The Shock of the Fall (Special edition) (23 page)

‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s right. You don’t know. You haven’t seen it, so you don’t know. Is it yellow?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Good. Now remind me what you need to do if you want us to stop?’

‘Say.’

‘Exactly.’

He sucked air between his teeth, and nodded to slicked-back black hair, who bit the lid off his pen. ‘I’ve done a lot of talking, haven’t I? Let’s give you a turn. I want you to tell me about last night.’

I expected to be placed in handcuffs and sent to prison immediately, but that didn’t happen. After they left I waited for my parents to shout at me, but that didn’t happen either.

I expected it because I was too stupid to understand that some things are too big. Any punishment is an insult to the crime.

This voice – his voice – do you hear it inside your head, or does it seem to come from the outside, and what exactly does it say, and does it tell you to do things, or just comment on what you’re doing already, and have you done any of the things it says, which things, you said your mum takes tablets, what are they for, is anyone else in your family FUCKING MAD, and do you use illicit drugs, how much alcohol do you drink, every week, every day, and how are you feeling in yourself right now, on a scale of 1–10, and what about on a scale of 1–7,400,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, and how is your sleep of late, and what of your appetite, and what exactly did happen that night on the cliff edge, in your own words, do you remember, can you remember, do you have any questions?

No.

You said your brother was in the moon, you said you could hear him in the wind?

Yes.

What was he saying?

I don’t remember.

Was he telling you to jump? Was he telling you to kill yourself?

It’s not like that, don’t say it like that. He wanted me to play with him. He’s lonely, that’s all.

We’re not trying to upset you, but it’s important we talk about this.

Why?

We need to know that you’re safe. You say he wanted you to play with him. How do you play with a dead person, Matt?

Fuck off.

Somewhere in all the paperwork that follows me around is my Risk Assessment. Bright yellow paper shouting warnings about how fragile and vulnerable and dangerous I am.

Name:
Matthew Homes

DoB:
12.05.1990

Diagnosis:
The Slithery Snake

Current Medication(s):
The Works

Risk to Self/Others (please provide vague, embellished examples presented as hard fact):
Matthew lives alone, has a limited support network and few friends. He suffers from command hallucinations, which he attributes to a dead sibling. Crazy shit, eh? Problem is he’s been known to interpret said hallucinations as an invite to off himself.

He is currently managed by Brunel Community Mental Health Team, and sporadically attends therapeutic groups at Hope Rd Day Centre (or else he sits alone in his flat, tapping away endlessly on a typewriter his grandmother gave him, which if you think about it, is a bit mental in itself).

On 2nd April 2008, a few weeks into a lengthy hospital admission on Crazy Crazy NutsNuts ward, Matthew went AWOL. He revisited the site where his brother had died, with a view to committing the last hurrah.

This attempt was foiled by an anonymous Passerby. Matthew does not appear to present a significant risk to others. That said, when the Passerby later contacted the ward – seemingly concerned about Matt’s well-being and seeking assurances that he had returned safely – staff were able to press upon her how frightened she must have been, and indeed, how she had feared for her very life.

So, you know. Can’t be too careful.

Fuck off the
      

lot of you.

Someone was touching my arm.

I turned around quickly, nearly losing balance. Her grip tightened. ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘I thought— I thought you were going to fall. Are you okay?’

She had red hair. It blew across her face, long strands escaping from beneath the hood of a raincoat. I could just make out her freckles in the moonlight. And held tight to her chest – like the beating of her heart depended on it – was Simon’s comfort blanket.

This made sense. It made the perfect sense of a dream before waking. In this dream she was Bianca from EastEnders, and she had brought me Simon’s blanket to keep him warm. I reached to take it, but now she was moving away from me – still looking at me – reaching behind her to feel the safety of the handrail.

‘It’s mine,’ she said.

‘But—’

There was something different. She lifted the scrap of yellow cloth to her chin and I could now see a black plastic buckle. There was a sleeve, a collar. It wasn’t his blanket. She wasn’t Bianca.

