Another Night, Another Day (30 page)

‘Lots of your patients here are a lot worse than me.’

Leona nods. ‘That’s probably true. We do have a high threshold for admission.’

He recalls the young lad he met the day before. ‘Like Eddie, you mean? Yeah. I’m not barking.’

Leona shakes her head but he can see she’s concealing a smile. ‘Seriously though, patients experiencing hallucinations can be very distressing to witness, especially when
you’re not too great yourself. I gather you’ve come from Moreland’s?’

‘Yup.’

‘How did you like it there?’

Whatever I say is bound to be misconstrued, thinks Michael. ‘OK . . .’

‘Sometimes we find people who’ve come from private health care have raised expectations. At Moreland’s most of the patients are not as severely ill as those here. Many of the
people you see at Sunnyvale have been hospitalized for their own safety.’

‘Banged up,’ says Michael.

‘Actually most patients on this ward are voluntary. They can leave whenever they wish.’

‘If they weren’t zombies,’ Michael mutters. He adds a T-junction at right angles to the road on his duvet cover.

‘Speak up, Michael,’ says Leona. ‘I can take it.’ She separates the hair of her pompom into two parts, then tugs to tighten it as if preparing herself for battle.

OK, thinks Michael. You’re on. He looks up, unblinking. ‘Here all you’re bothered about is keeping us drugged so we’re easier for you to manage. How’s that going to
make me better?’

Leona holds his gaze. ‘People here are not “drugged” to make the lives of staff easier, Michael, as much as their own. A lot of patients arrive here in a very distressed state
and we work hard with every one of them to help get them as well as possible again. But we don’t just give people medication. There are other things you can do here; classes and
groups—’

‘You mean pottery.’ He raises his eyes to the ceiling.

Leona takes a deep breath. He senses he’s trying her patience. ‘You know, we’d love to have the sort of budgets Moreland’s has to play with. But we don’t. In all
honesty, times are tough for the NHS. The number of consultants has been cut and beds have been reduced. Demand is very intense.’

‘Fucking politicians.’

‘You’d be surprised how many staff would concur with that.’

‘I want to leave,’ says Michael.

‘Ah. Well, that was what I was coming on to.’

‘I’m not that bad. I’m doing all right. I can manage.’

‘I was about to suggest you might do better at home,’ says Leona. ‘I understand you’ve good family support.’

I’m not sure I want to be totally cut loose though, thinks Michael, back-pedalling. That’s how I ended up at Moreland’s in the first place.

‘It wouldn’t just be down to your family, though. You’d get regular visits—’

‘You’re going to come round and administer drugs. You can’t kid me.’ He leans back against the wall behind his bed with a satisfied huff.

‘I’m not trying to kid you.’ Leona’s eyes spark again. ‘Man, you’ve got me caught between a rock and a hard place. I’m trying to work out what’s
best for you, given the options available.’

He’s definitely on the verge of pushing her too far. Don’t be a troublemaker, he reminds himself, or they’ll wrest decisions from your hands.

‘Let me be frank with you, Michael,’ Leona continues. ‘Staff in here and on the crisis resolution home treatment team – we’re not the enemy. On the whole
we’re a good bunch. But at least at home you won’t have to deal with other patients – which I understand can be distressing. We can help devise a programme to manage your
depression – plus you’ll have members of my team popping in to see you. And I’m on the roster, so sometimes that person will be me. Imagine that – some men would give their
eye teeth to see more of me. How does that sound?’

Michael narrows his eyes, appraising. Instinct tells him that Leona is being as straight as her position allows, but instinct hasn’t served him well recently. Still, at least she
doesn’t seem thrown by a bit of banter, hasn’t forced him to take medication (yet) and appears to respect his opinion. Regardless of his misgivings, it seems the better option.
It’s hardly as if his mood is lifting here.

‘I’d like to go home,’ he says.

‘How was it being home last weekend?’ asks Beth.

Such a lot seems to have happened that Abby can hardly believe it’s only been five days since their last one-to-one.

Beth warned it would be hard going back, she thinks, and I didn’t listen. No one gets in a state like I did, then sorts themselves out in a couple of weeks.

‘It was awful,’ she admits.

‘Oh dear.’

‘I found out my husband’s been having an affair.’

Abby explains about the mug, the lipstick and the confrontation with Glenn.

