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Her second book, showing how childhood events shape the adult, had not scaled the same heights as the first, receiving fair critical acclaim but only modest sales.  And her third book, on criminal psychology, had
pleased no one, it seemed; as well as being ignored by the critics it had not sold well, in the end barely covering the publishing costs.  Her planned fourth book, on the development of aberrant sexuality and how sex offenders are formed, had stalled some time ago on only the third chapter and showed no signs of moving again in spite of the wealth of potential subject matter at her disposal.  Perhaps the topic struck her a little too close to the bone for comfort.

So where was she?  Washed up at thirty-four?  Unmarried, childless, and wi
th her writing career dead in the water?  Was she destined to become a frustrated old spinster teacher?  She sat back in her old-fashioned wooden swivel chair and laughed aloud at the thought, her gloom dispelling as suddenly as it had arisen; a spinster she was not.  She had never considered herself anything special in the looks department but she had never had any trouble attracting men either, and had no fears of being left on the shelf.  And time was not her enemy as she had never been particularly broody.  She had never had more than fleeting urges to have children, urges she had not encouraged and which had just as quickly disappeared.  And if she was honest she had quite enough personal problems of her own to deal with without trying to raise kids as well.  The thought of children brought one of these problems, Peter, crowding back into her mind but she pushed it firmly away; she would not think about him now.  He was back in England with all the rest of her old life and there he would remain.

T
hat’s the past!
she reminded herself firmly,
think of the present, and the future, but never look back. 
A future which might well include having patients again, if she really were about to be offered a job in Deacon House.  Dealing with the mentally ill, with life’s casualties, had been her first love, and her later, varying careers as a police consultant, an author, and now as a lecturer had perhaps obscured but never quite destroyed that love.  Maybe it was time to get back in harness.  After all, what was the alternative, to sit here desultorily reading barely literate essays churned out by lazy slobs with no interests in life beyond sex and partying?  She relaxed back in her seat, laughing at herself; no doubt all lecturers –including her own, back in the day- had been saying the same thing about their students since education began.  God knows what Aristotle made of the young Alexander.  But it said much about what her life had become that she would gladly leap into the unknown rather than going home to face an empty flat and yet another night in alone.

Kate got to her feet suddenly and made for the door
; Deacon House was a good ten miles away and if she was to be there by three she would have to get moving.  And as she went she pushed any thoughts of how empty her life had become for her to be so desperate to seek change,
any
change.  She also repressed the thought that running away from problems was becoming a way of life for her; she could worry about that later.

    The sleek red TVR crawled down the winding country road, annoying those held up behind while Kate searched for a sign that would reveal her destination. There were many driveways, and rutted lanes leading off the main road, and the thick, encroaching greenery and overhanging trees meant that at anything above twenty miles an hour she would miss the turn.

At last
Kate spotted a sign proclaiming Deacon House to the world in large black letters and quickly swung her powerful but twitchy sports car into the entrance.  Waving an apologetic hand to acknowledge the beeps from the irate motorists streaming past behind her she stopped in front of the massive, wrought iron gates that separated the mental hospital from the outside world.  She paused, a
frisson
of excitement running through her; all her professional life she had heard stories about this place and now, about to see it in person at last, her curiosity knew no bounds.  However, between the huge black gates and the massive granite walls Kate could see little beyond a glimpse of white gravel driveway and overhanging tree-branches.  Her initial impression was of isolation and unfriendliness, even secrecy, and overall was not encouraging.  She had been invited there, however, and now rolled down her window and pressed the intercom button mounted on a low post set at a distance from the old gates.

A crackling, metallic but unmistakably female voice
immediately responded, ‘Deacon House, how can I help you?’

No mention of its full title,
thought Kate with a touch of amusement,
nor its present function.
  The sign outside was the same; just the name, no description.  ‘My name is Kate Bennett.  I have a three o’clock appointment with…er, the director.’

S
he was hoping for a clue as to who her mysterious host was but she was destined to be disappointed as, after a moment’s hesitation, the voice said, ‘Yes, you’re expected, Dr. Bennett. Please wait until the gates are fully open, then follow the driveway up to the house.’

It was on the tip of Kate’s tongue to say,
it’s
Ms.
Bennett, not Doctor,
but before she could speak the heavy gates shuddered and began to swing open, making a suitably eerie creaking noise as they did so. Wondering what effect this would have on the more nervous night-time visitors, Kate put her car in gear and rolled forward, crunching slowly onto the spotless gravel drive.  Behind the high stone wall the grounds were extensive and well tended, though the immense chestnut trees lining the driveway created a slightly gloomy atmosphere in the autumnal afternoon light.  The driveway itself was almost long enough to be considered a private road, causing her to wonder just how large the place was; these were not just grounds, this was a
park
. Large as it was, however, as she rounded the very next bend she was afforded her first glimpse of the old house through a gap in the trees.  She slowed her car even further, suitably impressed.

