Room Empty

by Sarah Mussi

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I ask, as one of them tips my clothes out of a drawer.

  ‘The usual,’ says Tony.

  A pair of knickers lands by his foot.

  ‘I’m anorexic,’ I say. ‘You won’t find anything in here.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ says Tony.

  I am surprised.

  ‘Why this late?’ I ask.

  Tony fixes me with a look. ‘You know the rules,’ he says.

  For some reason one of the rehab rules states that counsellors don’t have to disclose why they do what they do. Unlike us addicts. We have to disclose not only why we do what we do, but why we don’t do what we don’t do. Not to mention why we think what we should not.

  ‘Has something happened?’ I ask.

  Tony tips my washbag out on the bed.

  ‘Is it Fletcher?’ A sudden panic seizes me.

  ‘We’re done.’ Tony quickly shoves my belongings back into my locker. He nods at the care workers as if to say: Let’s move on to the next.

  One drawer tips open. A bunch of my stuff falls on the floor.

  ‘Pick that up,’ Tony says to one of the workers. He leaves.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask her. She’s not a proper care worker. She used to be one of us state-funded addicts, but she did so well at recovery she landed herself a job. She bends down to scoop up a sports top. I know her slightly. I think she ‘diets’ too.

  ‘Drugs,’ she mutters.

  I get it. Somebody has brought some stuff in and is dealing. This is how the centre goes about finding out who’s involved. They could have just asked, but that would’ve been too simple. Plus being questioned about old sly habits might trigger our addictions. Plus we’re all liars. Better to jump a surprise search on everyone.

  ‘What will happen when they catch them?’ I ask.

  The girl draws a finger across her throat. She twists an imaginary noose tight; her mouth slops open into a silly hideous grin. She strings herself up. She whispers, ‘Death by dismissal,’ in a conspiratorial way, then leaves.

  I get back into bed. I’m so cold. A silly hideous grin. I’m shivering. A noose around a neck. A man coming into a room. I want to text Fletcher. I’m praying it’s not him picking up drugs again. He said he was barely hanging on. If he’s using again and they throw him out I don’t know what I’ll do. Carmen was hanging on. A man in a room abusing me. I reach for my phone. I need him. I pick it up. No, Carmen was just hanging. We have a deal. He can’t get thrown out.

  There are two messages.

  The Circle Alert:

  Something is up. Watch out. Surprise search. If you’re hiding any gear, stash it in pre-planned hiding place or dispose.

  I flick to the second message.

  A voicemail from Fletch:

  ‘Might be a good idea to hide your phone. If they see your thinspo, it won’t look good.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve been working on the case. Here’s a round-up of my notes. I’ll read them out for you.

  ‘Findings so far:

  ‘Dani put in care at four? Six?

  ‘Dani put with various foster families at seven.

  ‘Dani thinks she was in Lewisham area.

  ‘There was a no. 171 bus.

  ‘The 171 goes through Lewisham. Checked.

  ‘OK, now, things to find out:

  ‘Location of the locked room.

  ‘What school did you go to? (It’s likely that foster placement would be in the area of school.)

  ‘Can you ask someone to go into Lewisham Borough Council (fostering services or similar?) to see if they have any records of your placements? (No point calling – I tried. You just get automated voices shit.)

  ‘Get back to me with everything you remember about school or anything.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re my recovery buddy. It felt so good telling you about my mum. For the first time I didn’t feel disloyal. I didn’t feel scared. It felt good. I’m putting my arms around you and holding you tight, Dani. Metaphorically obviously. We’ll get to the bottom of all this. Absolutely. Thank you for being my friend.

  ‘Sleep tight.’

  I put the phone under my pillow. For some silly reason, I lay my cheek over it and hug the pillow.

  I usually hug my Thinness.

  I will try to always be kind to Fletcher.

  I could message Kerstin about Lewisham Social Services.

  I will not think about the locked room.

  I will not think about the locked room.

  I will not think about the locked room.

  I will not think about the locked room.

