by A J Waines
‘Wedding bells?’
‘Hell, no – it’s only been about three months,’ I said. Three divine and delicious months.
‘Good-looking,’ she said wistfully. ‘Why is his arm in a sling?’
‘He came off his motorbike,’ I said.
I remembered Justin’s fascination after it happened. ‘Dad’s shoulder nearly came right off,’ he’d said, with a nine-year-old’s innocent pride. ‘The doctor said they might have to pull the skin off Dad’s bottom and stick it onto his arm.’ Justin had been laughing. ‘How funny would that be?’
Miranda straightened up, clearly bored with this line of questioning.
‘Didn’t you get my letter?’ she said.
‘Letter? No. When was that?’
‘Last week.’ Miranda had stopped examining everything and stood in the centre of the space, looking terribly fragile. I noticed her mousy hair was thinning, turning grey at the temples. She seemed to have lost her train of thought.
‘Do you want cereal?’ I asked with warmth. I wanted to reach forward and stroke her arm, but my heels stayed pressed into the floor.
‘No. No cereal.’ There was a poignant silence. ‘I’ve changed,’ she said. She looked at me, her thin smile seeking acknowledgement.
‘Okay…’ It was one of those statements that could imply either a minor alteration or a turnaround of enormous proportions. I wasn’t sure how far down the road towards personal transformation Miranda was talking about – or was capable of, for that matter. ‘The letter?’ I said.
‘Oh that. It was asking if I could come and live with you.’
I dropped the butter knife. ‘Live with me?’
‘Yeah. Not for long. Just until I get myself back on my feet.’
Miranda was twirling a clump of hair around her finger non-stop. ‘I bet you rang Linden Manor,’ she snapped accusingly.
‘Yes, actually,’ I sniffed. ‘I needed to check, that’s all.’
She pulled the knot of hair across her mouth and started chewing it. ‘They said I can try living in the community. Properly, you know, but the place they lined up for me was awful. I had to leave. They’re sorting something else out for me – somewhere better.’
‘When? Where?’
‘I’m not sure, yet.’
‘Sit down,’ I said evenly. This wasn’t the kind of conversation we could have standing up. She plopped down in one single movement.
‘Tell me how you’ve been, Mimi.’
I was struggling to hide how unsettled I was by this unexpected announcement. I needed to slow things down.
‘It’s Miranda. I’m not that person, any more.’
‘Okay. Sorry.’ I handed her a glass of orange.
‘I’m much better. Obviously.’ She laughed, nervously. ‘If I could—’
I didn’t want this sliding away from me. I needed to get things straight right from the start.
‘You can’t live here, Mim—’ I stopped myself. ‘It’s a one-bedroom flat, Miranda. There isn’t room.’
She got up. ‘Yes, there is.’
She went into the sitting room. I watched her spin around with a look of approval, like a satisfied buyer about to put in an offer.
‘It’s not meant for two,’ I called out from the kitchen.
She stood at the door, a sulk dragging at the corner of her mouth. She’d never been a proper older sister. Never been a proper sister – full stop. But it was easy to forget that none of this was her fault. Her mental health problems had been diagnosed a long time ago, although Mum had always maintained that Miranda was just plain ‘difficult’.
I drained my glass of orange and left it where it was, resting my heavy head on my hand. Before I knew it, Miranda was refilling my glass.
I tried to grab her arm. ‘No – it’s okay, I—’ The glass tipped over and juice splattered across the table making a little waterfall onto the floor. She grabbed a blouse from the clothes horse, squatted down and draped it over the puddle forming on the lino. ‘No, don’t use my—’
I sat back.
There was no way I could cope having my sister to stay. She’d been here less than thirty-six hours and already I was tearing my hair out. She seemed to be in every room at once; beside me, behind me and standing in my way.
Almost instantly, an unwelcome vision of the alternative jumped into my head; Miranda wandering out into the street, trailing her coat on the ground behind her, staring straight ahead, following a distant light only she could see. Easy prey.
