by Holly Seddon
She carefully packed her medicines into the side pocket of her holdall and placed her folded clothes into the belly of it.
Alex tucked her letters of apology into the other side pocket of her bag and crept into the residents’ lounge for breakfast. She drank several cups of peppermint tea and picked at a slice of toast and marmalade, smiling politely at the hum of conversation all around, accepting a few hugs.
She loaded her bag into the taxi and asked to be taken straight to the hospital in Tunbridge Wells. The taxi had been arranged by reception, and the taxi drivers knew not to ask any questions. Alex wondered how many “graduates” spilled their stories anyway, programmed from weeks of group therapy.
Matt was waiting for her in the café, cradling a cup of gray coffee, her article folded in front of him. He rose when she came in, stepping forward to meet her. For a moment, she just stood and stared, waiting for her heart to settle. He stared back, running his eyes down from the top of her head.
“You look great,” he said emphatically.
“So do you.” He always did.
They hugged lightly, quickly.
“How was treatment?” he asked.
“Oh, you know.” Alex shrugged, unsure if he actually wanted to know.
“I really don’t know.” He looked apologetic.
“Well, it worked. It helped. I don’t really want to…”
“No, of course, I’m sorry.” He gestured to the newspaper. “You did so well,” he said.
“I couldn’t have done it without my police source,” she replied, and smiled.
The four-page article had been published while Alex was in treatment and she had yet to see a copy. Her byline sat in bold type at the top, above a tiny head-and-shoulder shot. In the center of the first double-page spread was a picture of Amy, her arms around Becky and Jenny. All three girls were laughing wildly.
A close-up of Simon, now wiry and graying, had been dropped into the second page of the article. He was definitely handsome, but Alex was surprised by how scrawny and wild-eyed he’d looked when she finally got to see him. He had arrived in court with a black eye and swollen nose. He almost looked pitiful.
It had taken weeks to extradite him. He was wanted in several countries on sexual assault and rape charges under his pseudonym—Graham Barnes. Father’s first name, mother’s maiden name. Not highly original, but highly effective for fifteen years.
The prosecution had Tom and Caroline as witnesses, but Amy’s bag had never been found and Simon’s old car had long been sold for scrap.
A conviction may still have been vulnerable were it not for the trial’s star witness.
Amy.
Because of the trauma Amy experienced during her previous “tennis test,” it was agreed by the judge and her medical team that there would be a limit of ten questions, and the session would be stopped if Amy became distressed. The defense and prosecution were each permitted five questions, to be submitted in advance.
There was absolute silence in the court as the video was played. In the background, Amy lay flat in an MRI chamber while in the foreground Dr. Peter Haynes and his team sat pensively in the control room, screens showing Amy’s brain dormant above them.
With a slightly shaky voice, Peter explained the rules to Amy. She was to imagine herself playing tennis if the answer was “yes” and to imagine herself relaxed and floating in warm water if the answer was “no.”
To check the process, Peter asked quietly, “Are you Amy Stevenson?”
The “tennis” part of Amy’s brain lit up red with a halo of orange and yellow surrounding it like the licks of a flame. The court seemed to hold its collective breath.
The defense questions were read crisply by the doctor, leaving a long pause between each one.
“Do you know where you are?”
No.
“Do you know how old you are?”
No.
“Do you know what year it is?”
No.
“Are you in any pain?”
No.
“Do you know who attacked you on July the eighteenth in 1995?”
A pause. Tennis.
After the defense had tried to discredit the confused, damaged witness, the prosecution took a different approach.
“Amy,” Peter read from the agreed piece of paper, “for the next series of five questions you must continue to imagine yourself playing tennis for ‘yes,’ or ‘affirmative,’ and imagine yourself relaxing in warm water the rest of the time. Okay.”
There was a short pause and then Peter’s voice came over the court speakers louder and more decisive than before.
“Amy, we are now going to ask you to spell out the name of your attacker. First question, what is the first letter of your attacker’s name? A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M.”
As the doctor got further through the alphabet, Alex had watched the members of the public gallery leaning toward the screens.
“N, O, P, Q, R, S—”
Tennis.
An audible gasp shot from the collective mouths of the court. Sitting flanked by his defense barrister and solicitor, Simon hung his head.
“Next letter,” the video voice continued, undisturbed by the reaction of the court.
“A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I—”
Tennis.
It seemed for all but Sue Arlington, the writing was on the wall. And it spelled “Simon.”
The following week, after a long silence, the foreman had side-eyed Simon and finally spoken: “We find the defendant guilty.”
