Where the Moon Isn't (19 page)

   had planned for me, and because as I folded the sheet of paper into my wallet she was already explaining to the cleaner how her daughter was seriously thinking about ballet classes too, but there were only so many days in the week.

I jolted bolt upright. The rainbows had gone, so had Simon. Claire-or-maybe-Anna was standing in my doorway. ‘I’ve booked us a taxi,’ she was saying. ‘It should be here in twenty minutes.’

I rubbed at my face with both hands. There was a damp patch of dribble on my pillow. ‘I think someone’s been asleep again,’ Claire-or-maybe-Anna said. ‘You get yourself dressed. It’s a beautiful day, feels like spring might be saying hello at last. I’ll give you a shout when the taxi’s here.’

I splashed my face in cold water and rummaged through the pile of clothes on my bedroom floor. I picked out my green combat trousers and camouflage jacket. I don’t want to be in the army or anything. I was just going through a phase of wearing the gear, to make myself feel less afraid.

I sat back on the bed to lace my boots. ‘I know you’re still under there, Si.’

He was never any good at keeping quiet. It was like when we used to hide behind the door waiting for Dad. As I shut the door, he broke out in a fit of giggles.

Claire-or-maybe-Anna thanked the taxi driver and told him someone from the ward would ring when we needed picking up. In the waiting room the dentist appeared, a hygiene mask clinging tightly to her chin on stretched elastic straps.

‘Matthew Homes,’ she called.

I turned to Claire-or-maybe-Anna, ‘I’d rather go in by myself, if that’s okay?’

She hesitated a moment. ‘Um. Sure. I’ll wait here.’

I told the dentist I’d be right through. I just needed to go to the loo quickly. ‘We’re along the corridor, second on the right,’ she explained. ‘Come through when you’re ready.’

There’s no security at dental surgeries, nobody watching the doors or strutting around with bunches of keys and red clipboards. As it happens, I was registered with my own dentist. But the Emergency Clinic is nearer to the train station.

When your big brother is calling, when it’s finally time to go and play, if you need to escape from a psychiatric ward – the first thing to do is observe. Then get the hard work done for you.
Say, Ahh
. I’m a mental patient, not an idiot.

sharp scratch

Denise wasn’t best pleased when I came in for my injection the other day, unwashed and hungover.

‘You smell of beer, Matt.’

‘It’s not illegal.’

She shook her head and let out a tired sigh, ‘No. It’s not illegal.’

We’d gone through to the small clinic/let’s-talk-about-how-you’re-feeling-in-yourself room at the end of the top corridor; the one that always smells strongly of disinfectant. That doesn’t help. I can get a bit panicky at injection times and the disinfectant smell definitely doesn’t help.

Denise opened her bag of tricks and I asked if I could have a drink of water. She gestured to the sink, ‘Help yourself.’

I picked up a mug with the complicated name of a medication stamped across the side, and a slogan about
Treating Today for Tomorrow
. They’re handed out to places like this by visiting drug companies. Last time I went in the office to borrow the Nursing Dictionary, I counted three mugs, a mouse mat, a bunch of pens, two Post-it note booklets and the wall clock – all sporting the brands of different medicines. It’s like being in prison and having to look at adverts for fucking locks. That’s what I should have said too, because it’s a good point I reckon. But I never think of these things until after.

I gulped back the water and poured myself a second mug. Denise was watching me closely. ‘I was up drinking with The Pig,’ I explained. As if me wanting two mugs of tap water needed an explanation. ‘We had a couple this morning too.’

‘Really, Matt. You’re your own worst enemy.’

That’s a strange thing to say to someone with a serious mental disease. Of course I’m my own worst enemy. That’s the whole problem. I should have said that too. Except maybe not, because she looked tired. She looked upset as well. And usually she might give me a little lecture, but this time she didn’t. She didn’t lecture me. You could tell by the way she let out another sigh that she wasn’t going to lecture me. It was a sigh that said: Not today. Today we’ll just get through this.