‘Listen, you can stay for a few days – but that’s all.’
‘Fabulous!’ She reached out and scooped me into a firm embrace. My arms turned to lead. I couldn’t lift them. I tried, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even press my cheek into her shoulder. She drew back, pretending not to notice.
I wanted to say something kind and hospitable, but it felt like all my emotions were squashed inside a washing machine – tumbling around, mixed up, choked. I asked instead if she wanted toast.
‘Only if you’ve got Marmite,’ she replied.
Now that the arrangement for her to stay a few days was settled, we moved on to other subjects. Safe subjects: London, fashion, cooking. She told me she’d been working at an art project in Camden.
‘You’ve got a job?’
‘Selling art materials and covering a few shifts at the café. They’re letting me have gallery space to see if I can sell some of my own work. There’s a workshop, so I paint there too.’
Perhaps she really had moved on.
Our words came and went; a robotic conversation. How will I get to Camden from here? Plenty of trains every hour. Yes – it would only be for a few days.
‘I’ve got access to a van, now and again,’ she said. ‘It’s not mine – but we can book it through the project.’
‘You drive?’ It was hard to regard my sister as an adult, doing things that normal adults did.
‘I’m not incapable, you know,’ she retorted. The strain of keeping up with this new version of Mimi was giving me a headache.
As I cleaned my teeth before heading off to work, she let out a squeal from the cupboard in the hall. ‘You’ve kept it!’ She appeared at the doorway. ‘My lovely trench coat…’ She hugged it tight against her, as though someone was inside it. ‘You still wear it?’ She rubbed the wide floppy collar against her cheek.
‘Now and again.’
That was a lie. I wore it all the time. Miranda had given it to me the last time I’d seen her. Was it really more than four years ago? It was expensive and she’d loved it, so I’d always suspected the gift had been an aberration; a moment of rash camaraderie. It was the only physical connection I’d had to her apart from a handful of photos. I didn’t want her to know just yet how much the coat meant to me.
A sudden ache warned me she might want it back.
‘What happened to me – it can happen to anyone, Sam,’ she said, as she hung it back on the hanger. ‘It’s not about being weak.’
I nodded. It was the most grown-up thing she’d said since she’d arrived.
Chapter 5
One month earlier
There’s no reason to come here. It’s simply where I got off the bus, unable to carry on. I couldn’t sit there any longer with normal people around me. I couldn’t breathe.
I close my eyes and rest my elbows on the top of the fence. I need to stride out across open spaces, feel a sense of freedom, feel in touch with the bigger scheme of things. I start walking across the common but it’s no good. I can’t escape.
It hits me like this – fresh each time, as if I didn’t know about it. I’ll be going about my day and suddenly I’ll plummet into a massive pit that opens up in front of me. I can’t help returning to the pain of it; scratching it, prodding it, making it worse.
Why is it coming at me again and again? It’s not like it happened last week. I should be used to the horror of it by now.
Heading out to the clifftop the other day was a mistake. Thinki
ng about it now, I feel stupid, pathetic. What I need is something constructive – to confront this. Something to combat these constant feelings of helplessness.
But, I still haven’t worked out what that’s going to be.
I’ve tried everything I can think of to fight back, but there are too many obstacles. The whole thing is too big, insurmountable. The worst part is feeling powerless. I’m left with this terrible resentment, too, that my world has been blighted. Bitterness that this has to happen to me, when I’ve done nothing whatsoever to deserve it. It’s so unfair!
I’ve got to take matters into my own hands now – before I run out of time.
Chapter 6
Present Day
After my first session of the morning, I had a call from a nurse in intensive care to tell me a patient had been asking for me. I thought it must be Holly, the little girl I’d spoken to in the corridor, but I was led to a man’s bedside in the adult section instead.
The man was Asian, around twenty, banked up on high pillows gingerly holding his chest, as if worried it might burst open at any moment. I recognised his eyes – bold and almost black – with light creases scoring his tall forehead.
