Another Night, Another Day (31 page)

Leona glances down at her file and scribbles something at speed. ‘It’s part of what I’m here for today – to make sure your situation at home isn’t unbearable for
you.’

Everything’s
unbearable, thinks Michael. But if I say so, they might put me back in that hospital, and that was even more intolerable than being here. ‘It’s
fine,’ he lies.

‘OK . . . There’s one other question I want to ask you, so I can make sure the crisis team has a proper handle on your needs.’

‘Yes?’

‘Have you had any suicidal thoughts at all?’

It’s a trick, thinks Michael. If I say ‘yes’, she’ll put me back in Sunnyvale. Or make me take pills. His thoughts are so scattered, he can’t grasp anything
properly. ‘Not really,’ he says.

Leona looks at him, holds his gaze. ‘What does that mean?’

I’d better phrase it more clearly, he realizes. ‘I’m OK. I’m fine. Chrissie and I are cool. I’d rather be here than in your shitty hospital.’

‘. . . and medication?’

‘No way.’

‘What about if you had the opportunity to try medication here? Now you’re back at home, perhaps you can see I’m not suggesting it so as to make the lives of staff easier at
Sunnyvale, which is what you thought before.’

It’s all too much for Michael to process. ‘Let’s talk about it next time.’

He sees the corners of Leona’s mouth twitch, as if she’s masking a smile. ‘I guess I can live with that . . .’ She flicks through her file, stops at a page, scans down
with her pen, and says, ‘You’re a lucky man: I’m back on the roster to see you next Monday. We can chat about it then.’

‘OK.’ That’s all he can manage. His brain is overloaded, and shuts down.

‘Oh dear,’ says Karen, seeing Abby’s red eyes and blotchy cheeks. ‘Tricky session?’

Abby nods.

‘Come and sit yourself here.’ She pats the space on the sofa between herself and Tash. There’s not a lot of room, but Abby clearly needs comfort.

‘It’s OK, I’ll move,’ says Tash, and gets up. ‘Too close.’ She shifts to an armchair in the corner of the lounge.

‘Oh, sorry.’ Karen grimaces. Oops, that was tactless, she thinks. Sometimes it’s hard to remember everyone’s different triggers.

Abby settles down into the cushions and Karen lifts an arm to invite her to lean against her shoulder. Abby rests her head and Karen strokes her hair. ‘You’ll be OK . . .’ she
says. ‘You’ve had a tough few days but you’ll come up again.’

‘Do you think so?’ says Abby, in a small voice.

‘Yes.’ She observes Abby’s bottom lip is jutting out; she’s pouting, just as Molly does when she’s upset. At once she is struck by a thought – Abby’s
own mother is far away, perhaps even unaware of what her daughter is going through. All Abby’s mothering goes one way, thinks Karen – towards Callum. No wonder she brings out my own
maternal instinct. I’m lucky, she thinks, heart swelling in silent appreciation. I might worry about Mum, and I might not be that good at caring for myself, but at least we can still look
after one another.

‘I keep thinking of Glenn and that Cara woman,’ says Abby.

‘I can imagine.’ If I ever meet this Glenn, Karen thinks, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.

Tash looks over from her armchair. ‘He sounds a right shithead from what you said in group this morning.’

Abby lifts her head and Karen is pleased to see she is grinning. ‘He’s enough to make a saint swear, you’re right there.’

‘Fuck him then.’ Tash nods. ‘And her.’

‘That’s just it,’ says Abby. ‘I keep thinking of them . . . You know . . .’ Karen feels a shudder go through Abby’s body.

‘I don’t like women who shag other women’s husbands,’ says Tash.

Karen has to admire how bluntly she communicates her moral stance. Tash has relaxed a lot in a relatively short time – her tic is scarcely noticeable.

Abby pulls away from Karen so she can sit up straight. ‘I bet Cara’s more attractive than me.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ says Tash.

‘I used to think I was quite pretty.’

‘You are!’ Karen interjects.

‘My hair’s horrid this short—’

‘I love your hair!’ Karen can’t believe what she’s hearing. ‘I’d do anything for hair that frames my face the way yours does – mine’s like a great
big thick curtain.’

‘You could always dye it pink,’ says Tash, shaking her cerise locks with a certain pride.

‘It’s typical, isn’t it?’ says Karen. ‘Here we go again. Being positive for others instead of ourselves. Once you’re through this – and you will get
through it, Abby, I promise, though maybe you don’t believe that now – you’ll have men beating a path to your door. Don’t you agree, Tash?’

