A Voice in the Distance

by Tabitha Suzuma

  'Harry's already found a decorator,' Jennah tells me. 'And we'll pay for it as a present.'

  'I – I kicked Harry . . .'

  'Yeah, well, he'll kick you back when you're feeling better,' Jennah says. 'Now budge up, there's room on this bed for two.'

  I move over and she pulls herself up against the head- board. She puts her arms around my waist and snuggles up against me. I bury my face in her hair.

  The next morning, at breakfast, I ask the nurse for my clothes. She tells me they have been thrown away. I call Rami on his mobile from a pay phone in the corridor and tell him to bring me a pair of shoes. He says he's working. I tell him, fine, I'm discharging myself and walking home barefoot. He tells me to hold on. Fortyfive minutes later he arrives with a shoebox and a tracksuit. I put on the new trainers while Rami goes off in search of a doctor. Ages later he returns with one – a fresh-faced medical student, who gives me a final checkover. I have a key worker – a lady named Joy – who I have to meet with every week. Her job is to keep me 'functional', whatever the hell that means. I also have to start group therapy. Sometime around noon, I am finally discharged.

  Rami drives me straight over to an appointment with Dr Stefan. He tries to get me to talk about the painting episode. I stare out of the window and don't reply. He reviews my lithium increase. He agrees with it and prescribes me a short course of sleeping pills as well as a daily course of benzodiazepines to take if I start feeling manic again.

  After the appointment, I want to go home to Jennah, but Rami insists on taking me out to lunch.

  'You've certainly started off the academic year in dramatic style!' he exclaims, tucking into a large plate of carbonara. 'Let's hope the rest of it isn't quite so eventful.'

  I look at him. 'Very funny.'

  Rami wipes his mouth on his napkin and munches rapidly. He is so used to having lunch on the go that he doesn't know how to eat at a normal pace. 'Sophie and I would really like it if you would come and stay with us for a bit.'

  'No thank you.'

  'Seriously, Flynn. This is the worst manic episode you've had. The first doctor at the A&E wanted to section you – have papers signed to hold you in hospital for as long as they see fit. It was only because you reacted so well to the tranquillizer that they would even consider discharging you. And it took some persuading.'

  'I said, no thanks.'

  'Why don't I drive you home to Sussex then?'

  'You told Mum and Dad about this?' My voice begins to rise.

  'No, I haven't,' Rami says. 'I figured that Dad's blood pressure could do without the news. But the only way I got you out of the hospital so quickly was by telling them that I was a doctor and would take full responsibility for you. You can't just slot back into your life as if nothing happened. It was pretty scary and even dangerous.'

  'I'm fine,' I say quietly, trying hard to keep my voice even. 'They've cranked up the lithium so high I can hardly see straight. I feel like a robot, my feelings have completely evaporated and I couldn't even say boo to a goose. I'm no danger to anyone.'

  'I'm not thinking you're a danger to anyone.'

  'I'm no danger to myself, then.'

  Rami stops, spaghetti-laden fork halfway to his mouth. There is a long pause. 'Are you sure about that?'

  I glare at him. 'Oh, for Christ's sake.'

  'All I'm saying is, I would feel better if you came and stayed for a while.'

  'I'm not putting my life on hold just so you can feel better!' I start to shout. A woman sitting at the next table looks round in alarm.

  Rami's voice is thick with carefully controlled calm. 'That's not what I meant and you know it. Manic episodes are often followed by periods of deep depression – which, along with the stronger dose of lithium and the potential side-effects of the tranquillizers, means you shouldn't be on your own right now—'

  'I'm not on my own! I live with Jennah, remember?'

  Rami picks up his fork with a sigh, defeated. 'OK. Just remember that Jennah has her life too. And the offer of a bed in Watford is always there.'

  We finish our meal in silence.

  I go back to lectures the following morning. Kate and Harry are overly friendly, overly cheerful. I wish I knew what they were thinking. Jennah keeps saying that they understand but I don't see how they can, when even I don't. In the afternoon, I start group therapy and spend the whole hour practising the fingering to Rachmaninov's Second Piano Concerto against the sides of my chair as a succession of listless individuals recount their life story in excruciating detail.