Jacob had squeezed Fiona’s hand with his right, Jenny Cross’s with his left. Becky Limm had hugged Alex, and Bob had put his head in his hands and sobbed, his wife Judy by his side. Tom couldn’t bear to be in the room once he’d given evidence and had spent the final days of the court hearing looking after his little nephew.
Throughout the hearing, Sue had been sitting at the front of the public gallery with a hollow-eyed Graham. When the verdict was read out, she’d made a sound like an animal’s howl, temporarily grinding the courtroom to a standstill.
Matt picked up a saltshaker and stared at it intently.
“Are you okay?” Alex asked.
“Not really. God, Alex, your timing has always been lousy.”
“What do you mean?” Alex asked, her chest hurting at the thought of what he might say. She considered standing up and leaving, checking out of anything even close to emotional.
“You finally managed it,” Matt said, reaching for her hand. She moved it away, the thought of his touch too painful to contemplate.
“Don’t, Matt, please. I’m not strong enough.”
“You’re stronger than either of us knew.”
“I’m so sorry,” she swallowed. “I wish I’d managed this before. In time.” Alex tangled her breathing up in the beginning of a sob and stopped.
“I wish you had too. Half of me hates you for not managing it back then,” Matt said, still fiddling with the saltshaker, avoiding her eye.
“And the other half?” Alex asked quietly, regaining some composure.
“You know how the other half feels.”
“The whole of me feels the same.” Alex looked down and watched the thick teardrops splashing onto her jeans in clumsy patterns.
Matt’s own scant tears had fallen onto the newspaper, a couple of thick black dots speckling the words she’d written.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” Matt said, rubbing the damp spots and spreading them further. “I’ll try to get you another copy. Or maybe it will still be online?”
“Don’t worry, I can ask them to send me one.”
They both wiped their eyes, cleared their throats, sipped their tepid drinks.
“So what are you going to do now? Is this your new direction?” Matt asked, his eyes still mauve around the edges, a unique color she hadn’t seen since the day he left their home.
“Well, The Times is taking me back on. I’m going to do a new column and they’re consid
ering a series on forgotten crimes—so, you know, we’ll see.”
“Will you call if I can help again?” Matt looked hopeful, and Alex found herself inhaling sharply.
“Well, I…do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Probably not.” He smiled apologetically. “But I’d like it if you did.”
Alex chewed her bottom lip. Her heart hurt like it was burning her from the inside out. She took a deep breath, worried she might leap across the table, grab him and never let go.
“You know, Matt, I’m going to do the next one alone. I mean, I’m going to leave you alone. With Jane,” she smiled and fresh tears trickled a zigzagged path over her cheekbones, “and with Ava.”
Matt looked away and breathed deeply. He rubbed his hand over his face and shook his head.
“Thank you.”
—
There were no other visitors in Bramble Ward and the nurses’ station was abandoned. The radio was off and the only sound was the distant hum of the machines and the quiet orchestra of patients’ breaths.
Alex checked her reflection for leaking mascara, signed herself in and walked slowly over to the corner cubicle. She sat lightly in the chair.
“Hi, Amy, it’s Alex. How have you been?”
She picked up Amy’s weightless hand, warming it between her own and holding it lightly to her cheek.
Alex moved from the visitor’s chair and sat on the bed. Then she lay down next to Amy, still gripping her hand. She popped one earbud into Amy’s left ear, the other into her own right ear, closed her eyes and pressed play.
I played tennis again. I played tennis and I won.
I heard the doctor’s voice crystal clear as he explained the rules. And I pictured Simon’s face and I thought, No, not again, you’re not going to beat me again.
And then I heard the letter “s.”
I picked up my racquet, I could feel it in my hand, one of those fancy lightweight ones, shiny and black. I stood as tall as I could and I looked up into the blue sky as I threw the yellow ball hard and high. As it dropped toward me, growing bigger like a ball of sunshine, I swiped it with all my strength.
And then I heard the letter “i.”
I stood tall in the court again, bouncing up onto my toes like I remember them doing at Wimbledon on the telly. I stood and bounced the ball effortlessly, catching it in my hand without looking. I held his gaze the whole time. He watched from the other side of the net, looking smaller and smaller.
By the time I reached the last letter of his name, I was running around that court with the widest grin on my face. I felt strong, I felt fast. I felt alive.
I looked across at him, I stared into his eyes and I kept that smile on my face like warpaint.
He looked away and hung his head.
When Alex came to see me afterward, she told me that I’d really done it. That I’d helped put him away, that I’d stopped him from doing it again. She told me that she had to go away for a while, and that she needed some help from doctors but that she’d be back. She promised she would keep coming to see me, and that she would always come to see me. And I believe her.