‘It’s— It’s you,’ I said. ‘I know you.’

I forget how intimidating I can be. She looked at my camouflage jacket, my big black boots. ‘I don’t know you,’ she said. Her voice sounded small. ‘I was just checking you’re okay, that’s all. I’m going home now.’

‘You kept it. You’ve kept it this whole time.’

Simon was in the movement of her hair. He was in the little yellow coat as it billowed in the wind.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said.

‘I can’t remember your name?’

‘That’s because you don’t know me.’

She quickly turned to leave, but I couldn’t let her. I had to be sure she was real.

‘Let go of me!’

The little coat dropped to the ground, gathered straight away by a rogue gust of wind. Simon could be sneaky. I moved after him, getting a foot on it just in time. ‘Got it,’ I smiled.

I thought she’d be pleased, but she looked frightened now. Really frightened. ‘Please, why are you doing this? I don’t know you. I only wanted to help—’

I was holding her, that was the problem. I was gripping hold of her wrist. ‘No. You don’t understand. I’m not going to hurt you. I never meant to hurt you.’

As she pulled away I let go of her wrist, causing her to stumble to the ground. And in that moment I saw her as a small child again, as a little girl tending to a tiny grave. I had only ever wanted to help her, to make it better, but I didn’t know how. I’d hovered awkwardly, unsure of what to do. I’d wanted to comfort her, but instead I made it worse. I hadn’t known what to say.

I’d asked her name and she said,

‘Annabelle.’

She looked up, wiping a cheek with the cuff of her raincoat. Her hood fell back.

‘Annabelle,’ I said again. ‘Your name’s Annabelle.’

Her face was bright in the moonlight. I could see her freckles, scattered in their hundreds.

‘You don’t remember me,’ I said. I was breathing so fast I could hardly get the words out. ‘It was so long ago. I watched you, I saw you bury your doll. I saw the funeral. And then.’

And then.

                       
And then.

The crying came from nowhere.

That’s how it felt.

But that’s just a way of saying it was sudden. That it caught me by surprise. It didn’t really come from nowhere. Nothing comes from nowhere. It had been inside me for years. I’d never let it out, not really. The truth is I didn’t know how. Nobody teaches you that sort of thing. I remember the car journey, when we drove home from Ocean Cove, half a lifetime ago. Mum and Dad were crying to the sound of the radio, but I wasn’t crying. I couldn’t. And thinking back, I never did.

So here was not crying when I completed Mario 64 in single player mode, with the Player Two control pad tangled, lifeless in the empty space beside me.

And here was not crying the time at the supermarket with Mum, when I let myself forget. I reached to take down the box of strawberry Pop-Tarts from the shelf because Simon liked strawberry Pop Tarts, but nobody else liked strawberry Pop-Tarts, so when I realized what I’d done, I had to put them back. I had to watch myself putting a box of fucking strawberry Pop-Tarts back on a supermarket shelf and hope that Mum didn’t see, because if she did it would mean more trips to the doctor, it would be more hours of silence at the kitchen table. Here was not crying at that.

Here were all the other moments when I let myself forget. Each morning of waking up, of believing for the shortest time that everything was normal, everything was okay, before the kick in the guts reminder that nothing was.

Here was every adult conversation that faltered into silence the second I entered the room. Here was everyone knowing, everyone thinking, everyone trying desperately not to think, that if it wasn’t for me, if it wasn’t for what I did, he’d still be alive.

Here was every single moment, since I first closed my eyes to count to a hundred, since I opened them to cheat.

It didn’t come from nowhere, but it did sort of take me by surprise. The tears falling faster than I could wipe them away. ‘I’m so sorry, Simon. I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Please can you forgive me.’

Annabelle could have left me there. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. I’d frightened her, and now she had her chance to get away. To escape from this madman. But she didn’t leave.

