The Last Act

by Laura Ellen Kennedy

  Back on stage, the first scene at the breakfast table went without a single mistake – it was perfect. Then I got to relax for a bit because the second act was mostly Gemma and Anton. I was having a great time watching them be brilliant – and peeking at Steve, who was doing a surprisingly good job of keeping quiet but was furiously writing notes.

  Then came the third act, the bit where Rebecca walks in on her husband and Diana together in their house. I was so caught up watching the first bit of the scene I was hardly thinking about the last rehearsal – it all seemed so long ago.

  ‘We’ve got hours and hours completely to ourselves . . .’ said Anton. I stepped out on to the stage and did my best ‘stiff-British-upper-lip repressed shock and rage’ expression. ‘Why . . . Rebecca, darling . . . I thought you’d left over an hour ago. I . . .’

  I felt dizzy.

  No, no, no! It was happening again. I could feel the gust of nausea coming. I reached up to clutch my head and tried to say, ‘No, stop!’ but it came out as a whisper. All in a second I knew panicking was useless. I looked at everyone’s faces and wanted to cry – but I couldn’t know if my face showed any fear. I didn’t have time to let them know what was going on.

  I saw David’s expectant expression, willing me on from the wings. There, behind him, someone emerged out of the shadows. It was him. The stagehand. He was looking right at me again. This time, though, his face flashed with shock and concern. He seemed to take a step towards me. I felt a rush of hope. Could he help?

  In that moment, he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Just like last time, it was like he was the only one who knew something was wrong with me. His expression had such kindness in it, even though there was fear there too. What could he see that no one else could? To everyone else, I was just me. To him, I looked wrong, for whatever reason; it was obvious he knew something I didn’t.

  I tried to reach out to him but I’d already lost control. As that horribly familiar feeling of paralysis started to take hold of me, every part of my instinct and will wanted to move towards him, this person whose name I didn’t even know but who was suddenly everything to me. But I was frozen, locked again inside a body that was being stolen from me. I saw him hesitate and back off, retreating behind David into the darkness.

  Don’t leave me! I wanted to scream. Maybe it was because I’d dreamed about him, but it felt like we were connected, tied together by flesh and blood and nerves somehow, because as I watched him disappear into the dark it hurt, like part of me was tearing.

  There was absolutely nothing I could do then, except wait. Wait and hope I’d get my body back again. Just when I felt like I’d clawed my way back to reality from last time, made my excuses and smoothed over the damage, it was all happening again.

  ‘So it seems.’ I heard my voice reply and just like before, the play came back to life. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Tristan.’

  ‘Wh . . . don’t be silly, darling, it’s a lovely surprise. Di . . . er, Miss Baker here was just measuring me up for a suit. I thought I’d give Stokes and Sons a call and order something new for the Robinsons’ bash. What do you think?’ Anton delivered the perfect lying cad speech.

  ‘What do I think? I think you must think I’m an utter fool, trying to sell me that line. I also think I can tell the difference between a bespoke tailor and an adulterous hussy perfectly well, thank you.’ It was my voice again but that wasn’t quite what I was supposed to say.

  ‘Hold on, Zoë,’ called Steve, breaking his silence. ‘The line is just, “I can tell the difference between bespoke tailoring and adultery, thank you.” Remember? Carry on though.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ The voice coming out didn’t sound like me, but it was. I admit I can be sarcastic sometimes but this was way beyond that, my tone was positively vicious. I just didn’t talk like that – it was creepy. ‘I must have misremembered – “hussy” just felt so appropriate.’ My face turned towards Gemma.

  ‘Well, I think it’s a bit much,’ Steve warned me. ‘It tips over from funny to malicious. And this is supposed to be a comedy, remember? Dark, yes, but not heavy. I’m always open to ideas but let’s stick to the script on this one, shall we?’