‘I’m afraid I’ve some very disappointing news,’ she said.

I told you there was a strange atmosphere, didn’t I? I said how you could cut it with a knife. How you could cut it with the crappy blunt scissors they give us in Art Group.

Denise is a woman, which means she can multi-task. That’s what they say, isn’t it? That’s the kind of blah blah blah people drivel.

‘It’s about Hope Road,’ she said. ‘It looks like we may have to scale back the groups, maybe scaling back on everything.’

‘Oh right.’

‘We’ve been fighting it for a while. But services are being cut right across the Trust. Right across the NHS really. And, well, it seems we’re no exception.’

She was looking at me to respond so what I said was, ‘Is your job safe?’

She smiled at me then, but she still looked sad. ‘You’re very sweet. It’s probably safe, yes. But as I say, we will be scaling back. It’s all taken us a bit off guard to be honest. There’s some consultations due later this week. But it doesn’t look— Well, we’ve decided to start letting service users know, so it isn’t such a shock.’

‘Who?’

‘Service Users. Um— Patients.’

‘Oh. Right.’

They have a bunch of names for us. Service Users must be the latest. I think there must be people who get paid to decide this shit.

I thought about Steve. He’s definitely the sort to say Service User. He’d say it like he deserved a knighthood for being all sensitive and empowering. Then I imagined him losing his job – and to be honest, that caught
me
off guard. I don’t hate these people. I just hate not having the choice to get rid of them.

‘What about Steve? Is he—’

‘Well, I don’t really want to get into all that. It isn’t my place. I just wanted to let you know about—’

She trailed off, and I couldn’t tell if it was because she was upset, or just concentrating. Perhaps she had to concentrate not to be upset. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked. ‘Do you want some water?’

‘No, no. I’m fine. It’s just a real blow for us.’

She took a deep breath and let it all out slowly, like with the breathing exercises they get us to do. Practise what you preach, I guess. Then she kind of launched into a script. She said all this stuff that you could tell she’d been saying to everyone. About how whatever way things went, she’d still be working with me. She’d still see me at home and help with my forms and budgeting and that kind of thing. And we could still meet in the cafe that we sometimes meet in. Or go to the supermarket together. Then she finished with this bit about how capable and independent she knew I could be – that she has every faith in me. I’m not saying it wasn’t a nice script. I’m just saying it was a script.

But then I think she slipped off the page, because in all the time I’ve known Denise I’ve never once heard her swear. She’s a very calm person. I guess she needs to be. I’ve never known her get rattled or lose her composure, but as she drew up the syringe, her hands shaking a little, I heard her say under her breath. ‘This effing government.’

That’s exactly how she said it too. She said
effing
. I never knew people said that for real. It was almost sadder in a way. I didn’t like seeing her like that. I don’t like seeing anyone upset. I’m just no good at comforting people. I did think about reaching out to touch her arm, but what if she pulled away? And I could have said it would all be okay, but how could I know that?

And anyway, we’re not really on the same side are we? I reckon that’s why she decided I was taking the piss, when she turned to see me smiling. It was an awkward smile, but you only really know what a smile means when you own the face behind it. Everyone else just sees the smile they expect it to be.

‘Look,’ she snapped. ‘I know you don’t like it here.’

‘I don’t mind it.’

‘Sometimes you do. And that’s fine. But it’s a good service that helps a lot of people.’

That was unkind of her. Making me out to be the bad guy. Whatever side she thinks I’m on, it ain’t me threatening to close the place down. Strangely enough they don’t let us Service Users decide that sort of thing.

‘Anyway,’ she said. Back to her usual calm. ‘I just wanted to let you know. It’s all a bit up in the air, but things could happen very quickly. Money seems to be making all the decisions these days. It’s largely out of our hands.’

I looked at the syringe, at the glistening needle. ‘How much does that stuff cost?’

