Another Night, Another Day (27 page)

It’s hard to believe that a short while ago I was eating lunch with people I was beginning to see as friends, thinks Michael.

‘So what happens next?’ asks Chrissie as they step back into the corridor.

‘You will be assessed by the ward doctor,’ Akono says to Michael, flashing another enormous smile, but Michael can’t process what’s happening right then, let alone later,
so says nothing. Akono turns to Chrissie. ‘Now, we tend to find it best if patients are given the chance to settle in by themselves.’

You’re telling my wife to leave, thinks Michael. If that’s what you mean, why don’t you say so? The prospect of being left alone makes him shudder.

‘OK.’ Chrissie nods. She’s always been more compliant than I have, thinks Michael. Nonetheless as she leans in to give him a farewell hug, she mutters into his ear,
‘Don’t worry, love. We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can, I promise.’

So she thinks it’s as awful as I do in spite of Akono’s cheeriness, he deduces. That makes it worse – it confirms his perception isn’t warped. As Chrissie and Akono turn
to head back through the locked ward, Michael is left with a Hobson’s choice: to return to the bleakness of his bedroom or face the strangers in the lounge. With a lurch of fear he opts for
the latter, feeling as if he’s about to jump off a cliff.

* * *

‘Nice house you have here,’ says Abby, looking round the kitchen.

‘Thank you,’ says Karen. ‘It’s badly in need of decorating. In here especially.’

‘I didn’t notice.’ Abby was more struck by the children’s paintings displayed on the fridge, the shelves chock-full of spices and herbs, the half-drunk bottle of red wine
next to the tea and coffee caddies. I wish I could leave stuff out like this, she thinks, instead of locking everything away.

‘So, cake.’ Karen stands on tiptoe to retrieve a large tin. ‘Have to keep it out of the kids’ reach,’ she explains, sliding a chocolate gateau onto a plate.

Tell me about it, thinks Abby.

‘Say when to stop,’ says Karen, moving a knife slowly round like the hand of a clock.

Abby bites her lip, apologetic. ‘I’m not sure I can manage to eat.’

‘Ah yes. Weren’t you one of those who said in group you lose your appetite when you’re stressed? I’m the opposite. I eat too much when I’m happy and I eat even more
when I’m sad.’

‘Don’t let me stop you.’

‘Now I feel guilty.’

‘You mustn’t.’

‘I’ve put on weight since Simon died . . .’

‘You look great just as you are.’ The combination of Karen’s chestnut hair and green eyes is striking, thinks Abby, and she oozes warmth and generosity. ‘OK, give me a
small slice,’ she concedes, realizing it will give Karen permission.

‘Right. We’ve got an hour till I have to collect the children. Although you’re welcome to stay longer if you want.’

Abby lets out a sigh of relief. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how to thank you, helping me out like this.’

Karen scoops a generous forkful of gateau into her mouth. ‘You know, I met one of my really good friends, Lou, the day Simon died. The whole thing was so awful, but she was absolutely
brilliant. I’d never have got through it without her, so I see it as karmic payback, if you like.’

That’s such a positive way of looking at the world, reflects Abby. She’s noticed Karen seems more upbeat than when she started at Moreland’s. It’s astonishing to think
that only two weeks ago she couldn’t stop crying. I was doing well too, she thinks. Till this afternoon . . . Once more she feels anxiety rising. She grips the side of the table.

‘You OK?’ Karen looks at her, concerned.

‘I had a rush of panic,’ she says after she’s done some deep breathing. ‘Sorry . . .’

‘It’s fine, honestly. I realized that’s what was going on. I’m here for you, whatever.’ Karen reaches over and gives Abby’s hand a squeeze.

‘Thanks.’ Abby knows she’s overdoing the gratitude but doesn’t know what else to say. She’s aware they’ve both fallen silent, but how can she explain that
she’s terrified of losing a sense of who she is again?

‘Tell me what’s on your mind,’ says Karen gently.

Abby considers. Perhaps she could share these worries, and Karen won’t judge her. She reaches for her fork, helps herself to a wodge of cake and –
yum
– is astonished
to find it tastes delicious.

‘You know, no one in my family ever talked to one another, not properly . . .’ She glances up – Karen’s eyes are wide, encouraging her to continue. ‘We didn’t
articulate our feelings, not at all. And guess what I’ve also realized? Somehow I’ve ended up with a son who doesn’t respond to me, and a husband who doesn’t either. I must
be doing something wrong.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ says Karen. ‘You didn’t make your son autistic.’