Tash nods vigorously.

Karen makes a mental leap. ‘You know what my friend Anna has been saying?’

‘No?’

‘She’s been on at me for ages to try Internet dating. Perhaps we should do it together.’

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ says Tash.

‘Oh God, I don’t think I’m ready for that.’ Abby looks startled Karen should even suggest such a thing.

I’ve been crass again, thinks Karen. ‘No, no, of course not. I didn’t mean right now – I’m not sure about it either. It’s only when Anna split up with her
last boyfriend, she started doing it right away. She said it was a good ego boost, and dating was like falling off a horse – the best way to get over a man was to get straight back on
one.’ Karen laughs. ‘So to speak.’

Abby swivels to see her more squarely. ‘Seriously, would you ever . . . um . . . look for someone else?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve no idea what sort of men you’d meet online.’

‘I’ve done it,’ says Tash. ‘Yeah, you meet some right weirdos. But they’re not all bad.’

‘Is that how you met your current boyfriend?’ asks Abby.

‘Not this one, actually, no. But the one before I did, and I know plenty of people who’ve met their partners online.’

‘My friend Anna’s boyfriend is nice, but she’s got less baggage. It can be tricky trying to attract someone as a single mum with two kids, never mind a widow.’ Karen
laughs. ‘And soon I’m probably going to have Mum living with us too. Can you see the ad?
Two widows, two kids, one husband needed.
’

‘I bet that Cara hasn’t got children,’ says Abby. ‘Imagine me with Callum. If Glenn couldn’t cope and he’s his dad, who on earth would ever take us
on?’

‘Now, now both of you,’ says Tash. ‘I’m hearing all sorts of negativity here, and neither of you has even
been
online.’

‘She’s got us sussed,’ says Abby.

Karen nods. Tash might be half my age, she thinks, but she makes me seem unworldly. And she’s right – we should give it a go. After all, what have we got to lose?

* * *

Michael hears the rustle of cotton, feels the mattress dip as Chrissie edges close to him. Oh no, he thinks, as she starts to stroke his hair. Then she edges her fingertips
gradually, lightly, down the nape of his neck.

I wish she wouldn’t do that, he thinks, and sighs.

But she misreads the signal, slips a hand under his T-shirt, between his shoulder blades, gently massaging, and actually he’s tense just there, and what she’s doing almost helps. A
tiny, tiny part of him wants to moan softly in gratification, roll over to face her properly, kiss her tenderly, stroke her too.

And yet a far bigger part of him resists. It’s been so long since they’ve been intimate; too long. It’s too difficult, too meaningful, too loaded – it – they
– he – is sure not to work. The distance between them, so near in reality, feels impossibly, horribly far. He can feel her breath growing hotter, shorter, more urgent.

But he’s weary; too weary for this. He can’t do it. Not tonight.

So he rolls further over, curls away from her, back arched like a turtle shell, shutting her out.

There’s a dog on the beach in Rottingdean, yapping as it runs in and out of the sea. Michael watches for a moment from his vantage point on the prom. The dog’s
owner is throwing a ball into the shallows – time and again the dog swims out to retrieve it, paddling eagerly, then returns with the ball in its mouth and puts it down, tail wagging, yapping
until it is thrown again.

I don’t –
can’t
– give a fuck, thinks Michael.

He can’t feel enjoyment like that; he can’t feel even slightly happy, just for a second. The anger is gone, the tears – what few there were – are gone. Since he left
Sunnyvale, all his experiences have flattened and blended together, so whilst he’s aware different things are happening to him, they don’t feel any different. This evening is the same;
he’s not sure what he’s doing on the seafront on a Saturday night. He told Chrissie he was heading for the Black Horse but he has no yen to go there. He just wanted to get away from
sitting at home surrounded by reminders of his failure – the devastation in the back garden, the empty space in the drive, the deluge of mail from his creditors.

But besides getting rid of this sense of utter worthlessness, he has no desire to do anything. Somehow he has ended up here. The waves glisten in the fading light, but he’s unaffected by
their beauty.

I’ve lost myself, he thinks. I don’t know where the me I used to be is any more. That Michael disappeared months ago.

It’s as if he’s vacated his own mind. He briefly glimpsed himself again when he was at Moreland’s, but that was just an interlude, a taste of respite which only makes the void
he’s in more unbearable. And it was snatched away like everything else.

