Downward

by White, Bethan

  The woman looked up at her, with trusting eyes. ‘I haven’t got a computer,’ she muttered.

  At that moment, to Chris’s relief, a door opened and a woman popped her head out. ‘Mr Rowan?’ she asked, pleasantly. ‘Would you like to come this way?’

  The consulting room was a pleasant surprise. It wasn’t, like the reception area, painted a glacial white. The walls were a pale primrose and the posters on the wall, though perhaps a little on the graphic side, were not as noticeable. There were pictures on a shelf above the computer screen, of three smiling children, all leaning on a black Labrador, which was sprawling in front of them; and if a dog could smile, surely this was doing just that. The doctor herself was in her early forties, he guessed, with untidy fair hair escaping from its pins. A cup of coffee steamed faintly on the desk. She noticed his glance.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, moving it to the other side of the screen. ‘I had rather a hectic lunchtime; one of my patients had a fall and I had to dash out.’ She smiled at him. ‘But what can I do for you, Mr Rowan. We haven’t seen you for a while. In fact, I haven’t seen you at all. I inherited you, if that’s the word I want, from my predecessor.’ She sat back, smiling. It was clearly his turn now.

  ‘I haven’t been very well.’ It was as good an opening as he could come up with.

  ‘Now, strangely enough, that is something you share with most of my patients,’ she said, still smiling. ‘Can you be a little more specific?’

  He sat there. He knew he only had ten minutes, if that. How could he tell her that his life was in ribbons, that he had started seeing things, that the lights in the tunnel were worse than an oncoming train, in that they seemed to be going out one by one and leaving him in an impenetrable dark. ‘I have headaches,’ he said. It wasn’t really accurate, but it was a start.

  She looked at his record on the screen in front of her. ‘I see you have a prescription for naproxen, but you haven’t had a refill in … gosh, years. So,’ she looked at him, ‘have they started increasing in frequency? Severity? Perhaps it’s time for an MRI; I see you turned one down last time. Oh.’ She looked at the screen and then at him, with no further comment.

  ‘Oh? What does “Oh” mean?’ He was beginning to feel the tightness in his chest.

  She turned the screen further away from him. ‘Mr Rowan,’ she said. ‘I will give you something for your migraines, of course I will. An MRI wouldn’t hurt, either. But I so have a note here that says your … wife, is it? Partner? Anyway, she has expressed concern about you over the past year or so. When she has been here for herself or,’ and she leaned back to check, ‘Kyle. Something about nightmares? Mood swings? Does that sound about right?’

  His mouth had gone dry. He didn’t know whether to be furious that Megan had been talking about him behind his back or to break down in tears of loss and pain that he had had someone who loved him that much and had thrown her away.

  The doctor reached over and took one of his hands in both of hers. ‘I can see you are in a very bad place, Chris,’ she said, gently. ‘Now, I see you have moved out of your previous address, so I assume that you have perhaps experienced a loss.’

  ‘Nobody’s died,’ he said, his voice coming thick with tears.

  ‘A loss isn’t just a death,’ she said, softly. ‘A loss can be anything from a change of home to a loss of a job.’ She read his face. ‘Or even all of those. Tell me, have you had any panic attacks?’

  He nodded. ‘Yesterday,’ he muttered. ‘And I think sometimes before that. Little ones.’

  ‘I see.’ She still held his hand and he didn’t want her to stop. Her palms were warm and dry and the pressure of her fingers soothed him. ‘I think we need to try and deal with those, first. Then the depression …’

  He pulled his hand away and began to say that he didn’t have depression. Then, he remembered Cassie. He tried to put his hand back between hers, but she was tapping on the keyboard now, the moment lost. ‘I … yes, I do sometimes get a bit of depression.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, as I say, let’s deal with the panic attacks for now. You can come back in, shall we say a month? Yes, in a month and by then I will have been able to make you an appointment with a therapist.’ She saw his expression. ‘Now, don’t go all macho on me, Chris. You’ve come in here today and that shows you know that you need help.’

  ‘My friend made the appointment,’ he said, sounding sulky even to his own ears.