  I want to die.

  Chapter Five

  JENNAH

  At first, Rami said they might have to section him. I imagined him tied down to a bed, his body in spasm as they fed electric currents into his brain. I wasn't really thinking straight at the time. I'd travelled in the ambulance with him. They had hooked him up to a heart monitor and kept asking me what recreational drugs he'd taken. The journey to the hospital was awful. It was taking all three paramedics just to restrain him. He kept thrashing about, screaming at them to get off him. I think he was just afraid, but he wouldn't quieten down enough to listen to what they were saying to him. They injected something into the back of his hand. Seconds before we arrived at the hospital, his kicking became more half-hearted. By the time they were unloading him he had stopped moving altogether and they had to lift him into a wheelchair.

  While they were examining him in A&E, Harry and Kate arrived. Shortly after that, Rami appeared. He calmed us all down and went to talk to the doctor and took us up to the ward to see Flynn, who by this time was fast asleep. He looked pale and almost childlike against the hospital pillows. Rami told us that Flynn had been injected with a powerful dose of tranquillizer and said he would be out for the night, so Harry, Kate and I went home.

  The next day, Rami picked me up before breakfast. When we arrived on the ward, Flynn's bed was empty. A nurse told us he was being seen by the psychiatrist. While we waited for him to return, Rami bought me coffee. I sat on the chair beside the empty unmade bed, sipping my coffee and trying to keep my hands from shaking. Rami had a stab at polite chit-chat but he looked like he hadn't slept. When Flynn finally returned, I didn't recognize him. I just saw a dishevelled guy with blond hair on end, wearing a creased T-shirt and boxers. His face was white, properly white, and he had violet smudges beneath his eyes. My first thought was, God, I wonder what's wrong with that guy? My second thought was, God, that guy is Flynn. He seemed to be moving incredibly slowly, as if the earth's gravity had dramatically increased.

  Rami left, and Flynn and I had a short, painful conversation. I kept saying to myself, For heaven's sake don't cry. It was so hard. Flynn sounded like a stroke victim. I knew it was the effect of the tranquillizer but it was somehow horrifying. There were long pauses between each of his words and his speech was slurred. I tried to make a joke about the whole painting episode, but it massively backfired and almost had him sobbing. I left feeling useless and scared and, for the first time since we'd been going out, totally alone.

  Now that he is home, he is different. He won't talk about what happened. Looking exceedingly uncomfortable, Harry informed me that Flynn had written him a letter of apology along with a cheque for the damage. Harry said he didn't know what to do. I said, Just cash the cheque. There is a silent agreement between us not to tell anyone else at college about what happened. Flynn only missed a couple of days of lectures so no questions have been asked and we are straight back to the normal routine. It's almost as if the psychotic episode never occurred.

  Except that Flynn is different. He is subdued. He is sleeping again. A lot. He says it's one of the side-effects of the increased lithium dose. He is on 1200 milligrams now, seeing the psychiatrist twice a week and constantly having blood tests. He doesn't tell me about any of this, of course, but I read the dosage on the packets in the bathroom drawer. I see the purple and yellow bruises in the crooks of his arms, on the backs of his hands.

  Rami calls – freq
uently. Flynn is monosyllabic with him too and uses the excuse of practice to get away from the phone as quickly as possible. He seems so drugged up and slow. I miss his laughter, his impulsiveness, his wacky sense of humour, even his obsessive practising. It makes me wonder who he actually is. If the old Flynn was ill – courtesy of a chemical imbalance in the brain – is this lithiumed Flynn the real McCoy? Or perhaps both characters are just facets of a hidden, deeper soul that I have yet to meet. I just don't know. Sometimes I fear that the drug-free Flynn – searingly manic, then catastrophically depressed – is who he really is. But because in that form he is not acceptable to conventional society, he has to be drugged so that his emotions are tempered and his behaviour controlled. Perhaps we are blindly living in an Orwellian society where individualism is feared and the biggest pressure is the one to conform. Perhaps Flynn is sane and the rest of the world is mad. The thoughts go round and round in my head.