  18

  In the morning I make it to Circle Time. I just sit there. Sometimes the pressure to contribute to the discussion and share your stuff is bad. I can’t share anything today. Even talking is hard.

  I didn’t bother going down to breakfast. I didn’t even bother trying to score a point. Breakfast is usually easy because I’m not very hungry in the mornings.

  ‘Hi, I’m Judith, and I’m your psychodynamic counsellor.’

  ‘Hi, Judith,’ we say, all interested like she has never told us this before.

  ‘Today we’re going to revisit Step One of our twelve-step recovery programme,’ says Judith. ‘After any major setback – after our closure yesterday, and the disruption – it’s a good idea to revisit the journey we’ve taken so far.’

  I wonder why she can’t actually say Carmen’s name. Now Carmen has become ‘closure’, ‘a major setback’, an impediment to our recovery. It really sucks to be dead.

  And I’m a ‘disruption’.

  ‘So I’m going to remind us of our first principle, namely that we admitted that we were powerless and our lives had become unmanageable. Before we begin sharing, let’s do some focused thinking,’ says Judith. She smiles at all of us, beams down from a great height. ‘Would anyone like to discuss why the first step is written in the past tense?’

  There’s a silence. None of us raises our hand. That’s not because we don’t have answers. It’s because we don’t raise hands in recovery. That would be admitting that we need permission to speak. And we cannot admit that. Because as freethinking, recovering young adults, we don’t need to ask for permission to be ourselves. Which is complete crap. We need permission to do everything here.

  But we all play the game. We sit back in our chairs, contemplating our strategies. I’ve already got one point today for skipping breakfast.

  Lee can’t focus very well this morning. His pupils are suspiciously dilated. He has a silly grin all over his face.

  ‘Hi, I’m Cormac. I’m an addict.’ At last, someone plays ball. Cormac (that’s Iggy) runs a hand through his mop of reddish hair.

  ‘Hi Cormac/Iggy,’ everyone answers.

  ‘I think Step One is written in the past tense because we’re all on our road to recovery now,’ says Cormac. He grins at us across the circle. He knows he’s just spoken complete bollocks. One look at me is enough to realize that not everybody is on the road to recovery.

  Lee spreads the grin wider. Step One can be written in whatever tense it wants. It has nothing to do with him.

  ‘A very interesting response,’ says Judith. ‘And I think on the whole I agree with you. The past tense is a definite reminder that we’re not powerless over our own addictions any more. We’re not powerless and we can create our own preferred futures.’

  Fletcher looks like he wants to be sick.

  Judith continues, ‘And the fact that it’s written in the plural means that we have support and companions as we move forward along our path to recovery. I’d like you all to take a minute to close your eyes and visualize the pathway to recovery, leading uphill to a glorious summit where the Whole Picture will be spread before you, and from this elevated position you can see your way clearly.’

  Fletcher is definitely going to be sick.

  ‘And now we come to the paradox inside the first step,’ says Judith. ‘The paradox of powerlessness, in which we must
surrender in order to win.’

  I can see she’ll soon be intoxicated with her own insight.

  I look at the clock. Another three quarters of an hour until coffee break. I’m allowed coffee. Black, obviously. But I imagine putting milk in it. I imagine ladling heaped sugars into it. I think about the way I could lick the spoon after, even if I don’t drink it.

  ‘We’re powerless because our addictions have caused us to have a compulsion and an obsession,’ says Judith. She smiles around at all of us. ‘Would anyone here like to explain the difference between compulsion and obsession?’

  Lee grins and laughs, then raises his hand.

  ‘There’s no need to raise your hand, Lee,’ says Judith. ‘We’re in recovery, we’re on our paths together and we don’t need permission to be ourselves.’

  Lee doesn’t take any notice. He waves and waves his hand like a little kid in the front row, eager to answer the question.

  ‘Yes, Lee,’ says Judith, with a pained look stretching across her mouth.

  ‘A compulsion is when you just have to do something even though you don’t want to, like if you wanna get stoned and you just have to get stoned.’ He giggles. ‘You do it even if you know you’re not supposed to, like in the rules of rehab or if your mum tells you not to. You don’t take no notice of them, and, like, yeah, so you just keep on, like, getting stoned.’

