A contribution for Sunday Scribblings

Megan Rodwell paused in the act of checking the appointment diary and froze.

‘Who is that?’ she hissed to her receptionist.

Bronwen’s eyes flicked once towards the man and then to her employer’s face. ‘That’s your four o’clock appointment,’ she said softly. ‘Last one of the day - Mr John Scott.’

‘Oh, my God … ‘

‘Don’t forget you have a panic button.’

Megan stole another covert glance at Mr Scott. Clad head to toe in black leather and liberally decorated with studs, buckles and chains, he slouched in the pale blue chair as if he were on death row instead of merely waiting his turn to talk to a counsellor.

He looked up, as if aware of her gaze, and scowled. She stiffened her back, closed her eyes briefly, and then went into professional mode with a cool smile of welcome.

‘Mr Scott? Would you like to come through?’ She led the way into her consulting room, and invited him to sit. He did so, with a grunt.

Megan took a moment to study him. It was something she did with all new clients. It gave them a few seconds to settle, and she could often pick up non-verbal cues about their state of mind. This one, she couldn’t guess. Maybe that was because her own heart was racing so hard.

She’d been quite young when she’d had a bad experience with a group of punks, and it had made a lasting impression. They were all so very scary, with their black, ripped clothes, their safety pins and their piercings … not to mention the tattoos and the scalped, spiky hair and the all-or-nothing aggression. She hadn’t seen one for years, and she’d hoped they’d died out, but there he was, a real live hard-core street punk in her pretty little pale green room. She was alone with him and the door was closed.

Her mouth was dry. She reached for the jug and poured herself a glass of water. A little sip of the cool Evian turned into a gulp, and she forced herself to breathe deeply and relax the tight muscles in her neck.

‘Well, Mr Scott,’ she said in a voice which just barely shook. ‘May I call you John?’

Blue-grey eyes met hers properly for the first time and she recoiled at the lack of warmth in them. He stared at her for a few seconds and then looked down and spoke to his Doc Martens.

‘Only my enemies call me ‘Mr Scott’.

Megan let out a breath. She had caught just the slightest hint of sadness under the ingrained bravado of his voice, and it was enough.

She studied his face, looking beyond the pierced eyebrows, the lip stud, and the tattooed forehead, and she saw the tension around his eyes. She took in the uneven stubble on his youthful jaw, the boniness of his shoulders under the worn leather, the chewed fingernails - and suddenly he wasn’t an anonymous, angry punk who’d smack someone as soon as look at them, he was simply John Scott; a very young man who needed her help.

‘Well, then, John,’ she said. ‘Let’s start at the top. Do you have many enemies?’

He hesitated just a moment before replying but when he began to talk, she had nothing to do but listen and nod, and try process all that he was telling her. At the end of the hour, when the flow of words had ceased and he sat wordlessly contemplating his boots, Megan smiled, and did something that was strictly against the rules. She leaned forward and took hold of one of his hands.

‘You’ve made an excellent start today, John, ‘ she said softly. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to continue? Will you come back next week? We can begin to sort out some strategies for all of those fears of yours - if you think you can work with me.’

His hand tightened momentarily on her fingers before he gently withdrew it.

‘Think I can. I … I’d like to try.’ He raised his eyes, and gave her a tentative smile.

When he had gone, shrugging on his street swagger like a coat as he left the room, Megan walked to the reception desk. Bronwen shot her an apprehensive look.

‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Really. He’s just a nice kid with problems.’

Bronwen’s brows rose, and Megan gave a wry look and had the grace to look ashamed.

‘Yes, I know. But I’ve learned something today, and I think I’m finally going to get rid of those nightmares. Working with John is going to be good therapy for me, too.’

She walked to the front door and stared out to where she could see the bright orange and green hair threading its way through the home-bound office workers, then she locked the door, and turned away.

‘I almost feel that I should be paying him.’