One Moment

by Linda Green

  ‘But why hasn’t Dad rung you? He must be home by now.’

  Mum does another big sigh.

  ‘He hasn’t rung me because I haven’t brought my phone with me.’

  I stare at Mum. The way she said it made it quite clear it was deliberate; not like she’d forgotten it or something. It’s actually a much bigger plan than I’d realised.

  ‘We’ve run away, haven’t we?’

  ‘I’m not thinking of it like that, Finn. I just tried to do what was best for you in a very tricky situation.’

  ‘Am I going to school on Monday?’

  ‘It’s up to you. If you go, Dad had arranged a meeting with Mrs Ratcliffe, and I think they might send you straight from that to do your SATs. If that’s OK with you, I’ll take you back home tomorrow evening. If not, it will be Thursday evening, when they’re over. It’s your choice.’

  I stare at Mum some more. I didn’t think she was capable of coming up with a plan like this. I have never heard of a homeopath or an aromatherapist going on the run before. There are all sorts of weird things going on inside my stomach. It is like it doesn’t know whether to be scared or excited. If I even think about what Dad and Mrs Ratcliffe will say if we don’t turn up for school on Monday, I think my stomach might explode. So, I try to think about what Lottie will say when she finds out that I’ve run away to protest about the SATs. We may even get a blue plaque on our house, like she said. And if we do, we can’t sell it, so maybe Mum and Dad will stay together.

  ‘Thursday,’ I whisper to Mum. ‘We’ll go home on Thursday.’

  BEFORE 12

  12

  Kaz

  I wake up at six thirty. I no longer have a job to go to on a Saturday morning, but you try telling my body-clock that. I am obviously primed to be making pots of tea and fry-ups at this time, whether I am needed to make them or not.

  I had the nightmare again. The second night in a row. Mam stands in front of me, brandishing an iron. Her hair is black and white like Cruella de Vil. Terry is standing behind me crying, screaming for his mam. And she just stands there, pouring lager down her neck while the pan on the cooker behind her bubbles over. And as the water lands on the kitchen tiles, it spells out the word ‘useless’.

  I open my eyes wide, determined to get the images out of my head, and swing my legs out of bed. I may as well get up and make a brew for me, even if there’s no one else to cater for. The flat feels incredibly empty without Terry. At least if I still worked at the café it would take my mind off him a bit. Here, the emptiness just reminds me that we are a man overboard. There’s no lifebelt either. I have no bloody idea how to rescue him. All I can do is try to keep my head above water in the hope that if he does surface, he’ll still have a home to come back to. Because I am up shit creek without a twig, let alone a paddle.

  I have a shower, being even quicker than usual, as I’m aware that it really is money down the drain. Money that I don’t have. As if to illustrate this, the hairdryer cuts out only a few seconds after I turn it on. I go to the tin on the windowsill to get some pound coins for the meter. There are only six left. I think I’ve got a couple in my purse but that is it. I put three pounds in and give my hair another quick blast before plaiting it while still damp.

  When I get downstairs, I take the last piece of bread from the bag, put the dial on the toaster to one and watch as it pops up barely having turned colour; what our Terry would call ‘warm bread’. I take the spread from the fridge and put the thinnest possible covering on. There’s no prospect of ‘jam tomorrow’ either. Not unless I get myself a job, and that’s not going to be easy at my age and without any references. Five years I’d worked at that poxy place. The café I worked at before has long since shut and I’ve no idea how to get in touch with the bloke who owned it, even if he is still alive.

  ‘You’ll need to put together a CV with career history and full references.’ That’s what Denise at the job centre said. Like I’ve ever had a ‘career’ or a CV in my life. Silly cow. I’m going to have to do what I’ve always done: knock on doors, ask around, check for cards in windows, all the things people did before the internet.

  I sit down at the kitchen table to eat my toast. About the only thing to be thankful for is that at least where Terry is, he will be getting properly fed.