  My eyes were still pointed right at Gemma and she was staring directly back at me. I could see hurt and anger in her face. She’s a sweet person but she can stand up for herself too. I loved that about her. I knew she wouldn’t take much more of this. I was on thin ice and it was cracking right in front of me. What could I do? I was powerless to stop it. Anton came to the rescue with his line.

  ‘Listen, Rebecca darling, you’ve got it all wrong, the truth is —’

  ‘The truth is finally out. That’s what the truth is. And I want you out too. Tonight. I’ll give you an hour to pack some things. Your things, that is. Do be careful not to take anything of mine, won’t you, Tristan, or it might be more than adultery you’re accused of when I get my lawyer on to this.’ My line came out OK this time and I turned to walk away, like I was supposed to, so that Tristan, horrified at the thought of losing his nice life of luxury, could make a grab for the gun in the sideboard and shoot me, or rather Rebecca, in a moment of madness. That was when the other two went into a panic and decided to lock me in the cellar.

  My hijacked head, it seemed, had other ideas though. Before Anton could get his line out and shoot me in the back, I swung round, lunged at him and punched him full in the stomach.

  I’ve never punched anyone in my life. I could feel the force of it jolt my arm despite my dulled senses and it hurt. Not only did I have to watch helplessly as I punched my friend completely against my will, I also had to feel the physical pain of it. Things happened so quickly then. I think Steve jumped up but he can’t have been quick enough . . .

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ screamed Gemma. It was a good question. I wouldn’t have had an answer even if I’d been able to speak for myself. I was in a living, breathing nightmare where my will and reason was folded away somewhere unreachable. She rushed forward to help Anton, who was doubled over. I think I might have even winded him because he was breathing awkwardly. But as soon as she touched him I went for her. I could feel this anger inside me and I just didn’t understand where it was coming from.

  ‘Take your hands off him, you WITCH,’ my voice spat as I launched towards her and grabbed her arms hard, prising them away from Anton. I felt my fingernails dig in. She cried out and pulled away.

  ‘What the —’ Before she could get a sentence out I slapped her hard in the face.

  Steve grabbed me then, taking hold of my arms from behind. I stamped on his feet and he yelped but kept hold of me, thank goodness. My body was fighting against him but I was willing him to win. I wanted him to just pick me up and hurl me out of the theatre – once I got outside I’d be back. I could be me again.

  He dragged me away, through the auditorium and into the foyer, where he gave me a talking to.

  ‘You need to go home and cool off, young lady,’ he fumed. My expression must have been defiant, or blank – because he carried on. ‘It’s too late now to get someone else for your part, but I promise you this: no matter about all the work we’ve all put into this, I will cancel the whole play if I have to. If you can’t do some damned growing up . . .’ I was just willing him to stop talking and force me out of the door – all I wanted was to get out.

  He folded his arms and marched me towards the exit. The sky outside was still thunderous but ought to be turning dusky soon and cooler. I couldn’t wait to feel the air on my skin and the rush of all my senses coming back.

  But, as I watched my feet move over the threshold of marble to stone and tentatively take the steps down to the pavement, I felt nothing. I was still submerged in this dark pool. There was no rushing up to the surface, no release. Why? Why wasn’t my nightmare ending – this was where it had ended last time. What did it mean?

  Was that it? Was I gone forever, trapped? My panic was cut off from my senses, the racing heart and s
haky hands I should have had weren’t there, but the feeling was real. Wishing and willing myself to come round just didn’t work. I simply watched as my body walked past familiar houses, hedges, paths and turns, and took me home.

  The hallway was getting dark when I came in through the back door. Dad popped his head out from his study. My eyes looked at him, but I said nothing.

  ‘You’re early,’ he said. I was still silent as I hung my jacket up by the door. Dad took the rudeness as a sign I was upset.

  ‘Are you OK, Zo? What’s happened?’

  ‘She stole him,’ I hissed aggressively, spinning round to face him. All I wanted to do was say hi, smile, offer a cup of tea . . . Why couldn’t this stop?