  ‘Then, he’s a very good friend,’ she said. ‘I’ve sent a digital scrip to the chemist in the High Street. You can pick it up in half an hour. It’s something to help for now. Is there anything else?’

  The drunken woman on Saturday night rose up accusingly and sneered at Chris. ‘There … there was a woman. On Saturday …’

  ‘Unprotected sex?’ The doctor was matter of fact. ‘Never very wise, Chris. But I understand. Sometimes we all want to be hugged, don’t we? Well,’ her fingers walked through a display of leaflets on her low shelf, ‘pop yourself round to this clinic and they’ll be able to give you a once over. Now, don’t worry; they don’t judge.’ He reached out for the leaflet but she hung on to her end. ‘Now, Chris, don’t just bin this. Go round to the clinic now. Today. This isn’t something that should wait. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Right, so, your tasks for this afternoon. Pick up your scrip and then go to the clinic. Taking every day one at a time helps, believe me. Where are you staying at the moment?’ She glanced at the screen again. ‘Oh, with your mother and Rev Mike. That’s nice. Well, I’ll see you in a month, Chris. Things will be looking brighter then.’ And she turned back to the screen, tapping keys once more.

  Chris found himself back out in the reception area, like Adam cast out of Eden. Happily, Mrs Murchison, as far from an angel with a flaming sword as it was possible to imagine, had gone, leaving only a faint, grey whiff behind.

  Outside the surgery, Chris hesitated. The leaflet was still in his hand and he looked briefly through it. The clinic was at the hospital, in the corridor to the left of the A&E entrance, just before you got to the Fracture Clinic. It assured the potentially pestilential that no one would judge, that they would just give sound advice for future sexual health and also make sure that any current infection would be dealt with. Speed was of the essence and the morning-after pill would also be available to suitable recipients, on request. That clinched it. There was no way he was going there when there was even the slightest risk of bumping into his … whatever you could call the woman from Saturday night. He dropped the leaflet in the bin. Now, just one more choice to make. To go to Mark’s pharmacy and pick up his happy pills, or not. No choice, actually; he needed to move on and move on he would. He’d go to another doctor if he had another panic attack. Until then, the tablets could wait.

  Although he was actually no further forward, he felt as if he had taken huge strides down the road to wellness. He had done something. Even though Mark had made him go and then the doctor had made all his plans for him, it still felt empowering that he had walked up to the counter and made himself known, even though that had taken a while. Now, another counter beckoned. Two more counters. He pulled the paper from his pocket, with Mark’s neat writing on it. Right. Half an hour to get to the benefits office. And then after that, another hour till housing. With any luck, he would have a job and a roof over his head by nightfall. Bosh! He hummed as he walked along. One thing you could rely on, he told himself. You always got a good hummable tune out of Foreigner.

  The dog watched him go, its wagging tail slowing to a halt. Then, it lay down to wait.

  He’d be back.

  God’s Away on Business

  *

  The benefits office, job centre, whatever it was calling itself these days, was squeezed into a space between a boarded up shoe-shop and an Oxfam charity shop, which somehow put a bit of a crimp in Chris’s good mood. On the concrete benches outside, a number of people sat hunched over roll-ups and just one or tw
o had an empty Starbucks cup at their feet with a few hopeful pennies in the bottom, to encourage the others. Chris tried not to judge them, but really! They looked unemployable and so they were unemployable. He wasn’t a political man, but the government should be addressing this kind of thing, they really should. He pushed at the double glass door and went in.

  The first thing he noticed was, yet again, a boot-faced woman behind a reception desk. Was that going to be the recurring theme today? He tried not to breathe too deeply; he wasn’t sure what the smell was in there. Surely, despair didn’t have an actual smell, did it?

  He walked up to the desk and waited to be noticed. But it appeared that the woman’s expression was just a default; when she looked up at him and smiled, it was as though the sun had come out. She was younger than she had first looked and her eyes smiled along with her mouth. Chris wished she would go and give lessons to the rancid trout at the doctor’s and make everyone’s lives that bit more bearable.

