“Yeah, but even so, mate, you could probably find something better than upstairs. Don’t get me wrong, I like having you round here and Porridge is a great hoover, I just wondered why you’d take such a dive on, when you could afford somewhere a bit nicer. Not being funny, like.”
Simon shrugged off the question. “I just want to stay around here. That’s my family home over there.” He gestured out the window into the dark street. “All my memories, all our hopes. I just want to be close to Sarah. Or Sarah’s home. I dunno. Can’t be bothered looking for anywhere else, anyway. No point. All I need’s a bed. Oh shit.”
“What?”
“Bed. I forgot a duvet. Don’t suppose there’s anything up there is there?” Simon drained his pint and hopped off the barstool.
Steve shook his head. “Nah, sorry mate. I don’t think I’ve got anything spare either. Only have a few bits and pieces myself, you know how it is.”
Simon nodded. Steve’s wife had left him two years before, which had led him to give up his job as a mechanical engineer at a prestigious international company and buy a boozer in a backwater. Judging by the rotation of his wardrobe, the man only owned two shirts and a football top. He lived on takeaways and was on first name terms with every delivery driver in town.
“That’s alright, Steve. Need to take the mutt for a walk anyway. I’ll pop back home. Come on, Porridge.” The dog stretched and trotted over to the door. “Will you be open when I get back?”
Steve flipped off the lights on the beer pumps. “Probably not, mate. I’ve just about finished down here, to be honest. If you look on the key ring I gave you, there are two different keys. The bronze one will open the kitchen door in your flat – just nip up the fire escape by the kitchen bins.”
“Okay, will do. I could do with walking a bit of this beer off anyway.” Simon swallowed a belch. “’Scuse me. Clear head for the morning and all that. Are you not eating tonight?” Simon glanced pointlessly around, searching for Steve’s usual pizza box.
“Nah. Got a Pot Noodle upstairs. Bombay Bad Boy flavor. Can’t go wrong. Do you want me to stick your bag in the flat on my way past?”
“If you could.” Simon kicked the bag. “Watch it, it’s heavy.”
“No problem, mate. Used to beer kegs, aren’t I? Tell you what, I’ll even put a Pot Noodle in your kitchen for you if you like. You can call it a house-warming present.”
“Um ... smashing. Thanks.”
* * *
As Simon slipped through the back gate of his property, he was surprised, considering the late hour, to see the lights still on in the conservatory. He walked as quietly as possible across the gravel courtyard that flanked the rear of the house. He made his way, somewhat unsteadily, toward the back door to the conservatory, recalling the duvet that was stashed to the side of the sofa. It had been used during the day for Sarah in recent weeks. Porridge’s dog basket was also near the back door. He could slip in and out without Melissa even noticing. Simon looked up at their bedroom window and noted that the light was out. Must be in bed already, he thought. She was not in the habit of going to bed late.
He approached the door, idly noticing that the light in the conservatory was cold and flickering. Splashes of colored light intermittently dappled the windows. Telly’s still on. Bugger.
Simon peered through the small gap between the conservatory blinds and the wooden doorframe, cursing Melissa for having insisted on such a tight customized and expensive fit. He could see very little beyond the strips of clear glass. Porridge trundled off to sniff his garden as Simon moved along the windows, trying to see if Melissa was still up, the half-centimeter slither of clear glass beside each blind his only viewpoint. A shape on the sofa that might be Melissa. A wine glass on the floor. A hand, trailing along the ground. An empty bottle. A smashed glass. Teddy bears. A red teddy. A teddy bear that should not be red.
“Melissa!”
Simon sprinted to the back door, fumbling with his keys as he discovered the door was locked. The key stuck slightly and he swore as his haste and alcohol intake exacerbated his clumsiness.
“Melissa!”
He finally engaged the key correctly and stumbled as he tripped into the room.
“Mel’, are you okay?” Simon’s sense of alarm calmed slightly as he took in the scene.
Melissa stirred on the sofa. “Sime? Don’t feel very well.”