‘Shhh, shhh. It’ll be okay.’

I felt her gently take hold of my hand, heard her whispering to me as I wept.

‘You’re going to be okay.’

‘Forgive me.’

Shhh, shhh.
         

It’ll be okay.

Dr Clement stood to shake hands, clasping my fingers, making it impossible to return a firm grip. ‘Matt, good to see you. Richard. Susan. Please, take a seat.’

‘Would anyone like a cup of tea?’ Claire-or-maybe-Anna offered.

‘We’re fine,’ Mum said in that clipped way of hers, when everyone can tell straight away that she’s far from fine. She worried about these meetings more than I did.

She’d arrived on the ward over an hour before, clutching a carrier bag with a neatly folded pair of black trousers, a crisp white shirt and my old school shoes polished to a shine. She ran me a bath in the patients’ bathroom, filling it with bubbles. I brushed my teeth, and shaved for the first time in nearly a month. Dad arrived from work a few minutes before the meeting was scheduled to begin. We did our special handshake. He said I looked smart.

‘Okay,’ said Dr Clement. ‘Let’s start with introductions.’

There were so many of them. We went around the room, each person saying their name and job title.

I forgot them straight away.

When the student nurse had come to fetch me, he explained there were lots of people; the community team had been invited too, he said. This was a good thing, he explained. They were invited to help with preparations for my discharge from hospital. He offered to sit out if I wanted, except it’d be useful for his learning objectives if he could be involved? I told him his learning objectives were very important to me. I forgot to sound sarcastic. He was grateful, saying I shouldn’t worry about there being lots of people, because I was the important one. When the introductions got to me I said, ‘Matthew Homes, um, patient.’

Dr Clement studied me for a moment over the rim of his glasses, then let loose a single bark of laughter. ‘Good. Well, the purpose of this meeting is to catch up with how things are going for Matthew, and to make some collective decisions about the way we go forwards from here. How are you feeling in yourself, Matt?’

The problem was, because I was the important one, everyone was looking at me. It’s hard to think properly with so many different faces staring at you – your thoughts get stuck.

‘Actually I will get a cup of tea, if that’s okay? My mouth’s a bit dry.’

I started to stand up, but Dr Clement gestured for me to stay put, and said he’d make it for me. He said this whilst looking at the student nurse though, which I guess was an invitation for him to offer. He did, and Dr Clement said, ‘Thanks Tim, do you mind?’

‘No, no. That’s fine. How do you take it again Matt?’

‘Three sugars please.’

Mum flashed a disapproving look, and I said, ‘Or two. It doesn’t matter. I can make it myself if—’

‘It’s okay.’ He bounced out of the room.

From the corner, an electric fan licked at the pages of my medical notes. Dad shuffled in his seat, someone else suppressed a yawn, a lady by the window checked her mobile phone, then dropped it into a flowery handbag.

On a low table in the centre of the room sat a box of tissues, a pile of leaflets about different types of mental illness, and a potted plant with sickly-looking leaves. I probably spent too long noticing these things, too long thinking about them. ‘Carry on,’ Dr Clement said. There was a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘In your own words.’

‘Shouldn’t we wait for, um—’

He tilted his chair onto its back legs, resting his feet on the edge of the table. He wasn’t wearing school shoes to make him look presentable. ‘It’s fine. I’m sure Tim won’t mind. Let’s make a start. How are you feeling in yourself?’

When I returned from Ocean Cove, they put me on the High Dependency Unit. It was for my own good, they explained. It would help me to feel more settled. In the High Dependency Unit all the doors are locked, the nurses sit in an office behind fortress-thick glass, and we eat with plastic cutlery. My medication was increased, and the nurses would watch me take the tablets, then keep me talking about my mood or my sleep or my weather or my climate, until they could be certain I’d swallowed them. It was around this time that someone first mentioned how it was also available as an injection. Perhaps they were trying to prepare me, but this felt a lot like a threat.