Hope

by Terry Tyler

  My eyes open again.

  Kendall arrives. With Melanie.

  Helen, the lady from Fit For Work class, comes too.

  Even Bex and Cobain-Duncan.

  I don't want to see any of them.

  I just lie there, until they shuffle away.

  I dip in and out of sleep.

  The pain is too bad. I cry and yell.

  I hear Doctor Kacszynski say, "If she doesn't calm the fuck down soon, we'll ship her off to Fenton Hall and she can bloody well stay there, as far as I'm concerned."

  No way.

  Maybe it would be better than here, but I'd never get out. There is no one to fight for me.

  I have nobody, now Nick has gone. I'm all alone.

  I take all the pills they give me. I don't care what's in them as long as they put me in a fuzz and stop me making scary noises.

  I can't get sent to Fenton Hall.

  Nick's dead.

  He can't be.

  He must be here somewhere, but I can't find him.

  He can't just be gone.

  I ask about Nick's mother.

  She's coming up tomorrow, they say. For the funeral.

  Can I go, too?

  Yes, if you're up to it.

  I spit out the pills, so that I don't go fuzzy.

  I'm awake all night.

  I cry and cry and cry and cry and cry.

  Bex on one side and Kendall on the other.

  It's not in a church, it's in a hall. A cold place with a high ceiling and lousy acoustics.

  It's a humanist ceremony.

  Yesterday they asked me to choose a song he liked. I chose ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ by The Verve. Someone behind me says it's not appropriate, that it should be something joyful.

  Joyful? Fucking joyful?

  They're celebrating Nick's life, they say.

  Someone I've never seen before talks a lot of rubbish about someone he says is called Nick Freer but the person he's talking about has got fuck all to do with my lovely friend.

  They send Nick off in a box to a little room at one side and burn him.

  Afterwards I see Erica. His mother. We hug, and weep.

  She is alone, too. Gary left her, she says. He found a woman with a better flat and more money. Erica let him go to the pub on his own because she couldn't afford for them both to go out and drink themselves stupid, and he used half the money she gave him to buy drinks for his new girlfriend.

  I mention the sudden death syndrome.

  Doesn't she think it's a bit weird?

  Did she not ask for a proper enquiry?

  Stop it, Lita, it's bad enough that Nick's dead and Gary's gone, don't start all that conspiracy rubbish. Doesn't matter what anyone says or thinks or does, it won't bring my boy back.

  I get that.

  It's better when I stop taking the fuzzy tablets.

  At least, it wasn't any better with them, because I felt incapable, and that scared me.

  Bex tells me she is my Client Key Worker. I say that I don't want one, and how can I be a client, when I'm not paying anyone? She looks at me blankly. I tell her the correct definition of the word 'client', i.e. a person paying for services provided by a professional body, and she beams at me and says that's what they like to call us, at Hope, because it's more respectful. I say, but it's incorrect, and she says, ooh, I didn't know I was dealing with a grammar Nazi!

  Fucking idiot.

  I ask her if I can see Nick's death certificate, and Doctor Kacszynski's report.

  She says no, because I am not family.

  I say, that's fucking bullshit, I'm the closest person in the world to him.

  She says that if I use language like that to her she will have to 'mark me up'.

  I say, "Mark me up, then. Treat yourself; do it twice," and she storms off in a huff.

  I call her back and apologise, because it's not her fault.

  Not her fault she's a fucking idiot, I mean.

  She says I can put in a written request to see the report, so I do.

  I look up sudden death syndrome.

  It usually occurs during sleep. Nick wasn't asleep.

  In most cases, victims are found to have suffered from hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I look that up, too. The words are too long. They won't go into my brain. Nick didn't have it, anyway.

  Fifty-two per cent of victims report chest pains up to a week before dying.

  Nick didn't.

  Ah. But nineteen per cent show no symptoms at all.

  Good choice, you clever bastards.

  Neither I nor anyone else has a chance in hell of proving that Nick didn't just drop down dead.

