“Self Control”

There was a time, not too long ago, when Billy was woken every morning by a potent, relentless want. This craving would lead him downstairs into the kitchen and out of the back door, to their cheap patio furniture set where Billy would light a cigarette and sit in silent, uninterrupted bliss for twenty minutes or so before the clock struck seven thirty and the two women of the house, his wife and daughter, rose from their slumber and filled the house with busy feminine noise. When this happened, when Billy's private world of one was invaded by sounds of alarm clocks and showers, he would head inside, still in his dressing gown, and put on some coffee.

But that was then. Nowadays, things are quite different. For instance; his wife, Ava, isn't around anymore. And Billy no longer indulges in an early morning smoke, nor one after lunch, nor in the evenings. After a drunken boy racer drove his wife off the road, Billy knew he had to stop taking chances with his own life, for the sake of their girl.

It was actually Zoë herself who found the hypnotist on the web, after hearing about him on a local radio station. He claimed to be able to cure people of any and all bad habits, be it biting their nails or chain smoking. This claim turned out to be true; after a fortnight of going to sleep while listening to a special tape, a group session, as well as two one-on-on meetings, Billy no longer wakes up with nicotine cravings. Instead, he wakes up because he thinks that he feels Ava stirring in her sleep next to him, which of course is impossible. And once he is awake and remembers that she is gone, he can't get back to sleep. So while he no longer spends up to half an hour in solitude on the patio smoking two or three cigarettes, Billy is still an early riser.

These days, the noise of an alarm clock, constantly set to 'snooze', doesn't seem so loud. Now, when Zoë finally appears downstairs, usually with only ten minutes to spare for breakfast before she runs to catch her bus, she doesn't carelessly drop her spoon into the cereal bowl, or push the fridge door closed with one foot. Both Billy and Zoë live in a state of considerate quiet; to make much noise would make them feel, in someway, disrespectful.

This morning is a Saturday, which means that Zoë is in no rush; Billy has already finished one pot of coffee by the time she comes into the kitchen. The bitter aftertaste in his mouth is almost as foul as that of a stale cigarette.

“Morning,” Zoë mumbles as she opens half the cupboards in the kitchen, leaving them all open after finding nothing she wants.

“Good morning,” Billy says before taking a sip of tap water from his mug. That's no better – he can practically taste the sewage and minerals swimming around on his tongue. “So what are you getting up to today?” He asks, expecting the usual non-committal shrug or 'dunno' in response.

“I was thinking,” Zoë says slowly, lifting the coffee filter out of the machine between thumb and forefinger, “that I might go see Mum today.” She drops the stained, sodden bag into the bin and then shuts the lid with a satisfactory bang; the most noise that she's made in quite a while.

“The churchyard?” Billy takes a step towards his daughter. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

“I think it's a fine idea,” Zoë looks him right in the eye, almost daring him to challenge her. “It's been months and I've not been since the funeral.”

“If you're absolutely certain,” Billy says, “then alright.” He pauses before adding: “I'll come with you.”

Zoë looks unsure for a moment, then nods in agreement. This is a strange kind of triumph, Billy thinks bitterly. You've finally found a place to go with her, where she won't be embarrassed to be seen with you. Teenagers.

Zoë goes back upstairs to 'finish getting ready' despite already being fully dressed – a bizarre, sixteen-year-old process that Billy doesn't really understand or particularly want to question. He goes up to the bathroom and cleans his teeth thoroughly, trying to banish the sour, bitter taste from his palette. He is already dressed; he no longer lounges around downstairs in his dressing gown. The awkward co-existence that he and Zoë have adopted makes him feel uncomfortable in any kind of relaxed state; now any time he steps outside his own bedroom, he is fully dressed.

An hour later, they are walking towards the churchyard where, less than three months ago, they buried Ava. They are almost at the gate when Zoë freezes. She shakes herself all over, as if trying to get over whatever it is that made her stop.

“You alright, love?” Billy touches her arm.

“She... she's not really there, is she?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, um... It's just a grave, isn't it?” Suddenly Billy understands.

“That's right, darling. It's a stone with her name on it. This isn't where your mum is now.”

“Good...” Zoë takes a look around, “because it's a real dump here.” Billy smiles and pulls her into a tight hug.

“Do you want to go home?”

“Yeah.”

They walk in silence for a few minutes, Billy's arm around Zoë, and he feels closer to his daughter than he has since the last time they were at that cemetery.

