Losing It

by Jane Asher

  Dad didn’t look up and I wondered if he’d heard her: she hadn’t spoken very loudly and he was still muttering something into his cupped hands. Mum suddenly let go of me and I turned and started to run down the stairs, but halfway down I saw Ben coming out of the kitchen. I knew that seeing me in the state I was in would only scare him even more, so I stopped and went up again, feeling foolish in spite of myself. I was terrified that Mum or Dad would come out of the bedroom and see me creeping back up and imagine I was trying to eavesdrop outside the door. As I reached my room in safety I heard the front door slam and knew Ben must have gone out, no doubt frightened away by the shouting – he never could stand arguments, poor guy. I tried to pull myself together, but I just couldn’t stop my stupid heart thumping up into the back of my throat, so I took a few deep breaths and decided to wait a few moments until it slowed down. As I sat on the bed I caught sight of myself in the long mirror on the back of my door. The weird and horrible thing was that I found myself checking out the way I looked – I don’t mean to see if I was still too obviously upset to go downstairs, but as if I was appraising myself as the wronged daughter in a drama or something. Without thinking I even pushed the back of my hair into a better shape where it always goes flat against my head. Does that mean I didn’t really care about what was going on? Or does it mean I’m especially vain, like Abby says?

  All I know is that if I hadn’t stopped and sorted out my fucking looks in the mirror maybe I’d have been in time to stop him walking out of the front door.

  Charlie

  And, suddenly, it was done. The madness that had been dominating my head for all those weeks had exploded out into the open and I found myself walking out of my own home and into the street. Even as I did so I was amazed at the way my legs managed to place themselves cleverly one in front of the other and my large, adult’s body balanced on the small area of my right and left foot alternately. How could they function normally while the brain in charge of them writhed in delirious agony and uncertainty? As I made my way along Victoria Street, inconsequential worries about my lack of clothing and shaving things took turns in flashes with yawning chasms of terror at the thought of what I had done. More unnerving than that, though, was the question that forced itself into my head every few seconds like a painfully probing scalpel. Why? Why have I done this? For what? As I would answer – for her, for Stacey, to be with her – a hot sweat of horror would overwhelm me in sheer disbelief. It just didn’t seem possible – or real. I pictured the fat, stupid supermarket girl and marvelled. But I walked on. Some knowledge at a far deeper level than my conscious mind was reassuring me that I was right – that this madness had a point after all.

  I didn’t need to think where I was going, what I was going to do next or how I was going to live. All those things would work themselves out as long as I kept going and pushed aside the agonising questions that kept attacking me. I managed to walk past the front of SavaMart without so much as glancing in, surprising myself by my self-control, and I hurried along the alleyway that skirted it on the far side and followed it round into the small street that backed onto the store. I’d noticed and mentally logged the staff entrance a few days previously, and now I found an unobtrusive spot in a doorway opposite and tucked myself into its shadow, leaning against one side of the grubby concrete that framed it and fixing my gaze on the double doors in front of me. A part of me still felt as if all of this was unreal – that at any minute I would pull myself together, understand where I was and laughingly return home, anticipating as I went the jokes and good-humoured teasing that would take place when I admitted that the whole charade had been an elaborate hoax.

  ‘What?’ I could hear myself saying. ‘Run away from home? Me? Like a kid with a spotted hankie tied on a stick? I’m sorry – what did you say? I don’t think I quite heard you – leave home because I’ve become obsessed with a fat girl who works in the supermarket round the corner? Oh yes, that’s utterly believable, isn’t it? I mean, that just makes perfect sense – that I, a respectable barrister, should walk out on my own family – quite apart from the comfort of the house I’ve spent much of my working life striving to pay for – and follow some daft girl I’ve hardly spoken to.’ They’d all be laughing now, of course, amused by my irony, the ludicrousness of my story and the witty way I was expressing it.

  I looked down at my feet. They weren’t budging, of course. Much as I knew my behaviour and motivation to be incredible in any sane world, in the one I now inhabited it was only too real.