When she’s finished Beth says, ‘How dreadful, Abby. I’m so sorry to hear that.’

‘I haven’t been able to shake off images of Glenn with this other woman since . . . Initially everything seemed unreal, I suppose, and I was so angry . . .’ Abby starts to cry.
‘But the last few days, I’ve been
really
miserable.’ She wails, half aware she sounds about four years old. Though damn it, she thinks, I’m sick of being brave.

‘It’s hard losing someone,’ says Beth, sliding the box of tissues towards her. ‘You’ve been with your husband a long time, and you’ve got a child
together.’

Abby grabs a hanky. ‘Do you order these in bulk here?’ she says, wiping her eyes.

Beth smiles.

‘Sorry. I don’t seem able to control myself.’ Abby sighs. ‘It’s strange how it’s only hit me lately, all this. I suppose it’s because we’ve been
sorting out a formal separation – selling the house makes it so final. Whereas really I lost Glenn, or rather, we became lost to one another, several years ago.’

‘It strikes me you’ve been experiencing a lot of changes in a relatively short space of time.’

‘I don’t want to leave my home – it’s the one thing I can rely upon,’ Abby says.

‘I can imagine it provides you and Callum with a sense of security.’

‘Exactly . . . How dare he invite Cara there!’ Abby’s cheeks burn.

‘And you’ve every right to be angry.’

‘I am jealous,’ Abby concedes.

‘Even though you admit you knew your marriage was over, knowing someone we loved is with someone else is often hard – it intensifies the grief.’

‘He’s been seeing her for months behind my back!’

‘So you feel betrayed?’

‘Yes. I know we’d agreed to separate, but it’s the lying that gets me – I wouldn’t have lied to him. Not that I’ve ever had the chance to have an affair . .
.’ She stops to consider, and as fast as rage rose, it subsides. ‘I can’t help but worry it was my fault . . . I was so wrapped up in Callum. Do you think it was?’ She looks
up – she can tell from her expression Beth feels for her. The great thing about Beth is I’m in no doubt she’s on my side, thinks Abby.

‘It’s rare that the break-up of a relationship is ever exclusively one person’s fault – and from all you’ve told me, it certainly doesn’t seem to be solely
your responsibility. Do you see how it might not be helpful to blame yourself in that way?’

‘You mean it’s a thinking error?’ says Abby. ‘I suppose it could be . . . Anyway, I don’t want him back. He drives me insane.’ Abby laughs, aware of the
significance of her words. ‘He’s half the reason I’m here.’ Glenn’s refusal to play with Callum, to do his share around the house, to negotiate on the sale . . .
It’s all part of the same pattern, she thinks. He’s selfish, sometimes cruel. He didn’t make any attempt to support me himself. And on top of all that he slept in my bed.
With
Cara.
‘You know what? I don’t even
like
him any more, let alone love him.’

I’m all over the place; in tears one minute and angry the next. Then she reminds herself: ‘There is one good thing.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Mm.’ Abby checks to make sure. ‘Maybe my medication is beginning to work. Anyway, it’s weird. My panic has gone. Ever since I found out about Glenn’s affair,
it’s like a fog has lifted. I can see more clearly again.’

* * *

Leona puts down a tatty bag bulging with papers and removes a file. ‘It’s a nice home you have here,’ she says, striding around the living room.

Michael shuts the door so the two of them have some privacy. ‘My wife takes a lot of trouble.’

‘I can see.’

‘That’s Chrissie for you.’

‘It’s good she cares.’

Michael supposes it must be, but he can’t get a sense that it matters. Even the fact that his wife has tidied up the wreckage in the back garden single-handed and salvaged what she could
from his shed doesn’t register much.

Leona peers at a photo in a silver frame on the mantelpiece. ‘These your kids?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Nice-looking pair. Boy looks like you.’

Michael pays no heed to the compliment.

‘What are they called?’

‘Ryan and Kelly.’

‘They live here too?’

‘Not at the moment, no. They’re at university.’ Thank God, thinks Michael. I wouldn’t know what to say to them at the moment.

Leona wanders over to the bookcase and Michael watches as she tilts her head to examine the spines of his CDs. She’s so tall she can see the very top shelf.

‘You’ve got some good stuff here.’ She nods. ‘Into New Wave, were you?’

