‘Would you say these are physical symptoms?’
Karen frowns. ‘It’s hard to separate them. I get these headaches, as if someone’s wrapped a metal band tight around my forehead – sometimes it feels so real I’m
surprised I can’t see it . . . like I’ve been wearing a hat, and when you take it off, it’s left a mark, and you can still feel it.’
Johnnie nods. ‘That’s a good description.’
‘But why now? Why could I handle Simon’s death better, when it was so unexpected, and not my father’s . . . when I should have known – I
did
know – it was
coming? My dad was in his eighties; he’d been ill for ages.’
‘Well, it sounds like you’re experiencing depression. You’ve had a huge amount to deal with in a relatively short time, so to have some sort of reaction is completely
natural.’
‘It was such a stress for my mum looking after him . . . so, in a way this is a blessing, a relief for her . . . I wish I could see it that way, too, but now I can’t stop worrying
about her either, and what she’s going to do . . . I guess she should move in with us, but I’m not sure I can cope with that right now, not when I’m such a wreck . . .’
Karen stops and looks up, then says, ‘Sorry.’
‘There’s no need to be sorry.’
‘No, I guess not. Sorry.’ Karen realizes what she’s done and laughs.
Johnnie smiles. ‘You seem to be beating yourself up a lot.’
‘Oh?’
‘It sounds as if you believe you should be feeling one way about your father’s death, and because you’re not, you’re getting angry with yourself. I’m hearing the
word “should” a lot in what you’re saying – you
should
have foreseen your father’s stroke, you
should
ask your mother to move in, you
shouldn’t
be crying so much.’
‘I suppose I do think a bit like that . . .’
‘When something painful happens, we sometimes feel that we have failed in our response to it.’ Johnnie glances at the clock. ‘I’m afraid we’ve only a couple of
minutes left, just so you are aware.’
‘I can’t understand why I seem
more
upset than when Simon died,’ says Karen. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd?’
‘Well . . . it sounds to me as if you’ve probably experienced what is often called cumulative trauma. It can happen when you’ve been through one distressing event after
another.’
‘Is that why my reaction is so out of balance?’
‘Perhaps it would help to look at it not as a balance like this—’ Johnnie cups his palms before him on a level as if he were a weighing scale, ‘ – where one grief
is heavier than the other.’ He drops one hand down and the other up. ‘Perhaps it’s more like this—’ He puts one cupped palm on top of the other, ‘ – where
you could bear one heavy weight, but not two.’ He drops both hands.
‘Oh. I hadn’t seen it like that . . .’
‘I’m not saying it’s entirely the case, but it might help you be kinder to yourself.’
Karen nods.
‘I’m afraid we are going to have to stop now, but you might like to think about that a little before next time.’
‘Sure.’
‘And enjoy your lunch,’ says Johnnie.
Oh no, thinks Michael, entering the dining room. Most of the chairs are taken; he’s going to have to share a table with other patients. There’s space beside Rita
and she seemed harmless enough, but she’s sitting with Troy, and Troy seems in as dark a mood as he is, so is probably best avoided. Michael looks around for Karen – he’s more
inclined to chat with her if he’s got to talk to anyone, because she’s new, too. But then he remembers that Johnnie waylaid her as they were leaving.
There are only two seats free in the corner by the French windows. The other chairs at the table are occupied by the guy with the Mohican who gave Michael the tip-off about the coffee machine,
and another young man in glasses whose colourful tattoos appear to run right up both arms and across the back of his neck. Michael squeezes through to reach them and is just saying, ‘Do you
mind if I join you?’ when there’s a waft of scent and he feels hair brush against his arm.
‘Hi guys!’ It’s Lillie. ‘You OK with me sitting here?’
‘Of course,’ say the two men.
No surprises there, thinks Michael.
‘Come on, Michael, park your bum with me,’ says Lillie, patting the red-cushioned seat of the chair next to her.
Michael does as he’s bid.
‘Michael’s new,’ Lillie explains.
‘We met this morning,’ nods the Mohican. He stretches out an arm. ‘I’m Karl.’ Michael shakes his hand. ‘And this is Lansky.’ Lansky looks up from his
plate – he’s already been served with a burger and chips – and nods.
‘That’s an unusual name,’ says Michael, then kicks himself for stating the obvious and adds, ‘You probably get that all the time.’
‘No,’ says Lansky. ‘It’s what they call me in here. It’s my surname – my first name’s Paul, but there are two Pauls in ATP.’
‘The addiction therapy programme,’ explains Lillie, reading Michael’s confused expression.