“Finding Alex”
Sunday Times Magazine, 3 April 2011
The last time I wrote a column for this newspaper was in 2007. At the time, I was married and expecting a baby. I was also a barely functioning alcoholic who drank bourbon from one of those ceramic novelty mugs that look like a Starbucks takeaway cup.
I wish I could say that losing my baby was my rock bottom. I’m an overachiever. I managed to find several other rock bottoms.
When my husband finally walked out on me and my pickled womb, I tried to write my way out of the hole. Instead, I wrote my way out of a job and into a pub. Have you heard the one about the national newspaper columnist who bangs a busboy in a bar crowded with contemporaries? Don’t worry, Private Eye did.
After being thrown out of my own publisher’s building, I also managed the spectacular feat of being thrown out of a publisher’s office where I did not work. It was only fair. I’d turned up, booze steaming from my skin like a geyser, demanding a job I’d turned down months before. A job that had long been filled.
I lost days, I lost weeks. I lost everything.
I woke up with strangers, unconscious in the bed I’d once shared with my husband. I hallucinated, counting glass spiders on my ceiling and willing them to cut me to pieces. I lost every single friend. Irretrievably. Imagine just how badly you’d need to behave to lose every single friend. Irretrievably.
Eventually, I managed to pull my head above water. Just. For eighteen months I kicked wildly until my legs were so tired I was ready to be carried out to sea.
“If you don’t stop drinking,” my family doctor told me, “you’ll be dead in a year.” I drank that night.
And now I sit with bourbon-free coffee in my mug, liver damage controlled with pills, nursing the blinding clarity that comes with sobriety. That vicious clarity that alcoholics like me try our damnedest to avoid. To my surprise I realize that, rather than grinding toward the inevitable ending of my own story, I’m still in the middle.
So what changed? I found a friend.
Amy Stevenson isn’t an ordinary friend. She’s a girl who everyone has heard of, but she’s likely unaware of her fame. She’s a girl who is also stuck in a deep rut.
The difference between Amy and me is that she hadn’t dug the rut herself, and she refused to lie down and die in it. When she could have given in and given up, she kicked and screamed and used every drop of strength she had. I saw in Amy someone with no second chance, fighting like fury to create one. And when you see that fight take place in front of you, you recognize your own second chance.
So it’s time for me to take mine. To be grateful for it. To earn it and to own it. I have no idea where my second chance leads. All I know is that I need to put one foot in front of the other, every day, forever. And to dedicate each step to Amy.
For my matinée idol
I used a lot of artistic license in dealing with Amy’s condition, but the Royal Hospital for Neuro-Disability in London is a brilliant organization doing groundbreaking work, so check them out if you’re interested in learning facts rather than my fictionalized account.
So many people helped bring this book to life, and I’m sorry to anyone I’ve overlooked, but first I have to thank Nicola Barr, my awesome agent. Her patience, insight, cheerleading, un-Scooby-Dooing, and brunches can never be repaid. Everyone at Greene & Heaton is wonderful, actually, but I’d also like to thank the brilliant Kate Rizzo. Huge thanks also to Jenny Bent, U.S. agent extraordinaire.
My editors and publishers on both sides of the Atlantic have helped shape this book into something of which I’m so proud, I can’t even articulate it (not great form for a writer). Linda Marrow and Elana Seplow-Jolley from Ballantine/Penguin Random House, Sara O’Keeffe and Maddie West from Corvus/Atlantic, thank you so very much.
To Ilana, for showing me how it’s done, you frickin’ trailblazer. To Sarah, a brilliant writer and a very patient and encouraging reader. Thank you.
My best friend, Carole, who is nothing like Amy’s friends, although we did used to drink Archers and lemonade together. The Midlanders, whose enduring friendship is a source of huge pride as well as belly-hurting laughter. Our playlists helped. I love you guys. To my pals from News International and Associated, thanks for the memories. And thank you to Romi, for the cuppas and hugs.
I was very lucky to have a mum and dad who never did things the boring way and never said I should just get a sensible job. Cristy and Vik, who are my friends as well as my sisters. And Rich, who I dearly wish had been around to see this, and whose strength, wisdom, and Futurama quotes I thought about a lot while writing this. He was all right.
And of course, infinite thank-yous to the love of my life, James, and our swarm of funny, loving, rude-song-singing, adventurous, and ridiculous kids: Pops, Bear, Little Legs, and Fu.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Seddon has been writing short stories since childhood and Try Not to Breathe is her first novel.
hollyseddon.com
Facebook.com/hollyseddonauthor
@hollyseddon
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