too-hot coffee and try to force down a piece of dry toast. Initially itâs pretty much a repeat of what heâs just said, but the killer is in the second paragraph â literally.
âSo sorry Iâm not going to be there for your first day, Gaby. Itâs crazy here â apologies for the pun â since yesterdayâs presentation. Need to keep our cohort at the conference to capitalise on it now, but Iâm afraid that leaves you holding the fort. Just play the official representative for Ethos â youâre a much prettier face than me, anyway!
At Ethos we seek the unique solution for the unique client, so always keep deniability in mind and youâll be fine. That said, there are two clients to avoid; Morgan and Client X. Sorry to bring your father into this, but I know he would want me to steer you away from these two. Foul play and suicide are never a good mix. And best to avoid muddying waters from the past.
By the way, enjoy the little bonus for the inconvenience and enjoy your first week at Ethos.
Robert Anhelm
Director, Ethos Consultants
âFinding ethical solutions.â
I linger over the organisationâs tagline before going back and re-reading the second paragraph. So he knew Dada â or was it he knew of Dada? Correction. Everyone who was anyone in the world of experimental psychology knew of Dada, but Dr Anhelmâs mention implied a more personal knowledge. He hadnât mentioned him at interview though, and surely he would have? There is an attachment too, but it is brief and useless. It simply lists various patientsâ names, their next appointment times â the first ones seemingly not until tomorrow â and the secretaryâs phone number. I go back to the body of the email and hang over it. â⌠and best to avoid muddying waters from the pastâŚâ What muddy waters? And why mention Dada? What had they to do with Dada? The hairs on the back of my neck bristle with sudden concern. I got this job so easily, so quickly. Too easily, maybe? I should have asked more about it first, and how I came to be approached when I have no experience to speak of yet. Ethos: not treatment but solutions. Not illnesses but issues. Not patients but clients â and two already specifically forbidden me; that Dada would have specifically forbidden me if heâd been around to do so. The implication is that Director Anhelm must have known my father rather well, given his claim that Dada would have wanted him to intervene.
I take the laptop with its open email into the bedroom, to the chest of drawers near the window. It is still bare other than for the photograph lying flat on its back because the stand broke when Iâd unpacked it last night. Man, woman and child smile up at me as if there have never been any questions to answer, or any explanations to seek. Me, Romaine and Dada. I brush the glass with my fingertips. Truth be told, Dada is the sole reason Iâve ended up here, trying to figure out the sicknesses that made people do things so unlike themselves they defy explanation. To mend the broken, understand the inexplicable. But Dada wasnât sick; couldnât have been sick. Heâd been the one whoâd cured the sick, restored the damaged soul, healed the broken mind. He couldnât have been broken himself. I had never believed that, whatever theyâd said. Neither had Romaine, whether she admitted it or not. So why? That day is lodged in my memory, even if my memory wonât release it from the fissure it has become wedged in. And I have dwelled on it every minute of every day between then and now â wedged it in tighter, more inaccessible, safer. My eyes blur with tears as I try to concentrate on the photograph and I admit now I havenât moved on. I have never moved on from that day my father voluntarily left the world â and me â with no explanation why. I push the photo away and hold my head in my hands, one elbow resting on the laptop and the other on the photo, as the tears flow. They slow only when the wild scrolling of my laptop screen breaks through the haze of misery. Beyond the sign-off on the Directorâs email, there is a single sentence making up a message below what the Director has sent â one that looks more like a note than a message, and some of it deleted. I read and re-read it trying to comprehend.
âSteer her away. A would have insisted. Chiaro-â
I read it several times more before it shoots a hole as clear as the hole in Dadaâs skull through what little composure I have left. The Directorâs email to me has effectively forwarded another, surely not intended for me. I am amazed at the negligence â and yet Director Anhelm canât be so stupid or careless as to have overlooked it. He wouldnât be Director of the most sought after psychological treatment centre in London if he was. This must have been deliberate. Suddenly I have the sense of having walked into a lionâs den, with me abandoned to the prowling lions and what else?
I decide there and then how Iâm going to tackle this. There are things here that affect me; issues that affect me and Iâm not going to tuck them away into fissures or crevices and pretend they donât exist. At least one of these forbiddens has brushed with suicide so they must know. Potentially they have the understanding that I have always been denied. Is it that? And what would Dada say if he had spoken in the dream? Something tells me that Director Anhelm might even know what that would be, but he is deliberately and frustratingly absent for the next week, so it is in my hands now to find out. They shall be mine, these forbidden ones. Then Dada will tell me why, and I will break my dream. And I will prove to Director Anhelm and everyone else that I am my fatherâs daughter and I am a shooting star, just like him: but one that isnât going to fall from the heavens.
There are some thrillers, psychological or otherwise, that creep into your head and stay there until you finish them, finally sure everyone is tucked in and somewhat safe. This is one of these books. Itâs insidious, reaching tentacle-like into the readerâs thoughts, much like some of Kingâs more cerebral stories, where the sense of creeping evil colours every background.
Gabyâs life, growing up in the Petri dish of her fatherâs experiments, remains murky until the end of the book. Meanwhile, mysterious people drop into her adult life, telling her she doesnât know herself or her father, and hinting at psychopathology. Meanwhile, Gaby still is suffering gaps in her everyday memories. Are they due to her medication, now discontinued? Or has she been taking it? The pill bottles rattle, are empty, are refilled, vanish.
Somehow, people have cameras everywhere that communicate with each other in mere seconds. I donât live in the UK, land of a thousand cameras, but even then this seemed a bit over-the-top. That said, the combination of this and the uncomfortableness of Gabyâs fishbowl office added tremendous tension. Who is watching? From where? To what purpose? Itâs especially chilling given Gabyâs memory gaps. Someone knows what she does in them, even if she doesnât.
She is very confused and conflicted, and indeed, who wouldnât be, given that every single person she encounters is laden with mysterious messages and half truths, which, as is common in the genre, are only hinted at in parts. This, as well as Gabyâs endless self-examination and talk, could become tiresome, but thereâs just enough going on to keep the reader pulled inexorably through to the end of the book.
Thereâs a lot of Gabyâs fatherâs philosophy inserted through the book, and most of this is patently psychopathic. This makes it difficult to swallow, or comprehend. I was a naughty reader and skipped over some of the italicized sections, but then, I skipped ALL the Elvish singing in Tolkien, so you know what kind of reader I am...
I didnât seem to miss much in either case, and remained glued to the story.
Itâs a thick read, and demands some attention - definitely not one of those light, racing to the climax thrillers. It is worth the effort, however.
The ending was both expected and well-prepared, as the clues were piled up all along. Martin plays honestly with her readers, and gives just the right number of hints to make the âaha!â moment satisfying. There were one or two loose ends I couldnât explain, but I suspect a second reading would provide them. This is a book you could read twice. In fact, if youâll just excuse me....