‘So, what you in for?’ asks Lansky.
‘Oh, he’s a Sad,’ says Lillie.
‘Whereas we’re Bad,’ Karl winks; his pierced eyebrow seems to emphasize the gesture.
‘Very Bad,’ Lillie nods. She turns to Michael. ‘Karl was into cocaine.’
‘And speed,’ says Karl.
‘With me, it’s booze,’ says Lansky.
I can tell, thinks Michael. Behind large, black-framed glasses, Lansky’s cheeks are threaded with broken blood vessels.
There’s a jug in the middle of the table. Lillie reaches to fill up her glass with juice and says, ‘In here, we like to say there are the Mads, Bads and Sads.’
Michael feels his face crack into a smile at the notion. ‘So if we’re the Sads and the Bads, who are the Mads . . . ?’
‘Oh, there aren’t too many of them in here at the moment,’ says Karl. ‘But they’re – you know, the psychotic ones, the total nutters, people who’ve
really lost it.’
‘I lost it before coming in,’ says Lillie. Her frankness is disarming, but Michael is rapidly learning that small talk is rare in Moreland’s Place. ‘I’m BP.’
She smiles at him brightly.
‘What’s that?’ asks Michael.
‘Bipolar,’ says Lansky, and takes a large bite of his burger. Ketchup squidges out and plops onto his plate.
Lillie looks up at a woman bringing in their food. The woman hands Michael a plate with a baked potato filled with tuna and sweetcorn; he now recollects ordering it earlier. ‘You got mine,
Sally?’
Bit strange to be on first-name terms with the staff as well as the other patients, thinks Michael. Though I guess it’s good to be friendly.
‘What was it?’ asks Sally.
‘Omelette,’ Lillie replies. ‘I have a wheat allergy,’ she tells Michael. She lowers her voice to say this, as if it’s a more personal revelation than her previous
confession.
‘So . . .’ Michael isn’t usually nosy, but this is fascinating. It’s making him feel less weird, and he’s been sensing himself as cut off from others for a long
while. For the first time in months, he feels something faintly approaching cheeriness. ‘When you say “lost it”, how do you mean?’
‘Oh, I tried to stab my sister,’ says Lillie.
Michael nearly chokes on his baked potato.
‘You must have seen it,’ says Lansky. ‘It was in all the papers.’
Just as he’s saying this Michael cottons on. So
that’s
where I know Lillie from, he realizes. Stone me! She and her sister present that TV programme my kids are into,
Street Dance Live
. I bloody hate it – it’s the music I can’t stand – but still. Imagine me, he thinks, pausing for a moment to swallow his mouthful, having lunch
with someone famous. Ryan and Kelly will be dead impressed.
‘I had a psychotic episode,’ says Lillie, adjusting her top so that once more Michael has to tell himself not to stare. ‘But I’m all right now.’
Hence the meds, thinks Michael. Maybe for some patients they’re not such a bad idea. ‘What about your sister?’
‘Oh, she’s used to me,’ Lillie smiles. ‘And I did think she was the daughter of the devil at the time.’
‘Mad, you see.’ Lansky taps his temple, but he’s grinning.
‘So, you insurance or what?’ asks Karl.
It takes Michael a moment to gather what he must be referring to. ‘You mean, how am I paying to be here?’
‘Yeah,’ says Karl. ‘She’s private, obviously—’ A jerk towards Lillie. ‘So’s Lansky here—’
‘My dad’s paying,’ says Lansky. He looks sheepish.
‘And my work have sponsored me. How about you?’
‘Oh,’ says Michael, still assimilating. ‘I’m NHS.’
‘
NHS?
’ Lillie and Karl are agog.
Michael nods. I didn’t realize it was that unusual, he thinks. Not that he’s thought much about his admission. It’s a blur.
‘You lucky bugger,’ says Karl.
First time anyone’s called me lucky in a long time, thinks Michael. ‘Why?’
‘Costs a
fortune
to be in here otherwise.’ Karl turns to Lillie. ‘How much is it again?’
‘You’re an inpatient, aren’t you?’ says Lillie.
Michael nods, though he’s no idea how long he’s supposed to be here for.
‘Like us then. Nearly a grand a night.’
For a second time, Michael has to stop himself from spluttering. He reaches for his glass and takes a sip of juice.
‘So how come the NHS sent you here?’ asks Karl.
‘No beds anywhere else,’ he says.
‘Don’t you remember?’ says Lansky. ‘That other guy – in a few weeks ago – Matt? Always had his nose in a book? Scrabble buff? He was NHS too.’
