Room Empty

by Sarah Mussi

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I say.

  I don’t want it to be anything. But now I’ve thought of it, I can’t seem to stop it itching. Deep down. Scratch, scratch. An abusive relationship. A man enters. An empty room. Click. Click. In the box.

  20

  After break, during the second half of Circle Time, we have to continue sharing about powerlessness.

  ‘Hi, I’m Verity,’ says Verity. ‘And I’m an addict.’

  Obviously coffee has revived Verity.

  ‘Hello, Verity,’ we all chime.

  ‘Powerlessness means that you have no idea how to stop once you start. I mean, once you start indulging in your addiction. And you have no idea what place you might end up in either – you could do a line of coke on a Saturday morning and by Sunday be dead. That’s all.’

  Thanks, Verity.

  Atticus decides to join in. ‘Hi, I’m Atticus. I’m an addict.’

  ‘Hi, Atticus.’

  The power of coffee is impressive. I’m pretty sure if it wasn’t needed to get people talking it would be a banned substance at DBRC.

  ‘To me, powerless means stupidity,’ says Atticus. ‘If you keep on doing something like throwing yourself against a wall and every time you do it you get bruises and you end up bleeding, then sooner or later you have to realize you should stop throwing yourself against the wall, because when you do you’re powerless to stop the bruising and bleeding.’

  Atticus looks like he might add to that. Perhaps he’ll entertain us with how he’s powerless to stop himself smelling if he doesn’t wash, or burping if he has gas.

  Judith comes to the rescue. ‘Thank you,’ she says with a well-timed smile. ‘Your contributions have been very thought-provoking. I think for the remainder of our session we should break out and revisit our inventory of all the negative side effects caused by our powerlessness over our addictions and compulsions. We need to revisit the ways in which our lives are unmanageable.’

  Oh joy.

  She hands out our folders.

  We find our recovery buddies. We flip down desktops from the sides of the chairs. We pull out our inventories. I read through mine.

  DANI'S INVENTORY OF CATASTROPHIC SIDE EFFECTS

  • extreme weight loss

  • thin appearance

  • abnormal blood cell counts

  • elevated liver enzymes

  • fatigue

  • dizziness and fainting

  • seizures

  • brittle nails

  • delirium

  ‘I don’t think much of your list,’ says Fletcher.

  ‘Well, there are more points on mine than yours,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t think that “a thin appearance” counts as a negative side effect for you.’

  ‘It’s still a negative side effect though.’

  ‘You’re being defensive,’ says Fletcher. ‘You’re supposed to write down things like “being unable to pass my exams because I was too tired to revise” or “being unable to go out with my friends because they’re going to a restaurant. So, no friendships.” That sort of thing. Things which affect you personally. Not some biological list.’

  I grab his list.

  ‘Well, I don’t think much of yours either. What does “no money” and “no possessions” and “lost everything” mean? Who ever heard of a crack addict with a television?’

  We’re interrupted by Judith. Perhaps she overheard us.

  ‘Try to include detailed examples of what your addictions have done to you mentally, physically, spiritually, financially, socially and legally,’ she says. ‘And ask yourself: Am I hiding anything? Secrecy is always an indication of unmanageability.’

  Lee giggles.

  Everybody looks at Lee. It’s embarrassing.

  Lee turns towards Judith. ‘You’re right, boss,’ he says.

  She narrows her eyes. ‘If you truly accept the premise of this first step – that you’re genuinely powerless and that your lives have become unmanageable – I don’t think any of you would return to your addictions.’

  I notice she has subtly changed the pronoun of the first step.

  Step Four

  Searching and Fearless

  21

  During one-to-one counselling, my mobile vibrates. When I have a chance, I slide it out.

  It’s a text from Fletcher: Meet me in Carmen’s room tonight.

  So I do.

  We don’t put on the light. The staff might see it and find us out of bed.