  ‘Chris Rowan,’ he said. ‘I have an appointment.’

  She glanced at her screen. ‘Ah, yes; you’re a tiny bit early and I’m afraid we’re running a tiny bit late.’ Even that statement made her smile. ‘Here,’ she rummaged in a drawer, ‘here’s a token for the coffee machine. Why don’t you get yourself a hot drink and grab a magazine while you wait. Mr Jefferson won't be long.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I don’t need the token. I’ve got plenty of change.’

  Again, the smile. ‘It only takes tokens,’ she said. ‘It prevents … you know …’ and she mimed an angry shaking. ‘It’s best if there’s no money in it.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ Feeling a little silly, he took the token and got a coffee, in perhaps the flimsiest paper cup in the western world. Juggling the red hot liquid made it impossible to read as well, so Chris filled his time between careful sips by looking round at the others waiting patiently – or otherwise – to be seen. The receptionist called out names from time to time but didn’t give any hint as to who they were going to see. The poor benighted soul in office number one seemed to get the lion’s share of the work, but that may have been because he or she kept things short and sweet. On average, anyone who went into office number one was in and out within five minutes. Office number two averaged ten and whoever lurked in office number three had only taken one person since Chris arrived and he hadn’t come out yet.

  Chris was still mulling over which office would be best – short and sweet or a thorough grilling – when the receptionist called his name.

  ‘Mr Rowan,’ she trilled. ‘Office number three, please.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and walked towards the door.

  ‘Do you have all your paperwork?’ she asked.

  ‘Paperwork?’

  ‘Our letters, benefit details, NI number. That kind of thing.’

  ‘No. I don’t have anything. I know my NIN, but that’s all.’

  Her smile froze. ‘I see. I’m sure Mr Jefferson will be able to help you, nevertheless.’ As he walked away, he saw out of the corner of his eye, that she turned to a colleague behind her, mouthing ‘No paperwork’ and pulling a face. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

  Once inside the office, things began to head downhill at a rate of knots. Mr Jefferson looked as if he had been dug up after a long and uncomfortable burial. Back when TV watching was in his own hands and not those of his mother and the vicar, Chris had been a staunch Sleepy Hollow fan. Megan had enjoyed it too, but mostly for the hero, who made her go all gooey. Chris enjoyed it for the sly humour and the special effects, which were pretty good. Mr Jefferson looked just like the horseman’s severed head, underground for two hundred years and counting. The man finished writing and then put the pages in a file. Only then did he look up.

  ‘Mr Rowan.’ It wasn’t a question, or a greeting. Just a remark.

  ‘Yes.’ Chris pulled out a chair and sat down, his bag at his feet.

  The man at the far side of the desk held out his hand. ‘Paperwork,’ he said, moving his fingers impatiently.

  ‘Umm … I don’t have any.’ Chris saw the skull’s mouth tighten. ‘I do know my NIN though.’ He recited it, proudly. He was the only person he knew who could do that.

  ‘No paperwork at all?’ The head was outraged. ‘Well, I suppose we can start from scratch. Hmm … I need to find the right forms. I don’t usually need them … if you will hold on a moment.’ He swivelled his chair around and searched through a filing cabinet behind him. ‘Yes, here we are. I prefer to work on paper first, then transfer it to the system.’ He said the word as though it had holy significance. ‘The system is very unforgiving of errors, Mr … umm …’ he consulted his screen, ‘Rowan. Best to make them on paper, I always say. Less trouble down the road that way.’

  ‘Yes.’ Chris felt it might be his turn to speak but had nothing to say.

  Jefferson pulled the sheets across and uncapped his pen. He shot his sleeves, adjusted his glasses and was finally ready to begin. ‘Let’s start with full name and date of birth, shall we?’

  Chris trotted them out.

  ‘Address.’

  ‘I don’t actually … well, I was living with …’

  The man held up a testy hand. ‘Please, Mr Rowan. Just information at this stage, please. Excuses we will explore later. So, you are no fixed address?’

  ‘Yes.’ It sounded bald and brutal but was also true.

  ‘But you have an address to which we can send correspondence. Somewhere where you visit from time to time?’