  I try talking to Flynn about these things but he isn't interested. Or else he just doesn't want to talk. He seems to be restricting our conversations to uni, essays, lectures, the contents of the fridge. I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and shout, Tell me what was going through your mind when you covered Harry's living room in black paint! Tell me what's going through your mind right now as you sit hunched over your plate, staring at the kitchen wall! I don't understand, but what really hurts is that Flynn doesn't even seem to want me to understand.

  I come back from rehearsal and almost fall over Harry's cello case in the hall. Harry is sitting alone in the kitchen, drinking coffee. I suddenly remember why he is here – to practise the Martinu for the chamber music exam. I am so pleased to see him, it worries me. I dump a couple of supermarket bags on the table and give him a quick peck on the cheek.

  'Are you staying for dinner?' I ask.

  'Depends what you're making.'

  'It's Flynn's turn to cook.'

  'Perhaps not then.'

  I laugh. 'What have you done with him?'

  'He's having a shower. I told him he smelled.'

  'Thank you.'

  'You're welcome. Not looking too good, is he?'

  I finish stocking the fridge. 'You've noticed?'

  'Kind of hard not to, Jen.'

  Flynn comes in, hair wet and tousled, puts on some more coffee and adds some jacket potatoes to the fish in the oven. He turns round and glares at Harry and me, still sitting at the kitchen table.

  'Right, so are we going to rehearse this shitty concert piece, or what?'

  'That's the spirit!' Harry chuckles.

  'And hello to you too,' I say to Flynn with a smile.

  Flynn ignores us both, turning on his heel and striding into the living room. Harry and I exchange looks.

  'I guess that's our cue,' he says.

  'Has he been in this mood since you arrived?'

  Harry nods. 'I have a feeling he'd forgotten about the chamber music exam. He'd certainly forgotten about our rehearsal tonight. I think I woke him when I rang the bell.'

  I get up reluctantly and turn down the oven. 'I suppose we may as well get started.'

  In the living room, Flynn is sitting on the piano stool, slouched forwards over the closed piano lid, his head resting on his arms. There is a long silence while I set up my music stand and assemble my flute and Harry fetches a stool and erects a makeshift stand for himself on the top of the TV. Harry takes his score out of his bag and tries to put the pages in order. Then he attempts to get the pages to stand up against the mug placed strategically atop the TV. It doesn't work and the sheets scatter onto the carpet. I pull a heavy lever-arch file from the shelf.

  'Try this.'

  'Thanks. I think I'm missing one of the pages now . . .'

  'It's here.' I retrieve it from behind the TV.

  The score finally in place, Harry lifts his cello out of its case and starts adjusting the spike. Flynn has his eyes closed. I play a tentative A on my flute. Flynn doesn't move.

  Harry has his cello set up now. We both look across at Flynn. 'Do you feel like giving us an A?' I ask him, a touch of sarcasm creeping into my voice.

  He opens his eyes and straightens up with a longsuffering look, as if we are irritating children pestering him for sweets. He bangs open the piano lid. Plays a very loud A.

  Harry and I tune up quickly.

  'Shall we play it through once, to start with?' Harry suggests.

  Flynn doesn't say anything.

  'Sounds good to me,' I reply. I look over at Flynn. He is rummaging through the piles of scores on the piano top, sending a great many of them shooting down the back. 'I don't even have the fucking music,' he says.

  'Don't you know it by heart?' Harry asks. Flynn is renowned for learning new pieces in the blink of an eye.

  Flynn gives up his hunt and sits back down. 'Fine, I'll just make it up as I go along.'

  Harry glances at me and rolls his eyes. I flash him a sympathetic grin. 'All repeats?' I ask.

  'Yes,' Harry says.

  There is a pause. I raise my flute to my lips and Harry picks up his bow. Flynn glances round at us briefly, inhales the upbeat and we are away.

  It is far from brilliant. We are sorely out of practice and this is not the easiest or the most tuneful of pieces, but our unusual instrument combination means that our repertoire is limited. Harry is sawing grimly away at his cello, wincing whenever the piece rises to a particularly unpleasant crescendo. Flynn is playing shockingly badly – like a robot, devoid of any expression. I am stumbling over the quick succession of complicated harmonics as we claw our way painfully to the end.

  There is a heavy silence.