  Fletcher has brought a laptop with him. We’re not allowed laptops or video games or handheld playthings. We’re not really allowed mobiles. But Tony has turned a blind eye to mobiles. That’s because he relies on his mobile. He needs it so that he can slip out and have a fag any time he wants and text another counsellor to cover for him. It’s his personal strategy. It’s called If I Let You Get Away With It, You Have To Let Me Get Away With It Too.

  But laptops are different.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘Lee,’ says Fletcher. ‘He’s got about ten of them stashed under his bed.’

  I don’t need to ask why. Everybody runs a strategy, don’t they?

  ‘They nearly found them last night,’ says Fletcher.

  We’re supposed to be developing hobbies in recovery. Things that engage and inspire us. I guess nobody told Lee that stealing should not be one of them.

  ‘How did he manage to hide ten laptops?’ I ask.

  ‘Bagged them up, leaned out of the window and slung them from the drainpipe.’

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘I thought the plastic would rip and they’d crash down.’

  ‘Wasn’t a very thorough search then,’ I say. ‘Tony should have known to check outside windows.’

  ‘Lucky for us.’

  ‘Tony likes you, that’s why.’

  ‘Now we can continue with The Mystery Of The Body In The Locked Room,’ says Fletcher, patting the laptop.

  I wince.

  ‘Let’s get back to the location where all this happened – the scene of the crime type thing. Where do you actually come from? And where do you think the Locked Room is?’ says Fletcher, all Sherlock plus Poirot. ‘Search outwards from a given point. Use all available clues. Might be easier than searching court records. Are we still thinking Lewisham?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Or New Cross.’

  ‘Why?’ Fletcher’s fingers are poised above the keyboard.

  I shrug.

  I don’t know. That’s just what I think.

  ‘OK,’ says Fletcher, ‘let’s make it Lewisham/New Cross.’

  He does a quick search on Google, typing in my name, ‘dead body’, ‘locked room’, ‘Lewisham’ and ‘New Cross’.

  ‘We can’t meet here any more,’ I say.

  ‘We can always use the library,’ says Fletcher. ‘Which school did you go to?’

  ‘Deptford Park.’

  ‘And what do you remember of your family before you were put into care?’

  My Alien jumps straight out to defend me. Before Fletcher realizes anything, the Alien’s got tentacles wound all around his neck and is stringing him up towards the ceiling. Fletcher has this look of surprise on his face.

  ‘Hey!’ Fletcher croaks. ‘Don’t jump down my throat.’

  I call the Alien to order. I put it on a leash. I tie it to the leg of the bed.

  ‘Sorry,’ I manage. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you.’

  ‘Yell, scream and swear,’ corrects Fletcher.

  The Alien squirms. Its suckers turn yellow and start to ooze mucus.

  ‘Rewind,’ I say. ‘We can’t meet here anymore. Because Carmen is dead and somebody new is going to be in this room tomorrow.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ says Fletcher.

  ‘All what?’ I ask.

  ‘Knock it off, Dani,’ says Fletcher. ‘I’m trying to help you.’

  I don’t want him to help me and I can’t tell him anything
about my life before I went into care. I don’t remember it.

  Fletcher Googles all the care homes around Lewisham where a six-year-old girl might have been put. He gets lost on the council website and ends up on a page about recycling rubbish. He rearranges words in the search box and tries again.

  ‘I’m not sure this research is going to work either,’ says Fletcher at last. ‘I need a bit more to go on. I’ve tried typing your name into the search, but it’s not coming up with anything to do with Dani Spencer.’

  ‘I wasn’t Dani Spencer then,’ I say.

  ‘Whaa?’

  ‘They changed my name,’ I say.

  ‘Who changed your name?’

  ‘I don’t know. The social workers or care officers – the adults in charge of me, I guess.’

  ‘Why did they do that?’

  ‘If I knew, we wouldn’t need all this research,’ I say.

  Fletcher sighs, like: You could have said so before. ‘OK, so what was your original name?’

  This time I manage to hold on to the chain before the Alien completely flattens Fletcher. The chain is very slippery because the Alien has been secreting a nasty, thick, sticky, sludgy slime all over the floor. I know it won’t take much more of this prying. I notice my fingers are trembling as I grip the chain. I notice my chest is hollow and unreasonable. My heart fumbles. I’m going to have to tell Fletcher to back off.

