Another Night, Another Day (32 page)
Ironic, he thinks, all those months talking about anxiety; here I am thrust right into the agony of it.
‘I realize you’re running the next group,’ says Gillian. ‘I can’t offer to take over the session – I’ve a patient at half past. But I could come with
you to break the news. They’ll hear of it anyway, if they haven’t already, so in this instance we’d better take the lead. Would that help?’
Gillian is so much softer and kinder than she seemed when I first started, thinks Johnnie. ‘Thank you. That would be good.’
‘I won’t say “My pleasure,”’ says Gillian with a rueful laugh. She gets to her feet. ‘We’ll talk about it more at lunch. It’s hit a lot of the
staff hard, and we’re going to need to process this too. Meanwhile, we’d better head on up. You ready?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ says Johnnie.
* * *
It’s 11.05: Karen is late. She parks her car (badly), flings money into the meter and charges up the steps into the clinic.
‘Traffic was awful,’ she says to Danni, signing in with a hasty scrawl.
‘Lots of people have been having problems getting in.’
Karen waits to be buzzed through the coded door, then pounds upstairs – no time to make a cup of tea – and down the corridor.
The moment she enters the lounge, she knows something is wrong. Rita is in the armchair where she always sits, but she’s hunched over and enfolded in a clumsy embrace by Colin, who’s
crouched at her feet. Abby is on one of the sofas jigging her legs, face drained of colour; Tash is next to her, jerking her head and yelping like a dog in distress. Only Rick, who’s kneeling
at the coffee table with a tabloid spread before him, so much as registers Karen’s arrival.
‘Hi,’ he nods. But even the way he says this sounds strange. Too quiet, sober.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asks.
The silence, the tension, is horribly familiar.
* * *
I can’t believe it, thinks Abby. How awful. We got on so well, I thought we were friends, or could have been. We’re very different, but still, once I was out of
here for good, I was planning to get in touch, find out how things are. I should have done it anyway. I should have called.
Her legs won’t stop juddering; she feels sick.
I suppose I’m in shock, she says to herself, trying to get a handle on what’s happened. But everyone around is in such a state too, it’s shaking her up even more
.
She
feels scarily ungrounded, spaced out, just as when she first came to Moreland’s. I thought I was much better, she thinks, but I’m not. I’m as bad as ever. Maybe I’ll never
get well. Evidently being discharged is no sign that anyone’s cured.
And now Karen has arrived. She doesn’t seem to have a clue as to what’s going on. God, someone tell her – I don’t want it to be me – I’m frightened this will
set her back too, and I couldn’t bear it.
* * *
Rick slides the newspaper across the table.
Across the top of a double-page spread is the headline:
TV STAR IN SUICIDE TRAGEDY
.
Karen gasps.
Below is a picture of Lillie. Beside her is a woman Karen recognizes as her sister. They are arm in arm, dressed in white minidresses and patent knee-high boots, beaming at the camera. Karen
falls to her knees. She reads:
Tragedy hit the seaside town of Brighton yesterday when the body of much-loved TV presenter Lillie Laybourne was discovered in the early hours of the morning. Early reports indicate
Lillie, 24, had taken an overdose of pills, and her death was caused by heart failure.
Sussex-born Lillie was best known as the host of
Street Dance Live
, which she co-presented with her sister Tamara, 26. The glamorous duo lived only a floor apart in a block of
luxury flats on the seafront. It was Tamara who found Lillie yesterday. Their friend and neighbour Jack Lawrence, 61, revealed that Tamara was worried when Lillie failed to answer her
mobile, and let herself into the flat to check on her sister. Tamara called emergency services, but it’s understood that Lillie had passed away several hours previously.
‘The two of them were very close,’ Mr Lawrence said, ‘and Lillie was devoted to Tamara’s little boy, Nino.’
HORROR BENEATH HAPPY-GO-LUCKY CHARM
On screen Lillie’s warm and cheerful persona won her legions of fans of all ages. But whilst the public saw a bubbly brunette with a gift for boosting the
confidence of young dancers competing in the prime-time show, it has emerged that behind the scenes Lillie was living with an agonizing mental condition. Only a few close friends and
family members were aware that she suffered from bipolar illness, also known as manic depression, which meant her moods swung from dramatic highs to dreadful, debilitating lows.
It is believed that Lillie may have ceased taking the medication she’d been prescribed to control her mood swings, according to a close friend, who preferred not to be named.