  My heart was beating uncomfortably hard, pulsing up into my ears every second or so, and I was aware of the sweat – cold now in the chilly wind that crept into the doorway – on my forehead and upper lip. I wiped it away with my forearm, the material of my jacket feeling rough against my skin, and glanced down at the sheen it left on the black sleeve.

  ‘God – I didn’t even pick up a coat!’ I muttered, and laughed at the streak of practicality that insisted on poking itself into my crazy world from time to time. I looked across at the double doors and then down at my watch. Five forty: from my regular stakeouts of the store over the last few weeks I’d worked out a rough schedule of the way the girls worked their shifts, but which one she was on today I had, of course, no idea, not having planned in advance – or indeed planned in any way at all – this sudden mad dash into the unknown from the safety of my predictably shaped life. No matter: I would wait until I got some sort of clue. No one would find me here – and no one, apart from Judy and the kids, would even be trying. I would ring the office in the morning and leave another vague message about ill health with the girl on the switchboard to keep them happy for a day or two at least, but for now in all likelihood I would be left alone to enjoy my stakeout in peace.

  Although I was cold it didn’t bother me; the weather was part of the old external world that had very little to do with me or my present situation. I was able to insulate myself effectively from all stimuli except the all-important information being absorbed and relayed to me by my eyes, which were trained exclusively on the doors opposite. A couple of staff members came and went, and I shrank back into the doorway as they did, frightened that one of them might recognise me and pass on to Stacey or Mr C that the old guy was waiting for her outside. A stalker – I supposed that was what I was.

  Then the worst happened: the next person to leave the store was young smoothie himself. As he pushed open the double doors, I noticed that Chipstead’s lithe, swooping swagger was far less pronounced once out of the surroundings of his little kingdom. He looked smaller, too, in his fuzzy grey overcoat, and less sure of himself. He paused on the step, looked about him, pulled a pair of woolly gloves out of a pocket and put them on carefully, checking the fit of the fingers one by one and pulling the cuffs of the coat carefully back over the wrists. I moved even further into the shadow and watched him step down from the kerb and cut diagonally across the road, thankfully not looking my way as he scanned for traffic in both directions. He walked out of my line of vision, but I could hear his footsteps receding down my side of the street. I relaxed a little and leant forward to peer out of the doorway to see where he was headed: with Chipstead safely out of the way I would feel easier about waiting for Stacey.

  As my head emerged from the safe frame of my grubby hiding place he turned and looked straight at me. Whether I’d made some slight noise as I moved or whether he’d sensed my eyes seeking out the back of his neck I shall never know, but the reaction was instant and unexpected: a broad smile stretched out his mouth and he spun round on the spot – in a flash reacquiring the suppleness of his managerial persona. He made a move towards me that was at once graceful and idiotic – a parody of a mime artist gliding on seemingly motionless feet along the pavement between us. He reached me, still grinning, and stuck out a gloved hand.

  ‘Ah! Waiting for Stacey, sir?’

  I felt like hitting him, but was held back by common sense and an instinctive need to keep open all possible channels to Stacey
, and I smiled weakly back instead. I hesitated for a moment before replying, but reasoned that, having gone this far in my extraordinary journey, nothing would be gained by fabricating some alternative reason for my presence. Indeed, my chances of progress might well be improved by admitting the truth.

  ‘Yep – that’s right.’ I beamed, taking hold of his hand and shaking it firmly. Even through the woolly glove I could sense the weakness of Chipstead’s reciprocation and was silently thankful for the layer of knitting that separated my flesh from what I felt sure was the clammily cold limpness of his. ‘Out soon, is she?’

  There was no doubt I had chosen the right tack. In spite of Mr C’s rigidly maintained smile I sensed that my jovial lack of embarrassment at being caught staking out the staff entrance of his store had caught him off guard. I wondered how he would have reacted had I shown fear and guilt at his approach: called the police? No, that would have been a move too precipitous no matter what he suspected, nothing in my behaviour having come anywhere close to being criminal. From what I had so far seen of this officious little man he would be well up on his rules and regulations. (I made a quick mental note to refresh my memory on the recent anti-stalking laws.)