  ‘I don’t know my name from before.’

  It’s all been wiped out. I don’t know who my mum was. I don’t know where I came from.

  I close my eyes and see the doorway that Judith built in my mind. There’s a shadow across it. I’m not going to open that door ever again. I’ll work my strategies. I’ll be OK.

  ‘Just leave it,’ I say, opening my eyes.

  Fletcher looks fed up. ‘I wish you’d let me help you,’ he says. ‘You do this on purpose, don’t you? You need to stop it. You need to start allowing people to help you.’

  I don’t know why he’s wasting his time. Nobody has ever done anything for me before. Does he think if someone starts caring now, it’s going to wipe out seventeen years of nothing? If so, he’s hilarious.

  ‘You don’t want to get well, do you?’ says Fletcher. ‘You’re just like Lee.’

  You’re waking up. Yes, Fletcher, I am just like Lee. He doesn’t want to give up his addiction and neither do I. No addict ever wants to stop. If we could magic away all the bad stuff, we’d be perfectly happy. Take Carmen, for example – she seemed so sorted, but when the time came to live the dream, she hanged herself with an old scarf and shat all down her leg. That’s how much she loved her future sober life.

  The Alien stops emitting slime and shakes out its tentacles. It shakes and shakes, until it looks like a little furry teddy bear.

  Fletcher looks at me sadly.

  ‘I will help you,’ he says, ‘whether you want me to or not.’

  22

  We can’t meet in Carmen’s room any more. The new girl has moved in. Her name is Alice Munro.

  Another Alice. What is it with that name?

  I don’t know what her choice addiction is. I should knock on Carmen’s door and say hello but I don’t really feel strong enough. Plus it would involve talking and all that.

  I get a text from Fletcher. In a bad way. Need help.

  So now it’s him?

  Maybe he’s forgotten I’m the one in a bad way. I’m the one who needs the help. I told him to stop pouring himself into me. Now look where it’s got him.

  This is exactly what addicts do to each other.

  I text him back. I’m in a worse way. I’m drowning.

  I did warn him. Addicts are bad news. No boundaries. Judith says it’s boundaries that keep us safe.

  I get a reply before I’ve barely sent mine.

  He writes, I need fresh air. I need to get away from this place. If I don’t, I think I’m going to quit.

  A hole opens up somewhere in the backyard of the universe. I can feel it sucking me in.

  I text him back: Try to hang on. It can’t get much worse.

  Then I add: Think of your Higher Power; believe in it. Maybe pray to it, like Tony says. Even if it’s crack. Let’s meet in the garden.

  I don’t know why I suggest that. I’ll have to go all the way down the back staircase. Every time I do that, I meet Carmen. Then I can’t stop thinking of her. Not that I mind thinking of Carmen. I think of her pretty much all the time anyway. It helps to stop me thinking about food and the body in the locked room. Her body wasn’t in any room. But I’ll have to go past the kitchen and the smell of food sometimes makes me faint. Maybe that’s why I suggested it.

  Whatever, I rationalize. Conditional love is better than no love. A deal is a deal. Recovery buddies until the end.

  So there is an end?

  Oh, God.

  I realize how final all this is.

  I text Fletcher again: Right at the bottom of the garden, down by the wall, where the little seat is.

  Nobody goes there. The garden bench has broken planking. The gardener dumps the grass cuttings in a pile right beside it. The whole area is overgrown with climbers and stuff.

  I wind a scarf around my neck. I pull my jacket on. It’s still spring, but I’m cold all the time. Sometimes even a hot bath fails to warm me up.

  I leave my room. I pass Carmen’s old one. Alice is lying on the bed. Maybe she’s sleeping. She’s very quiet.

  I seem to be moving very slowly. I hold on to the walls. It’s two days now since I ate anything. I got points though.

  In my mind I get to the back staircase. I see Carmen’s shadow hanging over the stairwell. It takes longer to get there in reality.