“You know, Zoë,” he says after a while, “you don't have to be strong when you're with me. You think I don't notice how you bottle everything up… it’s not good for you. You can be however you need to be, there’s no need for you to put a brave face on things, not for me. We all lose control of our emotions sometimes.” Zoë says nothing, but Billy thinks he sees her tearing up. “Nothing at all wrong with crying,” he continues. “Nobody stays in control twenty four seven.”

“Not even you?” Zoë asks, her voice shaky.

“Not even me,” Billy shakes his head. “Most of the time I feel like I have no control at all.”

“You do alright...” Zoë trails off, wipes her eyes, and then says more clearly: “So how badly do you want a cigarette right now? It's got to relieve the stress.”

“Not as much as you might think,” he tells her. “And to tell you the truth, I've not thought about smoking half as much as I expected I would. I guess that Daniel Frost really does live up to the hype.”

“I'm glad, Dad,” Zoë leans into him as they walk, so they both stumble to the right. “Because I want you around for a long time.”

They complete the journey home in comfortable silence, a very different kind to the muted angst that has been hanging over their house lately. As they turn the corner onto their street, Billy sees two men standing outside their front door. As he and Zoë walk up the drive, one of them steps forward.

“Bill Walters?”

“Everyone calls me Billy,” he replies. “How can I help you?” The stranger holds up a badge that can't mean anything good. Another stranger had held up a similar badge when he came to inform the Walters household that Ava had been in a car accident.

“Peter McIntyre,” the detective identifies himself. “You are under arrest for the murder of Ashley Price.”

Billy’s first reaction is to laugh. This doesn’t go down well at all with Detective McIntyre, or his unspeaking partner.

“You are joking, aren’t you?” Billy asks.

“There’s nothing funny about this at all, Mr. Walters,” McIntyre’s stare is icy. His partner moves forward with a pair of handcuffs.

“Dad,” Zoë whispers, and when Billy looks at her, her face is ashen. “What’s going on?” She asks, and Billy can’t answer.

He lets the silent man cuff him, knowing that if he resists arrest they will be more forceful and he doesn’t want Zoë to see that… doesn’t want her to see any of this, but what exactly can he do about it? They lead him to their car, open the back door and he eases himself inside. Zoë remains frozen on the driveway, watching, seemingly paralysed.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Billy calls out before they slam the car door, “it’s all a mistake.” Of course it’s a fucking mistake. Murder. What was the name they mentioned? Billy can’t bring it to mind right this second, not with all the other thoughts flying through his head, but he is fairly sure he’d never heard that name before today, before Detective McIntyre said it and he was suddenly a criminal.

The journey to the police station takes forever, and while he is sat in the back of the car, trying to stay calm, Billy is sure that any moment now one of the police officers is going to turn around and say “I’m terribly sorry, we’ve made a grievous error… we meant to arrest your neighbour”, because after all, if anybody on their street was a killer it was Mitch Howell, who Billy knows for a fact used to do drugs, if not still. He’s always kept Zoë away from Mitch, not to mention countless other men and women like him.

There’s got to be some mistake, Billy keeps thinking, there’s just got to be. I’m a good person. I’m a husband, a father. Well, not a husband anymore, a vicious little voice intones, but Billy can ignore the harsh pang that comes with this realization, because for the first time in months, there is a more immediate problem to be dealt with.

He is led into the station, fingerprinted, separated from his wallet, watch and wedding ring, and taken straight to an interview room. McIntyre and his partner sit across from him, staring intently into his eyes as if by the sheer force of their will they can elicit a confession. They ask him if he would like to wait for his solicitor to arrive, and Billy says that is neither here not there.

“I’m innocent,” he tells them for what feels like the hundredth time. “Having my brief here won’t change that fact… and I imagine it won’t change your minds either. So why don’t you just ask me your questions.”

McIntyre exchanges a look with his partner, then assents.

“Alright, Mr. Walters. Where were you between ten and eleven on the evening of April 21st?”

“I was at home.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. My daughter can tell you that I am home every night.”

“Okay then, Mr. Walters, I’d like you to tell me what you did during that day.”

“I was at work from nine thirty to six, after that I went to an appointment in town, and then I came home.”

“What kind of appointment?”

“I’ve been seeing a hypnotist,” it sounds ridiculous even as Billy says it, “to help me quit smoking.”

“A hypnotist…” McIntyre looks at a sheet of paper in front of him. “Would that be a Mr. Frost?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I see…” McIntyre looks at his partner again. “I suppose you’re going to tell us that you had no idea Ashley Price was another client of Mr. Frost.”