‘Antipsychotic drugs and mood stabilizers often help patients like Lillie lead a relatively normal life,’ explained leading consultant psychiatrist at the Maudsley
Hospital, Dr Jiang Chung. ‘About 1 in 3 of those with bipolar disorder will remain completely free of symptoms with the use of carefully monitored medication. But problems can arise
when individuals are tempted to stop taking the maintenance dose. They may feel clear of symptoms and think they don’t need it, or they may miss the euphoria of manic episodes.
Research clearly indicates that stopping almost always results in relapse, especially if done abruptly. In the case of lithium discontinuation, mood can dip dramatically in a period of a
few days, and the rate of suicide rises precipitously.’
NIGHTMARE CHILDHOOD
Sadly, it’s only a few weeks since Lillie told this newspaper she was back on track after a very dark period. ‘I had a particularly difficult childhood
– my parents split when I was 15 and I haven’t seen my father since,’ she told our Celebrity Reporter Jayne Whitehead. ‘But with the support of my sister and
friends, and help from a wonderful team of professionals, I’ve faced my demons and I’m pleased to say I’ve finally laid them to rest.’
It’s also believed that being in the public eye exposed the fragile presenter to scrutiny which she found hard. Two years ago she was photographed leaving Moreland’s Place
in Lewes, a local clinic specializing in the treatment of psychiatric disorders.
Mr Lawrence said, ‘I knew Lillie had been a patient at Moreland’s, but I had no idea she was so unhappy. She moved into this block when she was 17, and often popped in for
a cuppa. Last time I saw her she was laughing and full of life – she’d just come back from a shopping spree and dropped by to show me all her new clothes.’ He choked
back tears as he added, ‘She was a delightful girl and those who loved her can’t believe one minute she was here, and the next, she’s gone. We will all miss her
hugely.’
Karen doesn’t stop until she’s finished the piece. Then she peers at the smaller pictures. There’s a blurred shot of Lillie and Tamara as little girls, another
of Lillie glammed-up with a recent winner of
Street Dance Live,
one of Lillie cuddling her baby nephew Nino, and finally Lillie in a mackintosh exiting the clinic, shielding her head with
a paper in a bid not to be recognized.
Karen leaves the newspaper open on the coffee table and takes a seat on the sofa next to Abby. Wordlessly, she reaches for Abby’s hand and they interlock fingers. Then for several minutes
the two women sit, eyes cast down, hands clasped.
Michael senses her breath first, warm against his cheek. Even in this soporific state, he knows who it is.
‘Mickey . . .’ she is whispering into his ear. ‘Mickey . . .’
He feels her take his hand; her palm is soft and smooth.
‘It’s me, Chrissie.’
He opens his eyelids, a crack. He can’t bear to see too much, unsure of what he’s going to find.
‘Oh Mickey, thank God you’re back.’
Where is he? He’s not entirely convinced he’s alive.
Gradually her face comes into focus; it’s on a level with his own. His wife is almost unrecognizable: her sandy hair flat and unwashed, her eyes red-rimmed, and beneath faint freckles her
skin is grey.
‘
Why?
’ Her voice is pleading.
He has the vaguest sense of remorse, but what it relates to he can’t fathom. He has an urge to explain, ‘I’m not myself’ – he has a recollection he’s wanted
to say that to her before – but the words won’t come out. Finally, after a huge effort, he manages to mouth, ‘Sorry . . .’ He feels his eyelids droop.
Chrissie says, ‘They’ve given you a sedative, love.’
He turns his head on the pillow, trying to see beyond her. Even this small movement is hard. Behind the armchair she is sitting on he makes out another bed with a white metal frame.
There’s a hump beneath the blanket; someone else is there, back turned.
So he’s not at home.
A smattering of memories returns. The beach . . . The sea . . .
‘Michael?’
He jumps awake at the sound of his name and opens his eyes. Everything is blurry, but gradually a figure comes into focus. A tall, skinny woman with her hair scraped tight off her face is
standing beside him.
‘It’s Leona, I’m the psychiatric nurse. Remember me?’
Michael frowns, trying to piece together what’s going on. He manages to say, ‘Where am I?’
‘Sussex Hospital,’ says Leona.
‘How long have I been here?’
‘You were brought into A & E on Saturday night, and transferred to this ward yesterday.’
