The Silent Patient - Alex Michaelides

I needed a drink. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a shot of vodka from the freezer. It burned my throat as I swallowed it. I poured another. I wondered what Ruth would say if I went to find her again—as I did six years ago—and confessed all this to her? But I knew it was impossible. That I was altogether a different creature now, a guiltier thing, less capable of honesty. How could I sit opposite that frail old lady and look into those watery blue eyes that held me safe for so long—and gave me nothing but decency, kindness, truth—and reveal how foul I am, how cruel, how vengeful and perverse, how unworthy I am of Ruth and everything she tried to do for me? How could I tell her that I have destroyed three lives? That I have no moral code, that I’m capable of the worst kind of acts without remorse, and my only concern is for my own skin? Even worse than the shock or repulsion, or possibly even fear, in Ruth’s eyes as I told her this would be the look of sadness, disappointment, and self-reproach. Because not only had I let her down, I know she would be thinking she had let me down—and not just me, but the talking cure itself. For no therapist ever had a better shot at it than Ruth—she had years to work with someone who was damaged, yes, but so young, just a boy, and so willing to change, to get better, to heal. Yet, despite hundreds of hours of psychotherapy, talking and listening and analyzing, she was unable to save his soul. The doorbell rang, rousing me from my thoughts. It wasn’t a common occurrence, an evening visitor, not since we moved to Surrey; I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d had friends over. “Are you expecting someone?” I called out, but there was no reply. Kathy probably couldn’t hear me over the TV. I went to the front door and opened it. To my surprise, it was Chief Inspector Allen. He was wrapped up in a scarf and coat, and his cheeks were flushed. “Good evening, Mr. Faber.” “Inspector Allen? What are you doing here?”

“I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop in. A couple of developments I wanted to tell you about. Is now convenient?” I hesitated. “To be honest, I’m just about to cook dinner, so—” “This won’t take long.” Allen smiled. He clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so I stepped aside and let him enter. He looked happy to be inside. He pulled off his gloves and his coat. “It’s getting bloody cold out there. Cold enough to snow, I’d bet.” His glasses had steamed up and he took them off and wiped them with his handkerchief. “I’m afraid it’s rather warm in here,” I said. “Not for me. Can’t be too warm for my liking.” “You’d get on with my wife.” Right on cue, Kathy appeared in the hallway. She looked from me to the inspector quizzically. “What’s going on?” “Kathy, this is Chief Inspector Allen. He’s in charge of the investigation about the patient I mentioned.” “Good evening, Mrs. Faber.” “Inspector Allen wants to talk to me about something. We won’t be long. Go upstairs and have your bath, and I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.” I nodded at the inspector to go into the kitchen. “After you.” Inspector Allen glanced at Kathy again before he turned and went into the kitchen. I followed, leaving Kathy lingering in the hallway, before I heard her footsteps slowly going upstairs. “Can I get you something to drink?” “Thank you. That’s very kind. A cup of tea would be lovely.” I saw his eyes go to the bottle of vodka on the counter. I smiled. “Or something stronger if you prefer?” “No, thank you. A cup of tea suits me just fine.” “How do you take it?” “Strong, please. Just enough milk to color it. No sugar, I’m trying to give it up.”

As he spoke, my mind drifted—wondering what he was doing here, and if I should be nervous. His manner was so genial it was hard not to feel safe. Besides, there was nothing that could trip me up, was there? I switched on the kettle and turned to face him. “So, Inspector? What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” “Well, about Mr. Martin, mainly.” “Jean-Felix? Really?” That surprised me. “What about him?” “Well, he came to the Grove to collect Alicia’s art materials, and we got talking about one thing and another. Interesting man, Mr. Martin. He’s planning a retrospective of Alicia’s work. He seems to think now is a good time to reevaluate her as an artist. Given all the publicity, I daresay he’s right.” Allen gave me an appraising look. “You might want to write about her, sir. I’m sure there’ll be interest in a book, or something like that.” “I hadn’t considered it.… What exactly has Jean-Felix’s retrospective got to do with me, Inspector?” “Well, Mr. Martin was particularly excited to see the new painting —he didn’t seem concerned that Elif defaced it. He said it added a special quality to it—I can’t remember the exact words he used—I don’t know much about art myself. Do you?” “Not really.” I wondered how long it was going to take the inspector to get to the point, and why I was feeling increasingly uneasy. “Anyway, Mr. Martin was admiring the picture. And he picked it up to look at it more closely, and there it was.” “What was?” “This.” The inspector pulled out something from inside his jacket. I recognized it at once. The diary. The kettle boiled and a shriek filled the air. I switched it off and poured some boiling water into the mug. I stirred it and noticed my hand was trembling slightly.