Simon rolled his eyes and swore. “Jesus Christ, Melissa. I thought you were bloody dead. What are you playing at?”
Simon put his hands on his hips, realized that he resembled his own mother in that position, and folded his arms instead. Melissa lay near comatose on the sofa, next to two empty and overturned bottles of red wine on the terracotta tiles. A wine glass lay overturned, a puddle of red wine seeping across the orange tiles and soaking a previously white teddy bear in its path. “What the hell are you doing, Melissa? Look what you’ve done to Sarah’s teddy. Mum bought her this. Jesus, Melissa, look at the state of you.”
Melissa moaned unintelligibly. “Drank too much.”
“Yes I can see that. Get back, Porridge, there’s glass on the floor. Good boy. Come on, I’ll have to help you upstairs. What the hell came over you? I thought I was the one who was meant to have a drinking problem. Jesus, Melissa, you can hardly sit up.”
Simon, now thoroughly sober, tried to hoist Melissa over his shoulder, but her rag doll demeanor made her a dead weight. He managed to get her to a sitting position, taking all her weight as he dragged her off the sofa. “Whoops, steady. Right – can you walk? That’s it. One step in front of the other. Here we go.”
“Simon, I’m going to be …”
“Oh, Jesus, Melissa. Quick over to the sink, just hold on. Oh, for fuck’s sake, Melissa. Oh, oh. Jesus. It’s alright. You’re okay. I’ll never get that clean. Okay, I’ve got you. Don’t cry. You’re just a silly girl who’s drunk too much. I’ll hold your hair back. Hang on, I’ll move the bowl – never mind.”
Melissa retched again, regurgitating Chianti with astonishing power. Simon held her hair back, stroking her shoulders and muttering simple platitudes. There, there. Better out than in. Let’s get you to bed.
They made it up the stairs, Simon grateful no more red wine was being ejected. He settled her into their bed, and took off her shoes but left her in the pinstriped dress she was wearing. He noted with astonishment a ladder in her tights.
He heaved her into the recovery position and placed a waste paper bin by the bed. Melissa muttered a thank you, then blacked out as Simon backed out of the room.
Downstairs, Simon cleaned out the sink, thoroughly disinfecting the area. He threw away the empty bottles, retrieved the broken glass and straightened the cushions on the sofa. He picked up the teddy bears, which were scattered around the sofa, a number of which were marked with black streaks of mascara. He picked up the teddy that had been stained with wine. Ruined.
The volume on the television rose suddenly, the late night film giving way to the usual adverts of the off-peak hour. “We’ve got hundreds of girls, just waiting to chat in your area.” Simon switched it off.
The room fell silent, the house eerie, dead. The normal clutter and chaos of the family home was gone. The walls held no emotions, no vibrations, only objects. The house was an overcoat. Its soul had departed.
Porridge's nails click clacked over the tiled floor as he made his way over to his master. “We’re going, boy. Come on.” Simon took a tray of dog food from the larder and put it in the bin bag with the unspoilt teddy bears. He rolled up the duvet and tucked it into the dog basket, balanced a pillow on top and threw a slightly slimy and well-chewed rubber chicken on top. Awkwardly, he wedged the load under his arm, his keys in the other hand. “Come on, Porridge, we’re off. I’ve packed Chewy The Chicken. We’re going to our new home.” Simon clipped the lead back onto the dog’s collar and left the house, locking the door behind him.
He did not look back.
Chapter 23
The woman gabbled up another snotty tissue and dropped it on Simon's desk. The moist little ball turned Simon’s stomach. Whilst blood had never bothered him and he could deal with warts, bunions and verucahs with cheerful resignation, damp tissues upset him deeply. Something about the fibers disintegrating under the weight of germ-laden mucus appalled him
He offered his waste paper basket with a tight smile.
“So, Mrs. Foster … Mary, sorry. You’ve been feeling like this since your son moved to New Zealand?”
The woman snuffled an affirmative, dabbing her eyes and rolling another tissue into a damp mish-mash.