‘I’m Aaqil Jabour,’ he said, his voice hoarse. A tube had been fitted between his ribs attached to a suction device. ‘Thank you for finding me. I thought after what you did for me, I’d feel able to speak to you.’
I’d first met Aaqil after a racist attack, last week. The ambulance carrying him drew up alongside me as I was walking over to the bike shed at the end of the day. I’d moved to get out of everyone’s way, but a nurse beckoned me over to his trolley as he was wheeled on to the tarmac.
‘Punctured lung – he’s unconscious,’ she’d whispered, easing a ventilator tube out from under his head. ‘Someone stabbed him on the way back from his uncle’s funeral. He asked me for words from the Koran,’ she said, gritting her teeth, ‘but I couldn’t help.’
It was essential in my work to have meaningful words of solace to hand, but I knew only one part of the Koran by heart. I leant close to his ear and gently asked if a few lines from Fussilat, verse forty-one, would be okay. He showed no signs of having heard, but I carried on anyway:
‘Do not fear and do not grieve but receive good tidings of Paradise, which you were promised…’
His eyes had flickered and opened briefly, then he’d extended a limp hand towards me and squeezed my thumb. Running on adrenalin, I went on reciting, drawing out the words from the far corners of my memory. He’d slipped back into unconsciousness by then, but the grooves in his forehead had softened.
Now, seven days on, he was lying here smiling at me.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d heard me that day,’ I said, looking down at him with tenderness. ‘I’m glad it helped a little.’ I pulled the curtain around his bed; the rings rattling along the pole like someone dropping a handful of coins.
‘I thought I was going to die,’ he said, ‘but hearing those words, I felt I could have met Allah with peace in my heart.’ I pulled up a chair and sat beside him. ‘They said you are a therapist, that I could come and see you.’ He continued to hold his chest.
‘Most of my appointments get booked months in advance, but I always keep some for emergencies,’ I said. ‘I’d be very happy to work with you.’
I meant it. It’s rare for members of the Asian community to seek help beyond their extended family; going ‘outside’ to see a professional is often considered taboo. He must have felt a genuine connection with me.
‘When can I start?’ he asked. He tried to laugh, but it turned into a guttural splutter instead.
‘You’ll need to feel a bit stronger, first. Also, when you’re still in shock, it’s hard to see if there are going to be any long-term issues.’
‘I’ll speak to the doctor and get my name on your list straight away,’ he rasped. ‘It’s cognitive, right?’
‘Mostly, yes. We’d explore your feelings first, sort it all out in your head and look at managing some of the immediate symptoms.’ I talked him briefly through the procedure and asked about his sleeping, any intrusive thoughts and flashbacks. He complained of nightmares, being afraid to fall sleep, being jumpy at the slightest noise – just as I’d expect.
I got up to go; already he was looking grey with the exertion of talking to me.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said. ‘It will help, I’m sure of it.’
He tried to sit forward and wavered, needing me to catch him before he toppled sideways. He clutched his chest and I guided him back down again while I called for help. Dr Boyd didn’t take long to make an assessment and within two minutes Aaqil was being wheeled away for emergency surgery.
I felt sick after he’d gone. He was clearly not yet out of danger.
Before my next patient, I made my way to the A&E main desk.
‘There was a little girl called Holly,’ I said, holding up the ID badge hanging around my neck. ‘She had a broken leg and internal injuries…’
‘Oh yeah, I remember – coach accident,’ said the receptionist, flicking through sheets in a file. ‘Here she is. Holly Farnbury. Eight years old.’
‘Which ward is she in? I thought I might pop in to see how she’s doing.’ I could picture Holly’s pale, bewildered face; the pleading grip of her small fingers.
The woman turned a few more sheets, then moved over to the computer screen.
She straightened up. Her voice dropped. ‘I’m so sorry…’
I nodded and took a step back, unable to speak.
I was going to need a thicker skin for this job than I’d thought.