‘No, but—’

‘And from what you’ve said before now about your husband, it’s not your fault the relationship has broken down, either.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Abby hasn’t the energy to stop herself from crying. ‘I’ve spent so much time care-giving over the last few years, it’s no wonder our
marriage couldn’t take the strain.’

Karen goes to tear off a couple of pieces of kitchen roll which she hands to Abby. ‘Strikes me Glenn didn’t leave you much choice. You did what many decent people would do: you took
over where he left gaps.’

‘Mm.’

‘You
mustn’t
blame yourself, Abby. Honestly. I don’t know Glenn, obviously. I haven’t heard his side of the story. But I know from groups and stuff that
you’ve done a huge amount of beating yourself up already. We all do it, don’t we, those of us at Moreland’s? It’s one of the reasons so many of us end up with depression or
anxiety. What makes me really cross is that probably Glenn’s the one who should be having therapy, not you.’

Karen’s cheeks are flushed, Abby notices. She seems angry on my behalf. It’s funny how we identify with one another.

Suddenly, through all her whirling thoughts and upset, she has a moment of clarity.

‘I knew he was having an affair,’ she says.

‘You
knew
?’

‘I don’t mean I really knew,’ Abby explains. ‘I mean I suspected deep down, though I didn’t want to admit it to myself. Glenn withdrew from me ages ago. I
don’t think we’ve had sex since last autumn some time, and I’ve no idea how long it’s been going on, but there’ve been signs . . . Like his staying late at the office
. . . being so defensive . . . never mind demanding that we split the house 50/50 when I do the lion’s share of caring for our son. He probably wants somewhere bigger so he can continue
seeing
her
, whoever she is.’ Strangely, as she says this, Abby can sense her anxiety lifting a little – she’d expected the opposite. She stops to check if the relief
lasts; it seems to. Then she says, ‘Do you know what? I think that might be where some of my panic has been coming from.’

‘Really?’ Karen’s eyes open even wider.

‘It’s as if I was blocking myself from admitting it.’

‘You wouldn’t be the first person to do that.’

‘No . . .’ Still, Abby feels a fool. ‘It’s been staring me in the face.’

‘There you go again – don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Karen reminds her. ‘If he has been seeing someone, he’s the one who’s been in the wrong, not
you.’

Abby recalls conversations at the clinic. ‘They say anxiety is often unexpressed emotion, don’t they?’

Karen nods.

‘Sometimes anger . . . or grief . . . or both?’

‘Yes, so I gather.’

‘I must have been in denial,’ Abby admits, then laughs. ‘De Nile, river in Egypt, so I heard.’

Karen laughs with her. ‘We’re getting better at therapy than the therapists themselves.’

Abby looks down at her plate, and is startled to see she’s finished her sliver of cake. ‘It’s weird, but I do feel lighter having told you that.’

‘Well, we can’t have you losing weight when I’m getting chubbier by the minute. Can I tempt you?’ Once more Karen hovers the knife over the gateau, her expression
inviting.

Abby nods. ‘Go on, then.’

Michael enters the lounge as the racing draws to a close.

‘Don’t recognize you,’ says the elderly man, turning from the screen to appraise him. ‘You new?’

‘Um, yes,’ says Michael, and takes a seat next to the young lad who keeps scratching himself.

‘
Finally.
’ The lad jumps up to grab the remote control, flicks the TV onto
Top Gear
, and sits back down again so fast Michael is left breathless just watching
him.

The old man shifts his chair to face the sofa, his cobweb hair catching in the slight breeze created by his movement. ‘First-timer?’

‘Sort of . . . I’ve come from Moreland’s.’

‘Ooh, get you.’ One of the men playing Scrabble looks up from the table across the room. ‘La-di-da.’

‘Oi, I was there once,’ says his opponent.

‘I wasn’t paying,’ mutters Michael, riled by the implication he’s wealthy enough to afford insurance, let alone the exorbitant fees.

‘Brave chap coming to sit in here,’ says the old man.

Michael already wishes he hadn’t. What was he thinking? He’s too concerned about his own survival to be able to converse much anyway. He glances nervously at the young lad next to
him. Michael can hear him whispering what sounds like ‘Woof! Woof!’ as he scratches his arms.

‘Don’t worry, he’s not going to eat you,’ says the old man. ‘Just a touch of psychosis – unusual one, Eddie’s – he reckons he’s infested by
Dalmatians.’ The old man holds out a hand to Michael. ‘I’m Terry.’