  When I’ve finished and washed up the pots, I rummage in the back of one of the kitchen drawers, trying to find a decent pen and the Post-it notes that I know are in there somewhere. Terry got them once. Something to do with making it easier to find the episodes of Stars in Their Eyes he wanted to watch.

  When I find them, I sit back down at the kitchen table to write them. Just my name, phone number and ‘Hard worker. Forty years experience in catering,’ written on each one. It may not be as flashy as a business card but at least it’ll be harder to lose, what with being neon-yellow and that.

  *

  The first café I go to in town has that familiar morning smell of bacon, coffee and stale breath. I approach the young woman behind the counter.

  ‘Hello, pet. I’m on the lookout for any jobs going. Don’t suppose you’ve got owt, have you?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Sorry, no. We’ve all been here a while and no one’s leaving.’

  ‘Thought as much. Can you pass this on to your boss, love? Just in case anything comes up in future.’

  I hand her the Post-it note, hoping she’s not going to laugh out loud at me.

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ she says, looking around for somewhere to put it, and sticks it on the fridge behind her. I may not get a job by the end of the day, but at least I’ll give the fridge magnets a run for their money.

  Seventeen cafés, I go to. Each one giving me the same response. Nothing doing. As I leave the last one on my list in the town centre, I see the McDonald’s across the road. I could try there. I’m not too proud to serve burgers to teenagers. I cross over and go in. They have those screens now where you can order and everyone over fifty has to get a little kid to do it for them.

  There’s a long queue, so I look around for someone who works there and spot a young lad in uniform clearing a table. I go up to him.

  ‘Hello, pet,’ I say. ‘I’m asking around about any jobs going. Is there a manager here I can speak to?’

  ‘She’s in the back on the phone,’ he says. ‘But I’m her deputy.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say, trying not to sound surprised. ‘Would you be able to pass this on to her?’

  I hold out the Post-it note. He looks down and reads it, a frown gathering across his face.

  ‘What’s this?’ he says.

  ‘Just my contact details, in case any jobs come up.’

  He shakes his head and starts laughing. ‘Nah,’ he says, ‘You have to apply online. All the jobs are on the website. You just attach your CV to the submission form.’

  I stand there, not knowing what to say in response. He’s young enough to be my grandson and he’s laughing at me like I’m some relic from the past, which I am, I suppose.

  ‘Right. I’ll, er, do that then, thanks,’ I say, putting the Post-it note back into my bag. He looks at me and I see pity in his eyes. He’ll be telling the others about it when I’ve gone, I know that. I turn and hurry away as quickly as I can, so I don’t hear the laughter.

  *

  It is not like doing a normal hospital visit when you go to a psychiatric unit. We are not dealing with broken bones and minor operations and the like. You can’t bandage broken brains. You can’t say things like, ‘the doctor says they’ll have you up and about in no time’. Which is why all the visitors tend to look like me: empty-handed, serious faces and a complete lack of hope in their eyes.

  When I sign in at Nightingale reception, the woman behind the desk says the doctor treating Terry would like to have a word with me. I’m not sure whether this is a good or bad thing, but at least I’ll have the chan
ce to ask some of the questions I have.

  She points me down the corridor to a couple of seats outside a room and I wait there for a few minutes until a young man comes out. Not as young as the lad in McDonald’s, which is something. Probably in his thirties, which is still young enough.

  ‘Miss Allen?’ he asks, holding out his hand and smiling.

  ‘Kaz,’ I reply, standing up and shaking it.

  ‘I’m Doctor Khalil. Please come in and take a seat.’

  I follow him into his office and sit down.

  ‘I’ve carried out the detailed mental health assessment that was requested for your brother. I’ll be preparing a full written assessment, which will be sent to all those involved, but I just wanted to let you know that I will be referencing a range of positive and negative symptoms of his schizophrenia and the fact that he has been suffering from psychotic episodes and auditory hallucinations.’

  I nod. He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know but at least they are going to hear it from a doctor. That is the important thing.