Deacon House Rest Home
-
far
better than Insane Asylum!
- had in the past been the country seat of a famous Irish nobleman, and although now reduced from its former glory it still retained something of its old air of grandeur.  It was solidly built of large gray granite blocks but in the current watery sunshine the old stone looked warm and inviting rather than forbidding.  And the broad flight of stone steps that led up to the immense double-doors, flanked on either side by high, fluted pillars, lent the mansion a graceful air in spite of its massive dimensions. The house was at pleasant variance with the rather forbidding outer wall and gate, and all in all was a far cry from the grim Bedlam of public fancy. Some of the many glittering windows were encased by iron bars, it was true, but nonetheless Kate could almost see the graceful carriages rolling up in front of those broad steps, and the pink of society alighting in their finery for yet another grand ball. 
Almost
see it.  In another century.  Beautiful though it was, and imposing, Deacon House was now an insane asylum, and no coy phrases like
Rest Home
could alter that cold fact.

As she rounded the final cur
ve of the long driveway her heart was pounding with excitement at the possibility of entering private practice again.  That bastard Straub had soured her joy in connecting with other damaged souls, but before him she had always had a gift for therapy, had been able to establish an instant rapport with most of her patients. Her own past suffering and emotional frailty had given her an empathy and insight that helped her to win their trust and get them talking openly and freely, which in turn helped them to eventually reach the source of their problems.  In fact, thinking about it now she wondered why she had ever given it up for the fascinating but darker, more sordid world of forensic psychology, which in turn had led to a career as a police profiler.  Which she had
also
given up, post Straub.  She bit her lip, not wanting to think about just how much he had cost her.

Of course
, in recent years treatment of the mentally ill had come full circle, had switched back from seeking the cause of problems to simply treating the symptoms with drugs, wherewith the patient could be returned to at least a semi-functional state but never actually cured.  Kate was not a psychiatrist and this approach was anathema to her, concentrating as she did on trauma-related problems that generally
could
be cured.  Searching for the often hidden causes of emotional problems was what she had always done best, and she believed that for trauma afflicted patients at least the only way to real recovery was through self-exploration, which would eventually lead first to understanding, and then to acceptance.  Which in turn would lead to healing.

She parked
in front of the sweeping entrance and slid out of the low-slung car before trotting up the worn granite steps; a trim, slender figure in her black woolen suit and white blouse, with the red scarf around her neck adding a spark of life to her dark outfit.  This touch of color, allied to the shortness of the skirt, which revealed quite a lot of leg, saved her outfit from being too severe by imparting a touch of femininity.  And although she only wore the faintest traces of make-up two orderlies exiting the building looked at her appreciatively as she passed, and followed her with their eyes into the building.

Kate noticed their gazes
but only on a superficial level; her mind was focused on the meeting ahead, and on trying to ignore the butterflies clamoring in her stomach.  She went in through the wide-flung oaken doors and paused on the marble-flagged floor of the vestibule, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside.  There was a long wooden counter to her left which ran the length of the high-ceilinged entrance hall, and behind this counter sat the neat figure of a young woman dressed in crisp nurse’s whites.

Kate smiled
and moved forward through the gloom, her heels echoing loudly on the old flagstones, ‘Good afternoon, I’m Kate Bennett.’

The
receptionist, a young and pretty blonde, smiled back, revealing annoyingly perfect white teeth, ‘Of course, Dr. Bennett; Dr. Jordan is expecting you. If you take a seat in the waiting room I’ll let him know you’re here.’

Dr. Jordan?
  The name rang no immediate bells, was not on her mental list of the dignitaries of the psychiatric world, but she simply said, ‘Fine.  But in fact it’s not Doctor, it’s just plain
Ms.
Bennett. Or better yet, Kate.’

The receptionist hesitated
, though her professional smile never faltered, and Kate said, with a smile, ‘I have a Ph.D., not a medical degree, and I hate Ph.D.’s who call themselves
doctor
.  I despise that petty pretentiousness, don’t you?’

T
he receptionist smiled back, with less professionalism and more warmth and replied, ‘Of course, Ms. Bennett. Please take a seat while I ring Dr. Jordan’s office.’ Her smile broadened, ‘Or perhaps I should say
Mr.
Jordan’s office?’

‘You bloody well better not if you want to keep your job!’ boomed a deep voice
from behind Kate’s back, ‘I’m a psychiatrist, not one of these damned quack psychologists, and I
earned
my medical degree.’

That voice was almost as familiar to her as her own
, and with a warm glow of joy suddenly suffusing her Kate turned and smiled at her old friend and college mate before saying sweetly, ‘No, you didn’t, Trevor; you cheated on your finals, remember?’

   
Trevor Jordan strode across the great, vaulted hallway with his long, gangly arms outstretched in welcome and a broad grin splitting his face.  He was a tall, thin, red-haired man, slightly balding on top, with a lust for life and an unquenchable optimism that few could resist.  In college he had been about as unlike the rest of his classmates as it was possible to be; loud, open and warmly human where most of his fellow students had been pallid, intense introverts.  He was interested in
people
rather than subjects, and his humor and bright outlook on life had cheered and encouraged Kate through some difficult times even after their brief affair had ended.  Or rather, after she had ended it and left him for another man, a minor betrayal for which he had never reproached her and which he had quickly forgiven; in hindsight it had soon become clear to him that they worked better as friends than as lovers.

Now, looking at the genuine pleasure in his sparkling b
lue eyes and on his contentedly ugly, freckled face, Kate was glad she had come, though still astonished that the penniless student she had once dated now held perhaps the most coveted position in Irish psychiatric circles.  But then so many of her contemporaries now held positions of authority; a sign of approaching middle age, no doubt, like the fact that most of her old girlfriends now had children.