“Have you had any weight loss? How is your appetite? Are you eating more, less?” Simon scribbled on the corner of a notepad, concentric circles being his doodle of choice.
“I’m not hungry. I suppose I have lost weight. I just can’t seem to be bothered eating. I can’t be bothered with anything, to be honest.”
“Right.” Simon’s circle widened. He ran out of room on the paper and began another one. “Do you find that you are still engaging in your normal level of social activity, or has that dropped off?”
The woman perked up a bit. People do enjoy talking about themselves, thought Simon.
“I don’t want to go out.” The woman began to tear corners from the tissue, causing Simon to shudder. “I used to go to Bingo every Tuesday and Thursday but now it just seems too much of a chore. I don’t even go to the coffee morning at the Community Centre anymore. Everything seems such an effort.”
Simon drew spokes on his circles. “And how about how others perceive you? For instance, I note that you speak slowly. Have you always spoken like this? Has anyone mentioned your speech patterns?”
The woman looked surprised. “Well, my son says I’m different on the phone. I just put it down to being tired. As I said, that’s what made me come in, Doctor. I just can’t seem to get up in the mornings. I’ve always been such an early bird but now … well, there doesn’t seem much point. Oh, thank you.” She put the shredded tissue into the bin, which Simon had yet again proffered.
“I think, Mrs. - Mary - that you are suffering from depression. It’s not uncommon in our more mature citizens, especially those who have lost a spouse or, in your case, a son. I believe your son lived very close to you over the years, didn’t he, Mary? It must have been hard for you when he got a job in New Zealand.”
“Awful.” Mary sniffed. “I couldn’t believe he went. I know he had to do what was best for him and that – but New Zealand. I’ll never afford to go there. I’ll never see him again. He might as well have died.”
Simon looked up sharply from his notepad. “Hardly.”
“Sorry?”
“Hardly. Look, I think we should start you on a very low dosage of fluoxatine, more commonly known as Prozac. No, don’t look so alarmed. We’ll start on a very low amount and see if we can’t help you feel a little better. Depression, Mary, is a lack of the hormone seratonin. This hormone is the chemical that balances our mood. When we don’t make enough, we get depressed. This can be triggered by a traumatic event – loss of job, grief for instance, or even, in some cases, by other drugs. By administering a small amount of fluoxitine, we can begin to regulate your seratonin levels until we balance your mood again. Tell me, have you been feeling suicidal at all?”
Mary looked up at him and frowned. “No, I don’t think so. I suppose it has crossed my mind. It doesn’t really seem such a big thing, nothing does. There’s not much to live for really. I don’t feel scared by death at the moment. I don’t feel anything at all. No, I’ve not planned to kill myself, but I’ve thought about dying and it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. I suppose, I have thought about just ceasing to be. Not waking up. That wouldn’t be so bad…”
Simon nodded and added more spirals to the scribbles on the notepad.
“Right, well, I think that we ought to start you on a low dosage and see you monthly to keep an eye on things. They can make you feel a little sick to start with. Here’s an information sheet which will answer any questions but, of course, if you are really concerned about anything, come back and see me.”
Mary took the information sheet that Simon had printed out for her. “But aren’t these addictive? Do they turn you into a zombie?”
Simon completed the prescription and handed it over. “We will be very careful with the dosage and we can wean you off them when the time is appropriate. We won’t keep you on them for any longer than a year. They might make you a little woozy and foggy for a few days – only slightly. You must keep taking them, though. There are more details on the sheet.” Simon smiled and stood up, helping the woman to her feet.
“So, it’s as easy as that is it, Doctor? I take these and I feel better?”
Simon opened the door. “In your case, we hope so. Sometimes counseling is necessary to deal with any underlining pain or problems, but I think in your case, Mary, we should see good results with the medication.”
“Oh. Right. Thank you, Doctor.”
Simon bade her farewell and closed the door. Sitting back at his desk, he completed his paperwork and buzzed reception to call his next patient: Mr. Mohammed and a varicose vein. Simon sighed. He really could not be bothered.