  Especially now that he is nothing but a heap of ashes.

  It's all too much of a fucking coincidence.

  He writes the Naked Truth post.

  It disappears.

  For the first time in a year, he is asked to be at the laundry, on his own, at six-thirty in the morning.

  Why would they arrange for the machines to be serviced on a Monday, when Monday is, in the words of Cobain-Duncan, mega-laundry day?

  I know.

  I know.

  I remember Nick telling me what a twerp I was for slagging off Nutricorp in my review of those daft drinks.

  Basically, you told the world not to buy Flower Power because it's a rip-off and Nutricorp are lying bastards.

  Oh, Nick, what part of 'if they'll shut a blogger down for a bad review, what do you think they'll do to someone who calls them out for some serious shit that contravenes every moral and human right' did you not understand?

  What happened, Nick? How did you get so reckless?

  I know how. He stopped being cool, successful Nick Freer. It's easy to stay cool and be wise when the world and its Twitter followers are applauding your every word.

  He felt desperate, angry and powerless.

  He'd lost himself; he wanted to be heard again.

  I've never felt more alone in my life.

  They let me off work and classes for another week.

  I walk.

  I stare.

  Walk and stare.

  It rains a lot.

  It's supposed to be golden autumn now, but it's mild and wet.

  I don't know what to do without Nick. I've got no one to say anything to.

  Kendall is sweet, and she cares, but she's wrapped up in this pregnancy.

  They won't let her keep the baby, I'm sure they won't. They'll find some way of taking it from her.

  They killed Nick, so they can take a baby away, can't they?

  Not having Nick is like being gagged. There is no point in talking to anyone, because no one else understands where I'm coming from.

  Sometimes I don't know I'm crying, and then Kendall tries to comfort me, but she can't because they killed Nick.

  I know she must be hurting too, but I can't comfort her. I'm supposed to, but I can't.

  "Your symptoms are those of extreme psychological stress, commonly known as a nervous breakdown," says Doctor Andreas, who isn't as bad as Doctor Kacszynski, but I still want to be rude to him.

  I say, "Well, whaddya know?"

  "I think it would be best for you to get back to work, get involved in the community again. Meanwhile, I'm going to prescribe something to give you a little support during this challenging time."

  Tap tap tap on the keys. Press button, fake smile. Schh-wittt: out comes a piece of paper with the name of chemicals to put inside my body to make me not miss Nick so much. That'll work, then.

  "Take that to the pharmacy. Is there anyone from home that you could ask to visit? Someone nearby who you might like to visit yourself? A friend?"

  I take the piece of paper. "I only had Nick."

  I walk out, and dump the prescription in the bin.

  I see Kendall holding her stomach and crying.

  For a moment I think she's lost the baby, but she hasn't; she's just sad because of Nick, and because I've 'gone all weird'.

  I just stare, and
walk away.

  The days and nights merge together. It's two weeks since Nick died, then three. I stand in Wardrobe and stare at the clothes. Sometimes I cut the crotches out of trousers, or one sleeve off a shirt, just for a laugh.

  Bex tells me that if I'm not up to doing my job they're going to put me on cleaning, instead.

  I say, "Put me where you fucking want."

  This upsets her, and I say I'm sorry. I am. She's frighteningly thick, but she doesn't deserve my being nasty to her. She tells me a story about a friend of hers who died. It's riddled with clichés and she's never mentioned this 'Evan' before, in all the times she's talked to me since Nick was killed, so I'm sure she's making it up; my guess is that she spent last night re-reading the 'Creating Empathy' module of her training manual.

  She's trying, I guess.

  Kendall touches her stomach all the time. She's twelve weeks pregnant. I say, "At least you've got something." I don't add, if they let you keep it.

  She says, "You've got me."

  I try to smile, and say, "Yes." But she's not Nick.

  She says, "Why don't you get in touch with Esme? You need to talk to someone. I mean, not Bex, and not me because I don't know all the right stuff to say; I never used to understand what you and Nick were talking about half the time."

