The Tryst

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‘One of my patients thinks somebody’s trying to kill him.’

She had meant to sound light and casual, but the words gushed out, breathless and urgent, betraying her feelings, her emotion, her involvement. It had been madness to mention the boy.

Or perhaps I’m imagining it, she thought. Perhaps he’s noticed nothing.

Her husband speared one of the rectangles into which he had previously divided his slice of quiche, dredged it thickly in mayonnaise and hoisted it into his mouth. After chewing conscientiously for a moment or two, he glanced over at his wife.

‘Isn’t that fairly … normal?’

It was a trap, of course. If she took him literally, he would claim that he’d been joking; if she treated it as an example of the pawky humour he was so proud of, he would ask pointedly what was funny about someone in fear of his life.

‘A normal delusion, you mean?’ Aileen asked as she refilled their glasses with wine.

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