* * *
Simon took one bite of his chicken and bacon pre-packed sandwich and decided it was more hassle than it was worth. He intended to use his half hour lunch break to catch up on some paperwork, but first he would have to deal with Melissa.
Whilst he was pretty sure that she was safe in the position he had left her, Simon retained a dogged sense of duty towards his wife. He had, he supposed, better check that she had not choked on her own vomit, appealing though the thought was.
Also, he needed to clear up the business at Madron House. Melissa had done a thorough job painting him as a deranged maniac. Now she’d better undo the damage. He intended to see his daughter.
He took out his mobile and hit the speed dial key for Melissa.
“Yes.”
Simon took a deep breath. “Hello, Melissa and how are you?”
“Fine. Shouldn’t I be?” A falter – just a little one, but recognizably a chink in a piece of armor he’d been acquainted with for twelve years. She doesn't remember.
“No sore head? Dry mouth? Nausea – no, I suppose you don’t feel sick. Got all that out of your system last night.”
“Oh. It was you.”
“Yes, of course it was me, Melissa. Who the hell else would be putting you to bed at midnight?” Simon stood up impatiently. He needed to pace.
“I thought perhaps I’d …”
“No. You were certainly not in a state to do anything. In fact, if I hadn’t found you, you probably would have choked on your own vomit. I won’t be wearing my beige Calvin Klein jeans again, by the way.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, 'oh'. I can’t believe you ruined that little white teddy bear. I put it in the washing machine but no doubt it’s totally ruined. A bit much having you vomiting and throwing red wine everywhere, when you’ve accused me of being an unbalanced drunk. What were you playing at?”
“I was watching a film. ‘Reality Bites’. We watched it the first night I moved into the house in Headingly. Do you remember?
“No.” Simon lied. “And I don’t see how watching a daft film from the nineties should have you projectile vomiting my best Chianti. Twelve quid a bottle, that stuff.”
“I was just a bit emotional. It brought back a lot of memories. How things were … Never mind.” Melissa’s voice hardened. “What were you doing there anyway? I thought you’d moved into the pub.” Melissa injected venom into the word.
“I forgot Porridge’s basket and a duvet for myself. I thought seeing Porridge had been uprooted from his home, the least I could do was provide his normal place to sleep. I thought you’d be in bed. I didn’t expect to find a sozzled old drunk on the couch.”
“You can talk.”
“Don’t start that again.” Simon sat back
down at his desk. “Anyway, we need to talk about all this nonsense. Obviously I need to see Sarah. I’m coming down this evening after work.” There was a pause. “Melissa?”
“You can’t.”
“Why?”
“Well, not on your own.” Melissa sighed. “You really did cause an awful lot of upset yesterday.”
Simon stood up again. “I caused upset? Melissa, everything that happened yesterday was entirely your fault. The dog was upset because of you. I don’t know what you’ve been saying to them, but you'd better unsay it.”
“I can’t. They don’t feel it’s safe to leave you alone with Sarah. I’m sorry, I know it may seem rather harsh …”
“Harsh?” Simon laughed mirthlessly. “So how do we sort this out? How do we get this lifted?” Simon paced again. “Because you know as well as I do, Melissa, that I pose no threat to Sarah. No man has ever loved his child more than I do. God knows, I don’t want her to suffer, but as a doctor I have faith that she is being made as comfortable as possible. I can’t believe you are still punishing me for talking to Sarah that night.”
“What does it matter if you have someone with you, then? Sarah isn’t talking much anymore anyway. Dad’s been reading her the Harry Potter book every day. She’s quite insistent that they find out what happens.”
Simon was quiet for a moment. “I want to read it to her.”
“You can. Just not alone.”
“This is ridiculous. I could speak to a lawyer.” Simon sat down again, resuming his doodling on the notepad. “I can take you to court. You can’t stop me seeing my daughter.”
“We’re not stopping you seeing her, Simon. You can see her whenever you want. Just not alone.”
“We? What is all this ‘we’? On whose authority? You and Rhonda can’t just decide this. You need an authority.”
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