  I take hold of the banister and focus on each step. ‘This is no way to live your life,’ says Carmen. ‘You came here hoping to recover.’ She sounds very disappointed.

  She doesn’t understand. I never wanted to leave my Thin-ness. I just wanted to cheat death.

  I stop and ask Carmen, ‘So why? Why didn’t you want to cheat death?’

  She laughs. ‘Death was just the last barrier I had to remove from my recovery,’ she says.

  I think about that.

  The flame inside me that wants to stay alive is very small. I could curl up in Outer Space. Even a little puff could blow it out. I could spin off into the outer darkness for ever.

  ‘I hope you’re free now,’ I whisper.

  I pause at the bottom of the stairwell. The smell is overpowering. I take the last step. They’re frying fish and chips. I hang on to the banister more tightly. Such heady perfume. I breathe it in and let it fill my lungs. Today is Friday. You can do that, you know. It’s a sub-strategy.

  This is how it goes: when I’m very hungry and I smell something delicious, I just inhale. I tell myself I’m allowed to do that. Smell has no calories. I can enjoy it. It doesn’t mean I have to eat anything.

  And that’s what I do. I stand there, balanced on the last step, breathing in eau de fish and chips as if it were the perfume of the gods.

  When at last the scent fades, I move on. That happens – things lose their magic if you over-smell them. You try it. Pick up a flower and breathe it in, like a rose or something. The first rush is exotic, intoxicating. The second sniff is pretty good, but by the time you’ve got to the tenth inhalation, you can’t smell rose or fish and chips or anything any more.

  Outside, I go down the steps at the back of the house. It’s an average kind of day. The sun isn’t shining, but it’s not raining either.

  My third day of not eating.

  There’s nobody in the garden. The gardener hasn’t cut the grass. Dew soaks into my trainers. I could take the path. It’s all paved in reconstituted stone. I feel very dizzy. Suddenly the gateway to the beyond at the crematorium flashes into my mind. Fake Cotswold paving. Waiting to welcome me.

  I don’t walk on the path. That would be too easy. If I was the kind of person who walked along paths I wouldn’t be here.

&nbs
p; I repeat to myself three times:

  I won’t die today.

  I won’t die today.

  I won’t die today.

  Tony says neurolinguistic programming doesn’t work if you say it in the negative.

  I correct myself.

  I will live today.

  I will live today.

  I will live today.

  I like to feel the softness of the earth beneath my trainers. That’s because the mind is forced to think about the thing it doesn’t want to happen. And focusing on it makes it more likely to happen. Halfway down the garden are a few more steps. There are no railings here to hang on to, so very carefully I balance and take each step one at a time.

  It’s a paradox.

  A bit like life.

  I make it to where the rose beds are. I walk between them and down to the very bottom of the garden, where they throw the rubbish. I see the bust-up bench. I like that bench. I can identify with it. Put out here, in all winds and weather, broken but not quite discarded yet.

  I make it to the bench. I sit down on its disintegrating slats and stare at the pile of grass cuttings in front of me.

  A blackbird sings high up on the wall, there in the rambling honeysuckle. It lets out such sweet notes. I think, Life could be beautiful.

  Fletcher arrives. He was right. He’s in a bad way. You can tell when someone is in a bad way. There’s some kind of line across their face, a twist of the mouth and a certain colouring. In fact, if I didn’t know Fletcher pretty well, I don’t think I’d recognize him. He’s chain smoking roll-ups. He doesn’t sit down on the bench. He’s very agitated. He jumps straight up again. He paces about. He pulls at leaves and breaks twigs off.

  ‘I just don’t know what to do,’ he mutters.

  I don’t say anything. I’m having a hard enough time trying not to topple off the seat I’m shivering so violently.

  ‘Look at you,’ Fletcher says.

  ‘I can’t look at me because I’m me and I don’t have a mirror.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Fletcher yells.

  ‘Stop what?’ I say. Even at the eleventh hour, I can’t stop it. Even though I know I’m killing us.