  That makes me sad.

  I say, "Esme's got her own problems."

  I don't want to talk to her anyway.

  Kendall says, "What about Brody, then?"

  "No. Not him."

  I get up and walk away. Because I've been thinking about Brody so much for the past week or so. I want to talk to him so badly. I want to see him. I could block it off when I had Nick, but now―

  I think about it for another week. I keep looking at his name in my contacts list.

  Brody.

  Brody.

  One touch, and I could speak to him.

  At night, when everyone else is asleep, I swipe through the photos of him on my phone. Then I look at his name again, on my list.

  "Lita? Is that you?"

  I shut my eyes. His voice. "Yes."

  "Well, it's good to hear from you." Cautious. "How are you?"

  I don't speak.

  "Lita? Are you okay?"

  "No."

  "Sorry, sorry, stupid question. You're still in the Village."

  "Where else would I be?"

  "Has something happened?"

  He knows me.

  I can't say it.

  "Tell me. Please."

  Here goes.

  "Nick's dead. They said it was sudden death syndrome but―" No. If I say anything, they'll cut me off.

  "What?"

  "He's dead. Nick's dead." I begin to cry.

  "How? When?"

  The words won't come out.

  "Oh, Lita, oh no―look, shall I come and see you?"

  I can't stop the tears. I wail great, painful, wracking sobs.

  "Jesus Christ. Listen, I can come and get you. Now. You can come and live here, where I am."

  What, at Jaffa's? Do I sleep on the couch while you cuddle up with her upstairs?

  "No."

  "I'm serious, it's something I need to talk to you about, if you're open to it, I wanted to talk to you before, but then you cut me off―shit, never mind that now. What about Kendall? Is she alright?"

  "She's pregnant. She's okay."

  "The fuck? Jesus. I don't know what to say. Fuck. Look, just give me the word, and I'll be there. We can talk; I'm an approved visitor, I applied on the day you went in there―we can go for a drive, get out of there for a bit―"

  "No."

  "No? Really? Why not?"

  I can't tell him. I can't say that if I see him, if I'm alone with him, I'll make a total and utter fool of myself. I'll totally lose it, and then he'll feel responsible for me, a big snivelling burden complete with nervous breakdown.

  I'm clutching the phone like it's him.

  "Why did you ring me if you don't want me to come? You do want me to, don't you?"

  I'm nodding. Stupid.

  "Lita?"

  "In public. Come to see me here."

  "What, in the visitors' lounge? You're kidding. With a load of Becks and Duncans on watch, and cameras?"

  A shrill bleep assaults my ear, and a robotic voice breaks into our conversation. 'Inappropriate content.' The four-minute warning. One more slag-off of Hope Village, and we'll be cut off.

  "Yes. Sunday."

  I hear a big sigh. "Okay, if that's what you want, I'll be there. Two o'clock. Go and register the visit―you know how to do that?"

  No. But I can find out. Even though I'm not even sure what my wretched name is right now.

  "Yes."

  "Sunday, then."

  "What day is it now?"

  "Thursday. Darling, you sound terrible."

  "Why are you calling me darling? You never used to."

  "Because you sound like you need someone to call you that. And I miss you. Listen, if you want I can collect you tomorrow, both of you, all you have to do is tell them you want an immediate release interview; they've already done my background check and the place where I'm living is sound―"

  I bet.

  My brain pings me a picture of Kendall and me dressed like Victorian kitchen maids, dining on leftovers from Mistress Jaffa's table, then curling up to sleep on narrow, straw-filled pallets in the scullery.

  I nearly laugh. Lately, when I laugh, I sound insane, like Mr Meth-Head from Horizon.

  "No. Just visit. Sunday. Sunday is good."

  I need to get my head round seeing him.

  Also, I haven't had a shower since last night, and I don't get another until tomorrow night, but I can have one on Sunday morning if I have a visitor.

  Brody.