He continues walking along the prom until a vast pile of rocks hides the dog and its owner from view. He looks about: there’s a couple strolling under the white chalk cliffs, but
they’re at least a hundred yards off and walking in the opposite direction, towards Peacehaven. Otherwise, the beach is empty. It’s late, there’s a chill in the air, and
Rottingdean isn’t Brighton: on this stretch of the coast there are no late-night revellers. For this, if nothing else, Michael is glad; he doesn’t want to be disturbed.

He steps off the concrete path and onto the shingle. His shoes crunch against the pebbles; the gradient propels him towards the sea. Close to the water the stones are wet, shiny. He hears the
dog yapping over the other side of the rocks, still audible above the crash of the waves. He wants to get away from it, this stupid, happy dog.

A yard or so further and Michael is in the water. He’s still wearing his lace-up shoes, but so what? Now he’s past his ankles; soon his jeans are drenched. It’s very cold. He
keeps going, pace slowed by his clothing; it feels heavy, yanked this way and that by the waves. The sea is choppy, with white horses running all the way to the horizon. But there’s something
consoling about sensing that the elements have power over him, that there
is
a force bigger than his own awful thoughts. He’s been trying to escape them for an unendurable length of
time. At last, he’s found a way.

‘I’m not myself,’ he has an urge to say to Chrissie as he pushes on. ‘That’s why I’m doing this.’ He’s up to his thighs now, and he’s
freezing, teeth chattering like a clockwork toy.

Once he’s in past his waist he starts to swim. The water gets colder the further he goes, but at least he’s getting away from everything and everyone, his fuck-ups, his future.

It turns out to be hard moving in all his clothes, so he stops swimming and paddles so he can undo his shoes and kick them off. The jeans and sweatshirt he can manage – just – so he
presses onwards with a mix of breaststroke and front crawl.

Eventually he swivels to look back at the shore. He can hardly make out the row of beach huts on the prom, they’re so tiny.

Then, somewhere in the very furthest, smallest recesses of Michael’s head, there’s a faint echo of Gillian:
It’s just a thought, and thoughts can be changed.

But his jeans are weighing him down and he’s tired, very tired, so when a large wave catches him as he swims round to face the ocean again, he has no energy to resist being pulled beneath
the surface. It’s only Gillian, and what does she know?

‘MICKEY! MICKEY!’ Now he hears Chrissie calling him.

He comes up gasping, spluttering for air. It’s only his mind playing tricks again – trying to make him turn back when everything is hopeless. He’d never hear anyone on the
shore from here.

And then it’s too late: another wave drags him under.

‘No!’ says Johnnie. The news is a punch to his gut. ‘When?’

‘At the weekend.’ Gillian’s voice catches.

‘But it wasn’t here, surely?’ It’s almost impossible for patients to harm themselves at Moreland’s; there are safeguards in place throughout the building. No knives
in the communal kitchen, no scissors in the art room, no razors in the patients’ rooms – they have to ask if they want to shave, and are watched by nurses while they do so. The bedroom
doors are kept unlocked at all times, and those patients who are thought likely to hurt themselves are checked on regularly.

Gillian shakes her head.

It’s dreadful, yet Johnnie can feel his shoulders slump with relief. To have a suicide on the premises would make the situation even worse. There would be questions and finger-pointing,
possibly an enquiry – who knows where that might lead. Most distressing would be the impact on other patients. Still, Johnnie feels terrible. I should have done more, he thinks.

Gillian seems to read his mind. ‘I know you ran several of the relevant group sessions, but I don’t want you to feel you’re in any way to blame.’

‘I should have realized how desperate things were,’ he says.

Gillian glances through the window. ‘Once someone is discharged, there’s not much we can do . . . Unfortunately we can’t keep people in here forever.’ Her expression is
so sad that Johnnie has a sense she wishes she could protect everyone from the struggles to be found in the world outside.

‘But it’s only been ten days—’

‘I know. Unfortunately a lot can go wrong in a very short time when you’re dealing with acute mental health issues.’

Johnnie knew he’d have to face a patient’s suicide one day; he can even recall Gillian warning him he’d have to be prepared for it in his initial interview. Nonetheless
it’s one thing knowing something might happen, quite another having to cope with the reality. He’s not had a chance to hear the full story, let alone absorb it, and he’s got to
guide vulnerable patients for the next hour and a half. He’s at a loss as to what he should say to them. The prospect makes him panic.