“Oh, good. I wondered where it was.” “Wedged in the back of the painting, in the top-left corner of the frame. It was jammed in tight.” So that’s where she hid it, I thought. The back of the painting that I hated. The one place I didn’t look. The inspector stroked the creased, faded black cover and smiled. He opened it and looked through the pages. “Fascinating. The arrows, the confusion.” I nodded. “A portrait of a disturbed mind.” Inspector Allen flicked through the pages to the end. He started reading from it aloud: “‘… he was scared—of the sound of my voice.… He grabbed my wrist and stuck a needle in my vein.’” I felt a sudden rising panic. I didn’t know those words. I hadn’t read that entry. It was the incriminating evidence I had been looking for—and it was in the wrong hands. I wanted to snatch the diary from Allen and tear out the pages—but I couldn’t move. I was trapped. I started stammering— “I—I really think it’s better if I—” I spoke too nervously, and he heard the fear in my voice. “Yes?” “Nothing.” I made no further attempt to stop him. Any action I took would be viewed as incriminating anyway. There was no way out. And the strangest thing is, I felt relieved. “You know, I don’t believe you happened to be in my neighborhood at all, Inspector.” I handed him his tea. “Ah. No, you’re quite right. I thought it best not to announce the intention of my visit on the doorstep. But the fact is, this puts things in rather a different light.” “I’m curious to hear it,” I heard myself saying. “Will you read it aloud?” “Very well.” I felt strangely calm as I sat in the chair by the window.

He cleared his throat and began. “‘Theo just left. I am alone. I’m writing this as fast as I can.…’” As I listened, I looked up at the white clouds drifting past. Finally, they had opened—it had started to snow—snowflakes were falling outside. I opened the window and reached out my hand. I caught a snowflake. I watched it disappear, vanish from my fingertip. I smiled. And I went to catch another one.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I’m hugely indebted to my agent, Sam Copeland, for making all this happen. And I’m especially grateful to my editors—Ben Willis in the United Kingdom and Ryan Doherty in the United States—for making the book so much better. And for all their helpful comments, suggestions, and encouragement, I’d like to thank Hal Jensen, Ivàn Fernàndez Soto, Emily Holt, Victoria Holt, Vanessa Holt, Anna Bingemann, James Haslam, Uma Thurman, Diane Medak, Nedie Antoniades, and Joe Adams.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Alex Michaelides was born in Cyprus in 1977 to a Greek father and English mother. He studied English literature at Cambridge University and got his MA in screenwriting at the American Film Institute in Los Angeles. He wrote the film The Devil You Know (2013) starring Rosamund Pike and co-wrote The Brits are Coming (2018), starring Uma Thurman, Tim Roth, Parker Posey and Sofia Vergara. THE SILENT PATIENT is his first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.



CONTENTS Title Page Copyright Notice Dedication Epigraph Prologue Part One Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Part Two Chapter One: Alicia Berenson’s Diary Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six

Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen: Alicia Berenson’s Diary Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two: Alicia Berenson’s Diary Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Part Three Alicia Berenson’s Diary Part Four Chapter One

Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Part Five Chapter One: Alicia Berenson’s Diary Chapter Two Chapter Three Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. THE SILENT PATIENT. Copyright © 2019 by Astramare Limited. All rights reserved. For information, address Celadon Books, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010. www.celadonbooks.com. ISBN 978-1-250-30169-7 (hardcover) ISBN 978-1-250-30171-0 (ebook) eISBN 9781250301710 Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected]. First Edition: February 2019