‘It’s different, Matt. This is what keeps you out of hospital, and keeps you well. And it’ll be even more important if other support is withdrawn.’

‘Would you care to see my arse, Denise?’

That made her chuckle. It’d been getting a bit tense, but that took the edge off. We do get on okay sometimes. She did this pretend coy act, picking up a slip of paper and using it like an old-fashioned fan. Like you see ladies use in period TV dramas. ‘Mr Homes. How can a girl resist?’

I undid my belt and let my jeans drop to my ankles, then I pulled down the back of my pants and she knelt on the floor behind me. I guess you don’t see that in the dramas. I have a few compliance problems with tablets, the answer – a long, sharp needle. Every other week, alternate sides. I’m telling you, they use me like an effing pin cushion.

‘Okay. Sharp scratch.’

I had to steady myself, resting a hand on the counter, swallowing hard, forcing back the urge to throw up.

‘Nearly there,’ she said.

She swabbed the puncture wound with a wad of cotton wool, and pressed on a plaster.

It’s hard to know what to say afterwards. This time I had a question though. ‘Will I still get to use the computer?’

Denise dropped the used needle into a special plastic bucket, snapping the lip closed.

‘I honestly don’t know, Matt. It’s all completely up in the air. The last thing I heard there was talk of subletting half the building to a graphics design company! You use it a lot, don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘The computer.’

‘A bit. Only when nobody else wants it.’

‘I wasn’t criticizing. It’s great to know you’re making use of it. It would be wonderful to read something you’ve written, if you’d ever let—’

‘Can I have that?’

‘Sorry?’

I was pointing to the slip of paper that she’d used as a pretend fan.

‘Um— If you want, by all means. It’s just the Instruction Sheet though. It’s for nurses really. I can get you a Patient Information one if you’d prefer?’

‘Patient? I thought we were Service Users.’

‘Well— Yes.’

‘Graphic designers, did you say?’

She shrugged, ‘It’s been suggested. Nothing is definite. As I said, they’ll be some more consultations and I’ll speak with you again as soon as we know more. But the important thing to take away from this is that you’ll still be getting support. Okay?’

As I left I opened up the slip of paper and pointed to the pictures; neat little line drawings, a step by step guide.

‘I guess we need graphic designers too, eh?’

Denise rolled her eyes at me, but in a friendly sort of way. We do get on okay sometimes. ‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ she said. ‘Now you go home and get some rest.’

SCHIZOPHRENIA n. a severe mental disorder characterized by a disintegration in the process of thinking, of contact with reality, and of emotional responsiveness. Etymology: From the Greek Skhizein (‘to split’) and Phren (‘mind’).

When I look at the photograph of Simon and me at Bristol Zoo, with our faces painted like tigers, I look at myself, but do not see myself.

I know that he is me because I am told he is me, but I do not remember turning six years old, going to Bristol Zoo, having my face painted like a tiger, and smiling into the lens of a camera. I do not remember my brother’s face pressed against my face, the black stripes smudging into the orange on our cheeks.

If I look closely I can see we have the same colour eyes, not me and Simon, but me and the boy who is also me, the boy who I can no longer recognize, with whom I no longer share a single thought, worry, or hope.

We are the same person, all that separates us is the passing of time. There is an unbreakable thread connecting us, but I do not know him any more.

I am me. I am in my flat, sitting on the chair with the blistered arms. I have a cigarette between my lips, and this typewriter balanced on my lap. It’s heavy. I can feel the weight of it, it’s uncomfortable, and soon I may move position, or place the typewriter on my table, and sit on the wooden chair. This is me, this is what is happening right now, but in the place in my head where pictures form, I am seeing another me.

It’s a bright afternoon, the first taste of spring. I felt safer outdoors, off the train. It wasn’t the noise of the baby so much, but when a baby cries on a train other passengers share irritated glances. Too much small print. I’d stayed in the space between two carriages for most of the journey, occasionally going into the toilet to smoke.