  Looks like Lee has got a good understanding of the word ‘compulsion’.

  ‘And obsession?’ asks Judith.

  Lee is waving his hand again and almost falling off his chair. It looks like he’s about to get the giggles properly.

  ‘An obsession is when you, like, keep thinking about getting stoned and shit,’ he shouts out. ‘Because you want to do it and you keep thinking about it, and the thoughts go around and around and around and then some more, and every time you do it you keep thinking about doing it again.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Judith coldly. ‘When you share, you need to remember to acknowledge your recovery and communicate your name.’

  ‘Hi, MY NAME IS LEE,’ shouts Lee. ‘I am an ADDICT!’

  This is becoming fun.

  ‘Hi, Lee!’ everyone shouts back.

  Lee is about to say something pretty stupid.

  Fletcher cuts into the slight pause he leaves.

  ‘Hi, my name is Fletcher. I am an addict.’

  Everyone sighs.

  Everyone knows that Fletcher is rescuing Lee. Everyone wishes Fletcher would stop it and let Lee have his say. Everyone knows that Fletcher cannot save Lee. Everyone except Fletcher.

  ‘OK, so powerlessness means that you have no control over your addiction,’ says Fletcher. ‘It means that you recognize that it’s in control and you’re not. And it’s kind of like . . .’ He pauses. ‘Let’s say somebody told you they’d give you a million pounds if you jumped out of an aeroplane with no parachute. I’d say no, because I don’t have control over gravity so I wouldn’t survive. I’m powerless against it. So you have to admit that you’re powerless over your addiction and that it will kill you. You have to be convinced of it and afraid in the same way of jumping without a parachute. That’s what I think about powerlessness.’

  I’d like to clap for Fletcher. He’s trying so hard to recover. He’s trying way harder than anyone else in the room. But he’s probably the least likely to succeed, because he’s only trying hard to please Judith. And maybe to please me a little bit; maybe to please everybody else too. Who knows. But he’s not trying really hard to please Fletcher.

  He admitted to me last night he doesn’t even know who Fletcher is.

  At coffee break, I ask Fletcher, ‘What was up last night?’

  Fletcher rolls his eyes, nods towards Judith and Tony. They’re standing by the wall watching.

  Nuff said.

  I help myself to a cup of black coffee. I don’t consider the biscuits, but I look longingly at the milk and sugar.

  Fletcher grabs a fig roll. He whispers, ‘They kicked Alice out.’

  ‘What?’

  I’m actually shocked.

  Alice was such a quiet, nervous, timid thing. In fact, she was the kind of person who made a room feel emptier when she was in it.

  ‘Shush,’ says Fletcher.

  ‘But what for?’ I ask.

  ‘Apparently she was cutting herself and then overdosing on prescription painkillers.’

  ‘But where’s she gone?’ I ask.

  ‘Who knows?’ whispers Fletcher. ‘The place where they all disappear to.’

  I send him an ‘Uh?’

  ‘The real world.’

  The real world, like Outer Space. Cold and dark and endless. A place where you’re bound to get sucked into a bottomless black hole. And be lost for ever. Poor Alice.

  In recovery they skate over the problem of reality. They just tell you you need to deal with life on life’s terms.

  Life’s terms: just Alice and her Stanley knife and a packet of codeine.

  She was only fourteen.

  ‘It was Carmen,’ says Fletcher.

  ‘What?’ I say again.

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ says Fletcher. ‘Alice had a thing about Carmen.’

  I didn’t know.

  I feel sorry for Alice.

  That’s what they don’t tell you in recovery about life’s terms . . .

  Reality is shit.

  19

  ‘C’mon,’ says Fletcher. ‘Let’s get out of here and do a Sherlock.’

  I turn the corners of my mouth down.

  ‘Let’s just do it,’ says Fletcher.

  I raise one shoulder and let it fall.