  ‘It’s because he were made to work,’ I say. ‘He were all right before, but ever since he were found fit for work, he’s been going downhill. Having to work in public toilets pushed him over edge. I told them it would, but they wouldn’t listen.’

  He nods. He has sympathetic eyes.

  ‘Well, hopefully my report will help with his case.’

  ‘Are you going to say that they shouldn’t charge him?’

  ‘That’s not for me to tell them but I will certainly be making it clear that, in my view, your brother’s schizophrenia and psychotic episodes caused him to behave as he did on the day in question.’

  ‘Good. Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m just relieved he stopped talking to Matthew Kelly long enough to speak to you,’

  Dr Khalil smiles. ‘I also wanted to let you know that I am proposing we start him on antipsychotic medication today.’

  I shrug. ‘That’s what they always do,’ I reply.

  ‘I do appreciate that he has been able to function without them for some years now, but due to the escalation of his condition, it really is the only way forward.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘He won’t be happy about it, mind.’

  ‘I know,’ Dr Khalil replies, ‘we’ve already had that conversation.’

  ‘How long, do you reckon? Before he’s well enough to come home.’

  ‘I imagine it will be several months, I’m afraid.’

  I sigh and look down at my hands.

  ‘What may be quicker is if we manage to get him into supported housing in a therapeutic community.’

  ‘What’s that, when it’s at home?’

  ‘A sort of halfway house. He’d have his own room in a house where mental health professionals are on hand to support him.’

  ‘We couldn’t afford owt like that,’ I say.

  ‘They are mainly NHS or local authority-funded places, although vacancies don’t come up that often and funding is very tight at the moment. But I could make an enquiry, if you like?’

  ‘No. Don’t worry, I’ll look after him mesen,’ I say. ‘It’s what I’ve always done, he’s always better when he’s at home.’

  Dr Khalil looks at me and nods.

  ‘It must be tough for you,’ he continues, ‘Caring for your brother on your own. Do you get any support?’

  I feel my skin bristle. He thinks I can’t cope, that I’m not up to it. That’s what all of this is about. He thinks it’s my fault Terry’s ended up in this state.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve always managed fine, thank you. We’re a team, me and our Terry. We don’t need anyone else sticking their nose in where they’re not wanted.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting—’

  ‘Good. And I’m just making it clear that he don’t need any fancy place to go to when he’s got family to look after him at home.’

  I stand up. Dr Khalil does the same. I wonder if he’s going to be laughing at me too, once I’ve left. Stupid Kaz who can’t even look after her brother properly. Who can’t stop bad things happening to him. Because she’s such a fucking useless waste of space.

  *

  I stop for a minute in the corridor outside and try to compose myself. My heart is still beating ten to the dozen and I don’t want Terry to see me like this. I want one of us, at least, to be on an even keel.

  I knock on Terry’s door before I go in.

  ‘Hello, love,’ I say. ‘Only me.’

  ‘Have you brought my torch?’ he asks.

  ‘No, they said not to. There’s only certain things we can bring in.’

  ‘They don’t want us seeing what it’s like in here,’ he says.

  ‘You’ve got a nice room, Terry. It’s very clean too.’

  ‘They’re going to put me on medication.’

  ‘I know. I just spoke to that Doctor Khalil.’

  ‘They want to keep me quiet, see. They know I’m going to blow whistle on them. Tell everyone that this place is infested and then they’ll get shut down.’

  I walk over to Terry and put my hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You’re not well, Terry. Doctor Khalil is trying to help you. He’s writing to police to say what happened weren’t your fault. He’s on your side.’

  ‘Matthew says girls were screaming at rats, not me.’

  I look up at the ceiling and try to count to ten. He does my head in when he’s like this. But I also know that when he’s better and realises what he did, he will beat himself up about it so badly that he will nearly make himself ill again. I wish there was some place in between those extremes but there’s not. Not with Terry.