  'Good God,' Harry says at last. 'Bohuslav Martinu would turn in his grave.'

  'I can't believe we're supposed to have this ready by the end of next month,' I groan.

  Flynn plays a horribly dissonant chord with his elbows and starts rubbing his eyes.

  Another silence. Harry and I are floundering. Normally Flynn takes the lead in rehearsals – mainly because he is, quite simply, the best musician out of us three. Tonight, however, he seems determined not to play ball.

  'Okaaay,' Harry says slowly. 'Let's just focus on the first page, shall we?'

  We start playing again. Harry breaks off. 'Ouch, ouch, ouch. We have to come together more on bar eleven. Jen, have you got avante there?'

  'Yes, d'you want me to avante it more?'

  'Try it.'

  We go again. 'Better, but we need a darker colour on bar nineteen,' I say. 'It's too bland.' I look pointedly at Flynn.

  Harry shifts uncomfortably. 'OK, a darker colour,' he says, picking up his bow.

  'Not you, you're dark enough already,' I say.

  We pick up again. There is little improvement.

  'It still needs a bit more – um . . .' Harry glances nervously at Flynn.

  'Are you going to start doing some phrasing or do you just want to program it into your keyboard and stick it on repeat?' I suddenly snap.

  Harry examines the tip of his shoe with great intent.

  'I wasn't the one who chose this turgid crap,' Flynn remarks coldly. 'I doubt very much it'll make any difference whether I phrase it or not.'

  'It's a bit late now to start arguing over the piece,' I point out.

  'From bar nine?' Harry suggests brightly.

  'Seeing as I don't have the music, I haven't the faintest idea which bar you're talking about,' Flynn retorts.

  'Sorry, sorry,' Harry says hastily. 'From the C sharp?'

  'There is more than one,' Flynn points out.

  'The first one,' Harry says with barely measured calm. 'Or else we could just continue bickering and simply fail the whole module.'

  I catch Harry's eye. 'Well said,' I mutter to him.

  Flynn has heard me. He wasn't meant to. He turns from the piano to glare at me, face flushed with fury. Then he slams the piano lid down, jumps up and stalks out of the room.

  Harry and I stare at each other. There is a long, drawn-out s
ilence and then we hear the bedroom door bang.

  Harry hoists his cello across his lap and begins to release the spike. 'God, Jennah, he's being a real little shit.'

  I lay my flute on the carpet and pull my knees to my chest. 'What the hell's got into him? I can't believe he's behaving like a two-year-old! He was just looking for a fight!' I take a deep breath and rest my chin on my knees. Suddenly my throat feels tight.

  Harry places his cello in its case and looks at me carefully. 'He's obviously feeling crap at the moment, but that doesn't mean he can take it out on you,' he says. 'D'you want me to try and talk some sense into him?'

  I shake my head. 'He won't listen to anyone when he's like this. Christ, what are we going to do about the chamber music exam?'

  'We'll try again when he's in a better mood,' Harry says. 'Don't worry about that, Jen. If the worst comes to the worst, Flynn will pull a sickie and you and I will dig up an old Mozart duet.' He closes his cello case and gives me a long look. 'Well, if we're not going to rehearse, I should get back to Kate. Are you going to be all right here tonight?'

  I nod.

  'Are you sure? You can stay over at ours if you want.'

  'Thanks, but I'll be OK.' I sigh. 'Oh God, Harry, I just don't know what to do.'

  Harry zips up his music bag and looks at me. 'Have you ever thought . . . ?'

  'What?' I ask hopefully.

  Harry hesitates. 'That maybe there's nothing you can do?'

  It is not the answer I'm expecting. I stare at him.

  'I mean, maybe – maybe this is what it's going to be like when he gets ill,' Harry continues doggedly. 'He'll have an episode – either of mania or depression – his meds will be tweaked, therapy will be stepped up, and everyone will wait for it to pass. Which, of course, it will do.'

  'And so – you're saying I should just weather the storm?'

  Harry nods slowly. 'I think so, yes. Otherwise you're going to wear yourself down, trying to help him, trying to make things better, when it's basically out of your control.'

  I look at Harry. Somewhere, at the back of my mind, I think he might have a point. But I don't want to admit it. Not yet.