  ‘You know something about you, Dani?’ he says. ‘You’re a miserable git. Trust me for half an hour, OK?’

  I’m not sure I trust him, but half an hour isn’t too long.

  Together we climb the stairs. I lean on Fletcher. He half carries me. It must be nice to have strong shoulders. The library is on the fifth floor. Books. Computer hubs. The ceiling is slanted and vast. Planked floors run the length of the building.

  ‘I love coming up here,’ he says.

  We settle down on one of the benches. Fletcher turns on the computer and we start searching. Well, Fletcher does. He searches the County Court records in Lewisham.

  Fletcher is always trying to do things for others. It could get on your nerves if you hadn’t made a conscious decision to trust him. Right now he’s trying a bit too hard though.

  ‘After the search, I lay there in the middle of the night,’ he says, ‘and it suddenly struck me that if you were put in care there must be some kind of a legal document on it.’

  He’s right, of course.

  ‘It would be registered in the court’s archives.’

  I lean forward. I peer into the screen.

  ‘If I can just find out which court.’

  The sides of our heads touch.

  ‘They store all their records online.’

  I push his face out of the way.

  ‘How can I see anything with your fat head there?’ I say.

  Fletcher tries to manoeuvre back in. ‘I think there’s enough space to share.’

  I make a disgruntled noise.

  After a second, Fletcher backs away.

  ‘There you go,’ he says. ‘Not because I have X-ray vision, but because I’m the bigger person. You have the screen.’

  I ignore him. I hog all the space. It’s not much fun. I don’t really know what I’m looking for.

  After a minute, I say, ‘I don’t mind sharing the screen with you, as long as you promise you don’t have head lice.’

  ‘I do not have head lice,’ says Fletcher very solemnly.

  ‘All addicts have head lice,’ I say.

  He giggles.

  ‘Head lice and crabs and body lice and scabies.’

  He does exaggerated, junkie-style, crawling-skin scratching.

  For some reason we both find that hysterically funny. I start laughing. Fletcher itches up and down his scalp
.

  Jennifer, on a computer at the far end of the library, says, ‘Shush.’

  That makes it worse. Fletcher points at Jennifer and does total body rash.

  I swallow laughter. It comes gurgling back out. It explodes in a great shower.

  ‘Ugh,’ says Fletcher, ‘you just spat on my cheek.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say in between each spraying. ‘Sorry.’

  I’m holding the laughter in so hard my ribs crack. My chest shoots out all over the computer screen. My sides split and the laughter escapes in clouds.

  ‘Sorry,’ I wheeze. My eyes melt and trickle down the sides of my face.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ he says. ‘You’re beautiful when you laugh, Dani.’

  I gulp and swallow.

  ‘But it’s distracting,’ he says. ‘And I can’t be Sherlock Holmes properly with spit all over me. So stop laughing and go back to being miserable.’

  And that makes me laugh even more.

  Fletcher takes out a tissue and wipes the shower of saliva off his cheek. I don’t dare to say sorry a third time or I’ll explode into a million droplets.

  Fletcher sends out a look that is all safety net and feather down. It catches my eye and dissolves.

  And, in that moment, the library holds its breath.

  Fletcher is my friend. My very own friend, who I can shower with laughter. It’s so good to laugh. I want to laugh with him for ever. I raise my finger and wipe away a tear from my cheek.

  I promise myself to always laugh with Fletcher, for ever and for ever. I rub another tear away.

  Fletcher catches my hand and guides my damp finger to his lips.

  The universe comes to a stop.

  He presses my finger dry.

  Jennifer looks over and frowns.

  The screen in front of us scrolls down through endless convictions.

  Family Court records.

  Abusive relationships.

  Children put in care.

  Custody cross-petitions.

  Click. A tiny box locked in another tiny box, locked somewhere in that empty room, in the deep recesses of my brain, clicks and clicks again. Abusive relationships.

  I draw in a breath.

  Fletcher notices immediately. ‘What is it? Tell me which case? Do they look familiar? Do you recognize a name? Dani?’

  His questions wash the click away.