But I don’t know what day it is today, thinks Michael.
Leona looks down at him. ‘You were very lucky.’
I don’t feel lucky, thinks Michael. He doesn’t know what he feels.
‘Do you remember what happened?’
‘The sea . . .’ says Michael. He can recall swimming and getting colder and colder. After that . . . He tries to dredge up the memory. Nothing.
Leona sits down. ‘It seems as if you were trying to take your own life, Michael.’
He can sense shame beginning to creep through his veins.
‘If you can, I’d really like to talk a bit more about that night. I want to help, you see, we all want to help.’ Leona glances down to the end of the bed. Michael lifts his
head a little and sees Chrissie standing there, twisting her hands. ‘Last week we chatted about how you’ve been feeling lately. I came to your house to see you?’
‘Mm.’ Last week . . . ? It’s no good, Michael’s lost all sense of time, he hasn’t a clue how it fits together.
‘I know you’ve been very down, and I’m terribly sorry I didn’t appreciate how bad things had got.’
Down?
thinks Michael. No, she’s not grasped it.
‘It seems you took a real nosedive in the few days since then.’
He longs to be able to communicate, but he seems to occupy a meaningless fog where he’s lonely and disconnected from everything – even the things he knows he should love, like
Chrissie, don’t make him feel anything. He’s been stuck there for what seems an eternity.
I couldn’t bear it any more, he recalls dimly, so I took myself out to sea . . . Every second I experienced in my head was torture – still is – and you’re bringing me
back to it, waking me up and wanting to talk about it.
Shut up
, he wants to say. But he can’t, and Leona sits there, waiting.
Eventually he offers her a morsel to fend her off. ‘I don’t feel myself.’
‘Can you explain a bit more?’
‘I feel I’ve disappeared.’ And you can’t help someone who’s disappeared, he argues. Not when that’s what they reckon has happened, whilst they’re
sitting right in front of you. The Man With No Personality, that’s me.
‘There are medicines we can prescribe that may well help give you a sense of your old self back.’ Leona glances again at Chrissie and she nods.
They’re in cahoots, thinks Michael. They’re going to drug me, keep me in this God-awful place. He can hear the man a few feet away groaning and he can smell piss. He shakes his head.
‘Pills will make me lose my personality even more.’
‘No, they won’t, Michael,’ says Chrissie. She moves to stand behind Leona’s chair.
They’re going to coerce me into submission, thinks Michael.
‘Leona and the crisis team think antidepressants could really help you. I don’t know what you’ve got against them. I thought you’d been taking them since you were at
Moreland’s, I didn’t know you hadn’t—’ She starts to cry.
Oh, leave me alone
, thinks Michael,
please.
‘I
wish
you’d give them a go, Mickey.’ This comes out as a howl. ‘The kids want you to as well.’
‘The kids?’ Do Ryan and Kelly know he’s here?
‘I had to tell them,’ she says.
But still he’s adrift. ‘I can’t remember what happened.’
Chrissie pulls a tissue from the sleeve of her top and dabs her eyes. Then she turns to the nurse. ‘Is it OK if I tell him?’
Leona nods.
‘A woman on the beach saw you wading out, love. Apparently she was with her dog.’
Ah yes, thinks Michael. Through the fog he can just make out that memory. ‘It was yapping . . . They were on the other side of the rocks.’
‘Yes, that was the lady. Bless her . . .’ Chrissie goes quiet. Then she composes herself again. ‘She was a way off, but she could make out you had your clothes on. So she
watched you, and when you started swimming straight out to sea, she got very worried.’ Chrissie starts to cry again. ‘Thank God.’
‘She didn’t rescue me, did she?’
‘No, she’d never have reached you – she called 999 and—’ Chrissie gulps, ‘ – they sent the lifeboat from Brighton. The men pulled you from the water and
then you were transferred from the beach by helicopter to here. Apparently you’d only just gone under – the crew saw it happen . . .’ She stops again. She’s shaking, Michael
notices, violently. ‘I keep thinking what might have happened if they hadn’t seen . . . They’d never have saved you.’
Shame burns through Michael’s veins like fire: all these people, trying to keep him alive, when he has no personality worth saving.
A couple of minutes more and they’d have been too late, he thinks. I wish they had been. And now Chrissie’s having all her horrible sad feelings and directing them at me, like spray
from a hose, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t even stand being in my own mind, let alone dealing with someone else’s.