As soon as I returned to my office, there was a tap on the door and my next patient, Terry Masters, came in. He was in his early twenties; a tall, gangly man who looked like he was going through a turbulent, but misplaced, adolescence. He had all-encompassing acne, lank greasy hair and an inability to look me in the eye. He sat on the edge of the chair, leant forward on his knees and stared at the floor. This was his second session. He’d fallen off scaffolding six weeks earlier and had needed surgery on his arm.
Like many of my patients he was troubled by nightmares and now his sleep was out of kilter, he was having difficulty during the daytime too.
‘I can’t get interested in nuffin’,’ he muttered. ‘Can’t even be bothered to see my mates.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s weird is I can’t feel nuffin’ – you know? I see the images in my head, like watchin’ a movie or sommat – and it’s like it’s not me. Like I was there, but I wasn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘I dunno how to explain it.’
‘That’s a totally normal reaction,’ I said. ‘It really is. People tend to cut off because it makes what happened seem less scary. You don’t want it to be real.’
‘I find it hard going out. Every time I leave the house, I think this is it. I’m gonna die. This car is gonna leave the road and run me over. This bloke is gonna come at me with a knife.’ He grabbed at his hair. ‘I feel like I’m goin’ mad.’
I spent most of the session, just like his first one, trying to help him normalise his experience. Just before the end, he said something that made my ears prick up.
‘You said the traumatic experience happened about ten days ago,’ I said. I ran my finger down my notes. ‘But it says here you sustained your injuries six weeks ago. Have we got that wrong?’
‘No, that’s about right.’
‘So there were two incidents; the one where you fell off the scaffolding at work and needed a skin graft for your elbow and—’
‘Yeah – that’s right. The bad stuff is about the recent one. I was shocked by the fall, obviously, but it was just one of them things. I shoulda been more careful. But the fire…on the Underground…’
‘At Liverpool Street?’
He bit his lip. ‘I don’t even remember gettin’ down there. I don’t know where I was going. All I can remember is bein’ trapped on the Tube. We came to a sudden stop and the lights went out and people fell all over the place, g
rabbin’ on to each other. They were hammering on the doors trying to prise ’em open. Someone said they could smell smoke and we thought there’d been a bomb. Everyone was just desperate to get out, but there was nowhere to go. It got hot, like effin’ fast – and this dreadful stench of scorched oil was everywhere...’
It all came tumbling out. He started to hyperventilate.
‘Okay, Terry, purse your lips like I showed you last time, like you’re going to whistle.’ He did as I said. ‘Now count to three on the in, and three on the out breath…easy…good…and again, count to four, this time…that’s it…now five…’
I handed him a glass of water, but he waved it away and insisted on continuing. ‘I wanted to help, you know, but I was scared. No – that’s not true. I didn’t wanna help. I just wanted to get out. I didn’t care about anyone else. I managed to get through the connecting door into the next carriage. And then the next. I didn’t stop. People were cryin’ out, holdin’ out their hands. I shoulda stopped, but I stepped over ’em until I got to a door that was open. It was the only part of the train by the platform, the other carriages were still inside the tunnel. It was a crazy stampede, man.’
He froze, staring ahead of him as if the events were unfolding right here in the room.
‘On the stairs, before I got out, the lights flashed on and there was this little kid wearing a red coat. She was cryin’ for her Mam – and I just pushed past her, knocked her over…’ He dropped his head, drew in a thick, gluey sniff. ‘I was a bastard. I can’t forgive myself for that,’ he said.
I let out a deep breath. ‘It takes a lot of courage to admit to that,’ I said.
‘I feel like fuckin’ shit,’ he replied.
Once my consultations were over, I walked along the Thames path to the Royal Festival Hall. I bought myself a gin and tonic, taking it down to the riverside so I could stand and watch the water roll and break.
As the river lashed the wall beneath me, I began to see the depth of psychological wounds I was up against in this job and it didn’t fill me with enthusiasm. It also brought up disturbing questions I imagined no one ever wants to answer.