“I don’t know any Ashley Price,” Billy exclaims, “and I never met any of Frost’s other clients except for smiling in the waiting room. Why don’t you ask Daniel Frost where he was that night”?

“Mr. Frost has a watertight alibi,” McIntyre tells him. “We’re not so sure about yours, though, Mr. Walters, considering there is CCTV footage of you out for a stroll not too far from the victim’s home at 10.25pm, at which time you were supposedly at home with your daughter.”

Billy is speechless. Truth be told, he can’t specifically remember much about the night in question, but he’s a creature of habit – he is always home after ten, always…

“That’s all for now,” McIntyre says, and Billy is led back to the cells.

“I’m innocent,” he says to nobody in particular, after the door is closed with a metallic clang. “I’m innocent.” The walls aren’t listening. He shouts out at the top of his voice: “I’M INNOCENT!” His cry echoes within the tiny room for a few seconds, but there is no response. He thinks of Zoë. In his mind she is still standing in the driveway, confused and upset, with nobody there to hug her and tell her that everything is going to be alright. It’s not going to be alright, is it.

Billy has never felt so helpless, so far from control. He slumps down on the filthy floor against the wall, and wishes that just for one moment, that he could light a cigarette and forget all of this.

Hypnosis itself is simple enough – an easy routine of basic techniques in relaxation, opening the mind to suggestion. Daniel Frost has always been capable of more than that. The power of persuasion, his mother called it. The ability to bend others to your will. It’s a gift that’s been with him his whole life, and to say that it has come in handy over the years would be an understatement. Teachers would always give him the benefit of the doubt, would always make exceptions for him if he forgot his homework. People would always go out of their way to do him a favour, even though afterwards they wouldn’t be able to remember why.

Setting up shop in the field of hypnotherapy was a natural progression. Frost could use his innate skills for monetary gain, at the same time helping people overcome their quirks and phobias. Everybody won. That is, until Ashley Price walked into his office, desperate to lose weight. Not that she needed to, of course; Frost thought she had the perfect body, curvy and soft and oh-so-feminine. So while she was in the comfy armchair, unconscious and receptive to the sound of his voice, Frost began trying to improve her confidence. He thought that if he helped her with her self-image, she would realize she didn’t need to drop any more pounds. Once again, everybody won.

He never thought that his own self control would fail, even for a moment, but he underestimated his attraction to her. On the day of her third session, while Ashley was in the armchair, eyes closed, breathing softly, Frost threw caution to the wind. Things went downward from there, and Frost had to do something to solve this new problem.

Of course, it would never do just to go up to a stranger like Billy Walters and ask him to help you get rid of the pesky ex-client who was threatening to tell everyone that you took advantage of her while she was under your spell. No, a more subtle approach was required. It didn't take much at all to accomplish his goal; a few words whispered in Billy's ear while he was semi-conscious, with him all the while just thinking that he was getting help for his cigarette habit. He wouldn't even remember going to Ashley's house that night, breaking in, walking upstairs, strangling her in her sleep. Frost supposes it is a bit like sleepwalking.

He does feel bad for Billy, he really does. The night that it happened, Frost invited several people over and made sure they stayed until well after midnight, each one of these friends a potential alibi. That whole evening he had played host, filling glasses and cracking jokes, but every moment was a heart attack waiting to happen. He was so sure that Billy would come to his senses, wake up in the middle of the street, confused, and just go home. Or even worse, he imagined that Billy would come to and remember what Frost had told him to do. In his head, all night, he had been expecting police to come crashing through the door, Ashley Price and Billy Walters behind them, and they would both point and shout “him!” and would that be wrong? Would he not deserve everything he got?

But he soon gets over the guilt, the remorse. People like Frost are not given these gifts so they can squander their best years in jail. He truly does believe that his work as a hypnotist helps people. He had an appointment today with a woman who is terrified of spiders; in three weeks time, he promises, she will be able to hold a tarantula in her hand without even shaking. These irrational fears, these addictions and cravings, Frost knows that they can all be controlled. And if his clients aren’t strong enough to do it all by themselves… well, Frost can control them as well.

Author’s Note: The title of this piece is taken from a song of the same name, by Laura Branigan and/or Infernal depending on which decade you prefer. One line in particular, “you take my self control”, really caught my imagination. Thanks to my flatmate Gemma, who gave me the idea for this story.