  ‘Brenda passed on your card. Very thoughtful of you, Mr …?’

  Now here’s a thing, I thought. Why is my immediate instinct to hide my identity and assume an alias? I made a speedy assessment of the pros and cons and found myself unable to find any possible advantage in using a false name.

  ‘Thornton. Charles Thornton. And you are?’ I said – as if I didn’t know.

  How quickly we learn to deceive when it matters to us. I’ve always liked to think of myself as a reasonably straightforward man, and had assumed that my honesty was born out of an innate sense of morality and ‘rightness’, not that it existed merely because its strength in withstanding a selfish need pulling in the other direction had never been tested. From the very first sign of its being needed to further my progress in seeking the love of Stacey, I was able to undertake this kind of mild deception without any qualms.

  ‘Warren Chipstead. I’m the store manager.’

  ‘Yes, I assumed you were, Warren. And I’m a barrister: family law.’

  ‘Oh, really? Yes, that’s very interesting.’

  I could sense reluctant admiration fighting with disdain as he nodded briefly and I almost pitied the man. A deeply ingrained side of his character, influenced no doubt by an upbringing surrounded by old-fashioned ideas of respect for authority, for power and for the medical and legal professions, was telling him that the man before him was in some way respectable and safe.

  ‘Stacey better, is she?’ I returned, calmer now that the initial confrontation had passed off so successfully.

  ‘Yes, she seems pretty good now, sir. Much better. Or at least’ – and he paused for a split second to punctuate his sentence with a smirk – ‘as better as she’ll ever be.’

  A spasm of terror clenched my balls, and I fought to keep the fear from moving up into my face.

  ‘How do you mean? Does she have something serious? Something –’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no, Mr Thornton.’ (Was it part of SavaMart’s policy that store managers, like Americans or good maître d’s, should be required to absorb names and faces on one hearing? Or had he, too, known my name all along, as I had his? I, once again, imagined their discussing me over tea in the staff canteen, laughing at my obvious attempts to chat up Stacey.) ‘I merely meant’ – and his expression became even more knowing as he leant slightly towards me and spoke man to man – ‘that Stacey’s body isn’t exactly built for health. I don’t see her on the jogging machines, do you, sir?’

  I was shocked by the violence of the instinctive reaction that fought to overcome my natural physical cowardice and I had to close my eyes and shut out the wretched man’s face for a second to prevent myself smashing my fist into it. I controlled myself by thinking of the terrible consequences of letting go, and by the time I looked back at him I even managed to produce a small smile of apparent complicity. I saw a way forward.

  ‘Poor creature,’ I said, still smiling and shaking my head slightly. ‘I feel rather sorry for her. Dreadful to let yourself go like that. I assume you keep yourself pretty fit, Warren?’

  Chipstead’s little body went into display mode: he pulled his shoulders back and at the same time stretched out his neck and jutted his chin as if preparing for a fight, making him look like a bird wearing a collar two sizes too small. ‘I like to think so, sir: physical fitness is indeed a bit of a hobbyhorse of mine. I’ve been encouraging my area manager to think of installing a small fitness centre on the premises for the staff, in fact. But space is at a premium in central London stores, as you can imagine. I’ve considered commandeering part of my back depot but I just can’t think where I’d put my bulk dry goods.’

  We pondered this interesting question together in silence for a moment. I restrained myself from making a suggestion as to what he could do with his back depot and merely nodded wisely in sympathy. I felt strangely relaxed in his company now, almost fatherly towards him.

  Not for long. A spasm of toe-curling delight suddenly zipped through me as I saw Stacey emerging from the entrance opposite. What the hell was it about this enormous child that so gripped my heart? I was reassured to find nothing but love engulfing me as I watched her struggling to get through the space that would have fitted two normally proportioned people with ease. I felt no hint of regret or even mild anxiety at the sight of the girl for whom I was risking everything.