  ‘Who? What do you mean, sweetpea? Do you want to talk about it?’ Shock flitted across his face even though he kept calm.

  ‘What would you know? You’re a man. What good is a man . . .?’ No! That was a horrible thing to say.

  Dad didn’t speak then. I knew exactly what he thought I meant – that he’d never be as good as a mother – that I needed a mother and he wasn’t good enough. His face was frozen, but I saw him falling apart behind it and my heart broke. I couldn’t tell him that wasn’t what I was saying. I couldn’t even say I was sorry, no matter how loudly I was shouting it inside my head. Instead, my body took me swiftly upstairs where I couldn’t see if he was OK.

  I wish I could describe how I felt as I watched my life take blows like that right in front of me. It was one thing for me to upset my friends, but whatever this thing was, it was attacking my home now. It had come into the one place I always felt safe and loved. And I was helpless to stop it.

  The hurt on Dad’s face replayed itself in my head. I was desolate and furious – and physically numb and out of control – all at the same time. What tatters would be left of my life by the time I got my body back again? If I ever did . . .

  In my room, I started opening drawers and taking out the contents in big handfuls, dropping stuff on to the floor and making a racket. I opened the wardrobe and pulled out all my bags, searching through for . . . well, I don’t know. I was ransacking my own room – how crazy is that? I don’t know how long I went on for, searching and destroying, but dusk turned to darkness outside my window. I lay down on the floor to get to the boxes under my bed. That’s where I kept private stuff like diaries. But I wasn’t me, so I had no right to touch them. It was like I was burgling myself – what was this?

  As I watched my hands delve into those boxes and start to look though my things, I started to get that feeling of rage again. At least maybe it was my own rage this time. There was no light to read the pages of my diary so I – well, my body – got up and moved over to the bedside table. My hand fumbled for the switch, further down the cord, my face right next to the bulb. When the switch clicked on, bright light burst through the blackness and flashed directly into my face and then I was rushing, zooming back into my body.

  ‘Ye—!’ I started to exclaim as knew I was back. Then I passed out.

  Chapter 8

  I could have been out for ten seconds or two hours. When I came round I just lay there for a moment, revelling in the feeling of moving my own fingers and toes. The feeling of the carpet as I moved my hands over it was crisp and clear and wonderful.

  Huge relief flooded through me, knowing I wasn’t gone forever – but the next wave to hit me was the horrible memory of everything I’d done in the last few hours. It was all a bit too much and I started sobbing. I cried harder than I’d cried for a long time and in the end I turned that light back off, curled up in my bed and kept on crying until I fell into a tormented sleep.

  It wasn’t until the morning that I started to really process everything. I’d been dreaming again but I didn’t chase after the memories this time. I was too worried about the stuff that had gone on while I was awake.

  This obviously wasn’t a one-off fainting fit. And it obviously wasn’t normal. I’d never heard anyone else ever talk about having any kind of experience like this before, so I couldn’t imagine what else it could be – the only thing I could think of, other than that I must simply be going insane, was this TV documentary I’d seen about the way your personality can change if you have a brain tumour. I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out that either of those things was wrong with me.

  I thought about going to the doctor without telling Dad – and then I remembered what I’d said to him the night before. I buried myself deeper in my duvet at the shame of it and started crying again. I would never want him to think I’d rather talk to my mum when I was upset than confide in him. He was the one who’d stuck by me. He was a brilliant dad and I’d hurt him. My anger at myself rose up, thinking of all the times I’d taken him for granted, of every time I’d rolled my eyes at his clumsiness and every time I’d got cross with him for having trouble with those day-to-day things. I really didn’t mind being the grown-up sometimes. It felt good to look after him. Besides, he let me be a child more often that I deserved. Whenever I was low or hurting, he was there, my gentle rock.

  I couldn’t believe I would do that, say what I said to him, even if I did have a tumour that was pressing on some essential piece of my brain. He was obviously hurt. He must have heard the noise from my room last night with all the mess I’d made in my ransacking episode. When I passed out he must have heard the thud and just assumed I was having a tantrum because he didn’t come up to check on me once. How was I going to say sorry to him?