  Chris thought of Mike Green’s face contorted with fury. He thought of his mother’s tears. ‘I … I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, we can hold post for you.’ He made a note. ‘Right, now, on to your previous employment. What was your job? I assume you are unwaged?’

  ‘Yes. I thought that I would be … well, talking about a new job today.’

  ‘First things first. That is another department and I will give you details of that shortly. For the moment, we need to see what benefits you may be entitled to.’ He looked over his glasses at Chris and bared his teeth in a ghastly smile. ‘We are not heartless here, Mr Rowan. But we need to do things in the right order.’

  ‘The system,’ Chris said.

  ‘Precisely. Now. Previous employment?’

  ‘Stanley’s Estates.’

  ‘Ah, yes. In the High Street.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you had been with them for …?’ The pen hovered.

  Chris cast his mind back. ‘Four … no, nearly five years.’

  ‘I see. And did you hold any seniority?’

  ‘I was … well, it didn’t have a title as such. I was the second in command, I suppose, to Mr Stanley. When he was on holiday and such, I was in charge then.’

  ‘Right.’ Another note. ‘So, you lost that position because …?’

  Chris looked down at his hands, which he realised were clasped tightly together in his lap.

  ‘Mr Rowan?’

  ‘I … Mr Stanley and I …’

  ‘An altercation.’

  ‘He said he had had complaints … he brought in my personal life, but he had that all wrong. I … I walked out.’

  ‘He sacked you?’

  ‘Well, yes, but … I’m not sure he meant it. I meant to go in, talk it over, but … I rang up, but he wasn’t available.’

  Jefferson put down his pen and took off his glasses. He took a little cloth out of a drawer and polished the lenses furiously before putting them back on. ‘I need to get this right, Mr Rowan, before I enter it on the system. You were sacked, you think, because of an inaccurate personal slur and you rang back once but didn’t speak to Mr Stanley. Is that it, in a nutshell?’

  Chris nodded. Put like that it sounded stupid, but it wasn’t stupid. His chest started to tighten and he concentrated on his breathing. Jefferson was beginning to recede down the tunnel.

  ‘Did you seek legal advice?’

  Chris shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I … it
seemed like a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I see.’ This time the note was long. ‘Would I be right in saying, Mr Rowan, that in essence you made yourself unemployed? That steps that a reasonable person would have taken, the man, as it were, on the Clapham omnibus, to use an old analogy, would have taken, were not taken by you?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t make myself unemployed, no. But I suppose that, yes, I might have tried harder to fight my corner. It all seemed …’

  ‘Like a lot of trouble. Yes. I understand. Tell me, Mr Rowan, and forgive me if this question seems a little personal, but do you take drugs of any kind?’

  ‘No! No, I don’t!’

  ‘Please don’t take offence,’ Jefferson said, ‘but your rather lacklustre demeanour made me wonder. Are you, then, suffering from any mental condition for which you receive medical assistance?’

  The trouble with this guy, Chris decided, was that he never used one word when a dozen stupid ones would do. His hands weren’t clasped any more; each one was a fist. ‘No. I’m not mental!’

  ‘I don’t believe I said that.’ To give Mr Jefferson credit, approaching the end of a very long day, his tone was still even. Mrs Jefferson often boasted to her friends that her husband hadn’t got a temper, and this certainly had to be true. It was the only way he had kept the job for so long without going stark, raving bonkers. ‘If you had a diagnosis of such a condition, it would help your case immeasurably.’ He didn’t have a temper, but on the other hand, he couldn’t tell with any accuracy whether someone else across the desk was about to lose theirs, a serious flaw which had caused quite a lot of broken furniture in office number three.

  When no answer was forthcoming, Mr Jefferson carried on delivering the bad news. ‘As you did, in the letter of the law, make yourself unemployed, there is no benefit I can pay you now. Taking your last day of work … did you receive money in lieu of notice?’

  Chris’s nod was almost imperceptible.

  ‘Then I am afraid it will be some months before I can arrange any benefits. Are you in need now? What, for instance, did you do with your payment in lieu?’