  I'm going to see him again.

  31

  Behind Closed Doors

  "Christ, you've got so thin. I can feel it."

  Resting my head on his shoulder, with his arms around me, feels better than I can remember anything feeling, ever. His neck smells the same, but his clothes smell different. Must be 'cause he lives in Jaffa's house, now.

  I don't want to think about that.

  "I know," I say. "You know what the food's like. You just eat enough to stop you feeling hungry."

  He was sitting there waiting for me on one of the cheap, faux-leather couches when I walked in, and my heart welled up with so many emotions; love for him, heartbreak over Nick and just general misery. I had to swallow hard to stop them all spewing out in a big teary mess.

  He looks exactly the same. Happier, maybe. More relaxed. Because of Jaffa, who's so good for him? His hair's still shoved back in a tatty ponytail, one strand come loose and tucked behind his ear. He's wearing the army jacket, and another crappy old jumper.

  I want him to carry on holding me forever.

  He says, "I wish you'd called me straight away. About Nick. I could have been with you."

  I look down.

  He touches my chin, tilts my face up to look at him. "Why did you brush me off like that? You didn't reply to my texts―"

  "I couldn't."

  He holds both my hands in his, and I find that I can't look at him. Instead, I gaze around the room. I've never been in the visitors' lounge before. Lots of couches. Nasty faux-leather armchairs, too. A few tables with chairs round them, and a kiddies' corner with cheap plastic toys. Eight Beckys and Duncans, strategically placed around the edges of the room, sitting on hard chairs, pretending to read on their tablets. I look up. Six cameras. No doubt fitted with microphones, so they can hear every word we're saying, should they care to zoom in and listen.

  "I wondered if you were angry with me. Because I sent you to this place."

  "A bit. I don't know." I sigh. "Not really."

  "But it wasn't supposed to be forever, just for a couple of months; I wrote to you. A proper letter. About what was happening in my life, all the stuff I couldn't tell you when you were at CJ's with Nick and Kendall
―I needed to talk to you, alone, but you insisted on sleeping downstairs that night, and in the morning you were acting so weird―didn't you read it?"

  "I never got it."

  "Christ, that explains everything." He shakes his head. "I thought I'd worded it so carefully, too. Enough for it to get through the censors, I mean. When you didn't reply―I thought it was because you were angry."

  No, it's because you didn't tell me about your new girlfriend, and you're still not bloody telling me. And I'm not about to admit that I was eavesdropping on his conversation with CJ Smarty-Pants.

  "No."

  "I tried to phone you, too. Why wouldn't you talk to me?"

  I look up at his eyes. They're totally sincere. He really doesn't understand.

  No, Brody, not everyone is mature enough to remain friends with lovers who've moved on. Sometimes it just hurts too fucking much.

  "What was the point? I'm stuck in here, miles and miles away, and it's not like you can pop round, is it?" I laugh, and it sounds harsh. Forced. "Everything changed, didn't it? We've never made any promises. I didn't want you to feel responsible for me. Or sorry for me."

  "I didn't feel sorry for you. I felt concern. Not pity, not in the way I knew you would hate." He takes my hand. "I'm not working for DSC any more. I already knew I was going to leave around the time I last saw you, but everything was so crazy that night, and it was all happening at once, lots of changes―"

  Yeah, I know.

  "It was all in the letter," he says, with a hopeless sort of shrug. He brings his face closer to mine, and whispers. "Lita, where I'm living―you and Kendall can be there too. It'll mean a bit of adjustment, but―" He puts his arms around me and nuzzles his face in my ear. "Act lovey-dovey."

  Having his arms around me feels so good. I do as he asks. I press my face against his neck, and it takes all my willpower not to kiss it.

  "It's an off-grid community," he whispers into my ear, stroking my hair all the time, like we're having a smooch. "Forty people. CJ's cousin's place, in Cumbria. Fuck the release interview. Get Kendall, act like you're going for a walk. I'll wait for you down the road, on the left."