  ‘Just remember they are trying to help you,’ I say. ‘So don’t give nurses any hassle about taking tablets and don’t pretend to take them and not swallow. Sooner you get better, sooner you can come home.’

  Terry sits there and says nothing.

  ‘You do want to come home, don’t you, Terry? You know you can tell me if you’re not happy living with me. If you think someone else could make a better job of it. I won’t be offended, like.’

  Terry looks up at me. ‘Will you bring my torch tomorrow?’ he asks.

  *

  I sit in the kitchen later, staring into my pot of chicken noodles. I found it at the back of the cupboard. It’s out of date but I’m not fussed. I don’t really see how dried stuff can go off and I’ve certainly never heard of anyone getting food poisoning from a Pot Noodle.

  It’s still bothering me, what Doctor Khalil said. To be fair, I don’t really know what I’m doing. All I know is what doctors have told me over the years and what I’ve learnt from the books I’ve borrowed from the library. I muddle by as best I can, but maybe I have got it all wrong. Maybe if he was being looked after properly, none of this would have happened. I’d hate to think that. That I’d let him down so badly again.

  Perhaps Terry would be better in a place like the one Doctor Khalil was talking about. Truth is, if they released Terry tomorrow, I couldn’t have him back here. Two tins of beans, half a packet of crackers and two Cup-a-Soups are not going to last forever. We’ve never been in a position to put stuff by for a rainy day and now I’m paying for it. Fucking Old Mother Hubbard I am.

  I wouldn’t mind if having no food was all I had to deal with, but the rent is due and I’ve got nothing to pay it with. I’ve never missed a payment before. Always prided myself on it. Never been in debt, either. That’s the good thing about not having a credit card. But now I need money quickly and I haven’t got any. I’d sell my body if anyone would have it but I’m aware I’m well past my sell-by date. If I had one of those cards they used to put in phone boxes it would be ‘Lard arse with a face like a wet dishcloth’. Not exactly one to bring in the punters.

  I finish off my chicken noodles and start walking around the flat. I alw
ays used to joke that if burglars broke in here, they’d be bloody disappointed. No jewellery, no cash, no computers, no fancy gadgets. I don’t suppose you’d get much for a crappy little telly and video player these days. Not when they’ve all got these massive smart TVs. And anyway, they’re pretty much all Terry’s got. I couldn’t do that to him. I’d rather starve than sell his telly.

  The ache of missing him hits again. I sit down on the sofa and turn the TV on. Press play on the video. Matthew is talking to a woman who is going to be Shirley Bassey. Only ‘Hey Big Spender’ is so far wide of the mark it’s embarrassing. I wonder if the people who go on the show don’t realise either that they are being laughed at. And that they are no good at the one thing they are supposed to be doing.

  I go to bed early, to save electricity, as much as anything else. I know that if I am able to get to sleep at any point, she will be there waiting for me. Cruella de Vil. Only this time I will look in the mirror and see that I have black and white plaits. And I can be every bit as cruel as she can.

  AFTER 11

  11

  Finn

  I lie awake thinking about how Mum used to bring me a ‘little something’ on my birthday eve, because she knew I always found it hard to get to sleep. It was usually a book and she’d read it to me and do all the voices and she also used to make a photo book of all the things we’d done together the year before and talk about what I’d like to do the next year.

  There is no ‘little something’ this year and no photo book. I don’t think I have ever missed her so much. She would make everything better right now. She would stop the bad things happening and tell me about lots of good things to look forward to. And it’s all my own stupid fault that she’s not here. Everyone tries to be nice about it but that’s the truth. I spoiled everything. She wouldn’t have done what she did if it wasn’t for me. And if I had kept quiet, none of this would have happened.

  I sigh and turn over. I don’t think I have ever not looked forward to a birthday so much. I don’t even want to be eleven, because being eleven means going to my new school and I would like to stay ‘between schools’ forever. I want to do a sort of Peter Pan thing but instead of going to Neverland, I would just like to go to garden club with Kaz. Garden club suits me much more than school. Mainly because there are no other kids there.