Michael introduces himself.

The first Scrabble player looks up. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got OCD, have you, Mike?’

‘It’s Michael, actually. And no. Why?’

‘Kitchen area could do with a tidy,’ says the second Scrabble man, and the two of them roar with laughter.

Michael squirms.

‘Fancy a tab, Michael?’ Terry reaches in his pocket for a packet. The first two fingers on his right hand are dark with nicotine stains.

‘Don’t smoke, I’m afraid.’

‘Come for a blast of fresh air.’

Michael is tempted to run back to his room and hide, but is wary of being branded a coward. Plus the room stinks of bleach, and he’s keen to get away from it.

‘Go on then,’ he says. Michael is grateful for Terry’s warmth. He’s seen friendships form in minutes at Moreland’s, and instinct tells him he’s going to need
allies here – fast.

* * *

‘It’s him,’ says Abby, seeing Glenn’s picture come up on the screen as her mobile starts to ring.

‘You going to answer?’ asks Karen.

‘No.’

They wait until the phone clicks onto voicemail; shortly there’s the bleep of a message.

‘Let’s listen.’ Abby puts it on loudspeaker.

‘
Er, as I can’t get hold of you, I’m not sure what to do . . . I was going to ask Eva to stay late but I don’t know where you are . . . I don’t know which
friend’s you’ve gone to . . . Can you call me when you pick this up? And, um . . . sorry the house was such a mess. I didn’t think you’d be back till later.
’

Abby grimaces. ‘I suppose I ought to go and get it over with.’

Part of her would like to stay in Karen’s kitchen, eating cake. Another part of her is so fired up with fury she wants to scream. She’s also afraid that if she doesn’t act on
anger, the sadness she senses lurking close behind, like a big cat creeping up on its prey, will pounce. She doesn’t want to get tearful when she confronts her husband.

‘I’m going to go,’ she says. ‘Sorry.’

‘No need to apologize. It’s fine. I’ve got to pick up the kids soon anyway. Would you like me to drop you off? You’ve got your bag and everything.’

‘Thanks for the offer, but it’s not that heavy, and I could do with the walk.’ Abby picks up her bag and Karen follows her down the hall.

‘Ring me,’ says Karen, as Abby opens the door. ‘Let me know you’re OK?’

‘Sure. Or I’ll text or something.’

‘And you can always come back here if you want. With Callum if you need to.’

‘That’s really kind. And seriously, Karen, I mean it, thank you.’

‘Like I said, think of it as karmic payback. As my mum would say, “What goes around comes around.”’

* * *

Outside on the lawn Terry lights a cigarette and inhales deeply, then blows a succession of smoke rings into the air. For a second Michael is taken back to his childhood. I
used to watch my father do that, he recalls. He could make different shapes and all sorts. I’d forgotten how enthralling it was. Michael misses his dear old dad, dead a decade now, and he
misses that sense of wonder too.

Terry flicks ash on the ground. ‘How d’you find this place compared to Moreland’s?’

Michael frowns. He doesn’t want to diss Sunnyvale too much; it could backfire.

‘Er . . . this is more clinical,’ he says. Then he remembers that Akono was quite open about Seaview being preferable to Meadows; hopefully that observation won’t cause
offence. ‘Have to admit the secure unit looked grim.’

Terry nods. ‘Started out in there time before last. Sectioned, I was. Not so nice, you’re right.’

So he’s been in several times. ‘What’s brought you here?’ asks Michael, hoping to shift the focus from himself.

‘Recurrent depressive disorder, with a bit of borderline personality disorder thrown in.’

Michael doesn’t know what this means; perhaps it’ll soon become evident. The prospect makes him wary, but until then he might as well keep going. ‘What are the staff like
here?’

‘Some good, some bad.’ Terry shrugs. ‘One or two are power crazy, you can imagine. Others are plain worn out – you can see why when the pay’s shit and the hours are
dire. Lots of them are agency workers anyway. But there are a few – like that guy Akono, saw he showed you round – he’s OK. He does his damnedest, though it seems he’s
firefighting a lot of the time. You’ll get to know pretty quick, and keep your head down, you’ll be all right. None of them have much sway, other than the psychs.’ He inhales
again, though this time, to Michael’s disappointment, exhales without forming a smoke ring. ‘But I’m going to be out of here soon. Thank God.’

‘Is it that bad?’ Terry was beginning to give him a flicker of hope.