‘Punk.’ There’s a silence. Michael is aware he’s not being forthcoming, but he appears to have lost the ability to elaborate. How on earth do people make conversation?
Increasingly it seems he has almost nothing to say.

‘May I?’ Leona pauses before sitting on the brown velour settee.

Michael grunts.

‘So how are you finding being at home? This is, what . . . your fourth day here?’ Leona opens her file and slides a pen out from the metal clips.

‘Bit strange.’

‘In what way?’

‘It doesn’t feel normal.’

‘Oh?’

He pauses. From the recesses of his mind, he pulls out a memory. It’s a struggle and unpleasant, like untangling a knot of worms. ‘Mind you, it didn’t really feel normal
before.’

‘What, before you went into Moreland’s?’

‘I don’t think it’s seemed the same for a long time. I haven’t said this to Chrissie, because I don’t think she’d get it.’ Completing sentences is hard.
Michael begins to pick at his cuticles.

‘Would you say you’re sad?’

‘Not exactly sad, no . . .’

‘Numb?’

For a split second, he’s grateful for Leona’s help. ‘It’s more I can’t feel anything about anything – even the things I used to like.’

‘Such as your music?’

‘Mm.’ And the kids, he thinks. I can’t seem to feel anything about them either.

‘Detached, then?’

‘Everything’s sort of misty and unreal.’ He holds out an arm. ‘A long way away from me.’

‘It sounds to me like you’re still depressed, Michael.’ Leona writes something in her file. ‘How are things between you and Chrissie generally?’

‘OK.’ If only I could feel
something
for her, he thinks. I don’t care what – even anger would do.

‘It can be hard for people who aren’t depressed to be around depressed people, that’s all.’

‘You mean it’s hard for her to be around me?’

‘I’m not saying it is definitely, just that it can be.’

‘Not as hard as it is for me to be around me.’

‘You’ve got a point there.’

Another worm wiggles through Michael’s brain and emerges into words. ‘It’s like she thinks I
want
to be depressed.’

‘And you don’t. I understand that.’

‘She keeps trying to help me be happy again.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’ll put on some music she knows I used to like – The Clash or something . . .’ Michael falls silent – he can hear the strains of ‘Police and
Thieves’ as if it’s playing once more. He pictures Chrissie the previous evening, ice clinking in her gin and tonic. ‘Hey Mickey,’ she’d said as she put down her glass
and slipped a CD into the hi-fi. ‘Listen to this . . .’

Then she’d turned up the volume and gone into the kitchen, returning with a can of beer which she’d cracked open for him.

But I’m not sure I want this, he recalls thinking, both about the lager and the music. He didn’t say so, though, he’d just stood there in the middle of the lounge,
helpless.

‘I’m so glad you’re back,’ she’d said, fetching her G & T to chink it with his can. ‘I missed you, love. Come on, shall we dance?’

Chrissie had started swaying her hips, all the while smiling at him . . .

‘And what did you do?’ asks Leona.

Michael shrugs. How can he explain how horrible it was finding that something he knew he should enjoy didn’t even begin to touch him? Nothing does; not in the boring, lonely, meaningless
void he seems to inhabit. In the few days since he left Moreland’s, he feels even further removed from other people.

Eventually he mutters, ‘I wished she’d stop. She looked ridiculous.’ Then he finds a bit of dry skin and pulls at it, hard.

Leona winces as she watches him, then says, ‘Perhaps, from Chrissie’s perspective, since she’s not been depressed, it might seem like there’s some untapped source in you
that you’ve lost track of, and if she could just help you see how great some things are, you’ll get it back.’

‘She keeps encouraging me to be positive and hopeful, and I keep explaining I don’t get whatever it is she’s on about, so then she tries something else. So I explain
again
, and we go round in a great big circle, until eventually she gives up, and says clearly I want to stay miserable.’

‘Is that what happened last night?’

‘Yeah. After The Clash she put on a couple of other CDs. None of them worked.’

‘Isn’t it a sign she loves you a lot, though?’

‘How?’

‘Some women wouldn’t play a load of punk for their husbands no matter how miserable they were.’ Leona laughs but Michael ignores her. He moves onto another cuticle.

‘So you’re on her side now?’

‘No. I’m on your side in this, if there are any sides to be taken. I want to help you understand one another a bit better.’

But don’t you understand I wish she
didn’t
love me so much? thinks Michael. Then I wouldn’t feel obligated to keep trying.