  ‘There she is, sir,’ said Chipstead redundantly.

  ‘Ah, yes, so she is.’ I smiled back at him. ‘I shall go and pay my respects.’ Why I was talking like Mr Darcy on a bad day I have no idea; I’m sure I would have tipped my hat, had I been wearing one. ‘Please excuse me, Warren, I shall catch up with you later.’

  As I crossed the street, Stacey noticed me and stopped her manoeuvring for a second. Her body was positioned sideways-on in her attempt to get through the doorway, but her lovely face was turned directly towards me. She looked startled, and I smiled gently and reassuringly at her as I came nearer. I saw her eyes flick across to take in Chipstead, and I called back a quick ‘Good night, Warren,’ to him over my shoulder, hoping not only to allay Stacey’s doubts by linking myself with a figure of safe familiarity, but also to encourage him to go home.

  Surprisingly, and in spite of Chipstead’s obvious curiosity, it worked on both counts. He began to move off down the street, usefully returning my farewell with a ‘Good night, Mr Thornton’ as he did so. I saw Stacey’s expression relax a little, causing me a small pang of jealousy as it shifted briefly through obvious regret at his departure on its way to interest in what I was going to do next.

  She still hadn’t moved and I was able to take a better look at her as I approached. She wore a girly pink-striped dress and over it a black coat made of cheap, shiny leather. The coat was unbuttoned, and one side of it was caught against the hinge of the door where her bulk pushed against it. I held my hand out to her and smiled again.

  ‘Stacey,’ I said gently. ‘You must let me help you.’

  Ben

  ‘Ben, you absolutely mustn’t blame yourself. That’s just too corny. It’s only because your parents have been so stupidly close all your life that you’re taking this in such a heavy way. Most of us just view this kind of thing as normal, you see. You wait – he’ll come back. Then you’ll wish he hadn’t, ’cos the rows’ll start again and that’s much worse than him going off, isn’t it?’

  Holly looked so pretty I wanted to kiss her but it didn’t seem right in the middle of what we were talking about – I was worried she’d think I was only pretending to be upset and I wasn’t: I was feeling terrible and I couldn’t find anyone to believe me about it being my fault. I don’t know what I was hoping for anyway – supposing she had said, ‘Yes, it’s all your fault and you’ve broken up your parents’ marriage and you may never see your dad again�
�? Then what? I can’t see that making me feel any better. No, I guess deep down I was hoping she’d really manage to convince me that I couldn’t have done anything to stop it, but I can’t see that that was possible. Or maybe I wanted her to agree that it had been my fault and be really sympathetic and sorry for me and put her arms round me and all that stuff. Anyway, there wasn’t any point in going on about it all – I knew she’d never understand – but I couldn’t just break off in the middle and start grabbing her tits and all the things I wanted to do. But if I went on moaning about it being my fault Dad had gone off then she’d just keep comparing it to her parents and it wouldn’t get us anywhere. They’re completely different from our family. I’m always surprised by how little they can say to each other; Mum, Dad, Sal and I have always been able to talk about anything.

  At least we used to be able to, but now I think about it we’ve none of us been the same for quite a while now. I didn’t realise until this terrible stuff happened, but it’s made me think about everything and I can see we’ve all changed over the past year or so. Sally seems like the only one of us who’s not really much different. Maybe because she’s out of the house a lot more than Mum, Dad and me, she manages to chat about college and her friends and everything in the same way she always did. I know I’ve found it harder lately to talk to the family about what I’m feeling – especially since I’ve been having all these thoughts about life and what it means and the implications of the quantum physics and so on. And already I can’t remember what it was like before Dad started going weird – I just don’t know anything, and Ma’s been so different since she started her headaches that I guess I’m imagining how good it was. Maybe they’ve been hiding really bad secrets for years and we never knew.