  How was I going to say sorry to Anton and Gemma? I had actually hit both of them. Hard. This was going to be impossible to fix.

  Instinctively, I wanted to call Katie. It was her last day at home before they went away but she’d still be there now – and she could always make me feel better. But when I imagined her picking up and saying hello, I couldn’t do it. I remembered the looks on their faces when I tried to tell the Katies before. I’d hardly even started trying to explain and they thought I was crazy. I’d already made the decision that I’d have to go through this alone. The only way was to figure it out by myself.

  I felt more alone than I’d ever felt. I’d always been happy with my own company, but I’d always been lucky enough to have someone to turn to when I needed them, too. Even if I did manage to convince everyone that something had taken me over and I hadn’t known what I was doing; even if I could persuade the people I’d hurt to forgive me; how could I stop the whole thing happening again?

  I clenched my fists, and scolded myself for thinking hopeless thoughts. If I was going to deal with this, I had to approach the whole thing scientifically. I was going to have to write down the times of my fits and work out if I could control it.

  It only happened in the theatre. I could probably stop it ever happening again if I just didn’t go back there. But we were practising hard and the next rehearsal was just a day away. As tough as I knew it was going to be, going there and seeing the others, having to say sorry to Anton, Gemma, Steve and David for messing up the last one, the thought of not going back was worse. Steve had said it was too late to get another Rebecca, so it wasn’t just me that would be let down, it was everyone. Until that first blackout, the play had been the one thing I looked forward to. I couldn’t let it all go that easily, I couldn’t run away. I just had to be a grown-up about it, be brave and get in touch with everyone first to attempt these huge apologies. Maybe I could meet up with Gemma and have a proper talk before tomorrow’s rehearsal.

  I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. As I tried to remember where I’d put my bag and mobile the night before, I caught sight of my face in the mirror and saw a massive, angry graze on my left cheek, close to my jaw. I must have hit the bedside table as I passed out. It hurt when I touched it and felt a bit swollen. How attractive. With all the scratches on my hands, the bruises on my legs and now this, I was starting to look like an extra out of Fight Club. At least my battered look matched the way I felt.

  I found my bag and mobile under the bed where I’d
been rummaging in those boxes the night before. But when I called to speak to Gemma, her mobile was off. When I called her home phone her mum said she’d gone out. I had a feeling she was ignoring me and had asked her mum to cover for her. I didn’t blame her really, but it was frustrating when I really wanted to try to explain – even if they couldn’t believe me. Anton’s mobile was ringing out, so I sent them both a text to say I was sorry and that I really wanted to meet them before the rehearsal if they’d let me try to explain.

  Feeling defeated, I scooched back into the corner of my bed against the wall and hid in a duvet cocoon. I stared at my phone, waiting for it to light up with a message. It didn’t. Then I stared at the scribbled notes in my diary about when the blackouts had started and stopped. Wait! It was the same moment in the play that it happened – my first cue in the third act, the moment Rebecca discovers Tristan cheating. I’d been fine rehearsing up until then, both times. Maybe I didn’t have to miss rehearsal completely. It wasn’t the theatre that was making me ill. It wasn’t even being on stage. It was that one moment. I could take control of this if I could just get Steve to skip that bit out.

  I grabbed my phone and dialled.

  ‘Hello?’ It was good to have someone actually pick up the phone to me – even if it was nerve-wracking wondering how the conversation would go.

  ‘Hi, Steve, it’s Zoë. I’m so sorry about yesterday. I really honestly don’t know what happened. I know that sounds stupid, but things have just been really . . . weird . . .’ I blurted out as much as I could before he could say anything.

  ‘Hello, Zoë. I appreciate your calling. You gave us all quite a shock, you know. Whatever’s going on between you and Gemma and Anton, that was unacceptable yesterday. You know that, don’t you?’