‘Was he?’ says Lillie.
‘Yeah. They’ve been cutting beds in mental health wards, apparently. So now they ring round all the psychiatric hospitals, and if there aren’t any spaces free, the overflow
patients end up in clinics like here.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ says Karl.
I don’t get why they’re so surprised, thinks Michael, there’s a lot of pressure on public resources. Then he realizes the significance of what they’re saying. ‘So
if a bed becomes available, will they move me, do you think?’ He fights to control his panic. He’s a keen supporter of the public sector, but he’s just beginning to settle in, and
the idea of being transferred to an NHS psychiatric ward fills him with dread. Images of straitjackets and patients chained to bedposts spring to mind. Don’t be ridiculous, he tells himself.
This isn’t Victorian England. Still, he can’t shake his horror at the prospect. There won’t be original watercolour paintings on the walls, he’s almost certain, but he can
live without those. Worse by far is the idea that he might not have his own bedroom.
‘No, now you’re in here, you’ll be fine. I’m sure it’ll be way too complicated to shift you,’ says Lansky.
Thank God for that, thinks Michael. Sharing a ward with people as nuts as I am – I can’t imagine anything worse.
‘Shall we go and sit in the little lounge?’ suggests Sangeeta.
‘Whatever.’
The nurse heads along the corridor to another door, flips a sign from
FREE
to
ENGAGED
and leads Abby into a space like the one the group was in, but smaller.
Aside from our bedrooms, is the whole building made up of magnolia and beige rooms like this? It’s so confusing, thinks Abby.
‘Have a seat.’ Sangeeta gestures to the settee furthest from the exit. She sits down on the other one, by the door.
Abby remains standing. ‘I’d prefer not to.’ She’s tempted to bolt again. It’d be hard to get past Sangeeta, but if she moves fast . . . Yet some tiny part of her is
aware it might be wiser to stay. She jiggles from foot to foot. ‘Why can’t I leave?’
‘If at all possible the therapists like people to try not to leave the groups halfway through,’ says Sangeeta. ‘Once one person goes, then others often follow suit, and it can
be disruptive for those who want to participate.’
It wasn’t halfway through, thinks Abby, and Sangeeta’s missed the point. ‘I didn’t want to leave the group. I want to leave here.’
‘Ah.’ There’s a pause. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea either.’
‘Why?’ Abby is in overdrive, continually searching for answers, yet every solution seems wrong as soon as she’s come up with it. ‘I’ve got to get home to be with my
son.’ She moves towards the door, but Sangeeta reaches across and takes hold of the handle. Anxiety rises in Abby again. ‘I feel so awful, it’s my head – I can’t think
straight, or focus – that’s why I couldn’t manage the group – and last night I hardly slept, people kept opening the bedroom door to check up on me – it kept waking me
up . . .’
‘If you like I can sit with you for a bit and we can do some deep breathing together?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Are you sure? It might help you relax a bit and slow down your racing thoughts.’
‘I’ve been trying to stop them for weeks.’ Abby stifles an urge to scream. ‘Have you got another one of those pills?’ She racks her brain. It’s no good, the
name has gone. ‘I think it began with a D . . . I was only given one.’
‘Diazepam?’
‘Well, can you check?’ Abby is still jiggling her legs. ‘Honestly, I can’t bear this . . .’
‘If I do that, will you promise to stay here?’
‘All right.’
‘And do you know who your one-to-one therapist is?’
‘My what?’
‘Your one-one-one therapist.’
‘No idea.’
‘Because you’ve only just been admitted I haven’t been told,’ says Sangeeta. ‘I’ll find that out too and be back very soon.’
Left alone, it takes enormous willpower for Abby to remain in the room. If it weren’t for the lure of the diazepam, she’d scarper.
Moments later there’s a knock and before she has a chance to say ‘come in’, the door opens. Her heart sinks – it’s not Sangeeta with the medication, but another
woman entirely.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I’m Beth.’
Abby peers at her badge, suspicious. ‘Have you brought my pills?’
‘Don’t worry, Sangeeta’s sorting them out.’ Something in her manner reassures Abby. Her anxiety drops a notch.
‘I’m your one-to-one therapist.’ Beth smiles at her. Her eyes are twinkly and her expression is more tender than Johnnie’s; she’s older too – considerably
– and her voice is soothing. That she’s a little plump makes her seem approachable, somehow; instinctively Abby senses she’s in the presence of someone grounded, even
comforting.