She appeared to be uncomfortable, and shrugged: ‘I don’t know. I think it might be the government.’
‘What makes you think they’d do that?’ he asked, feeling uncomfortable.
‘This will sound even worse…I’ve been told it.’
‘Who by?’
‘I don’t know. People who are trying to help me, I think. Only, I’m not sure where they are. The doctors say they’re only in here…’ she tapped her head. ‘And they’re not real. I know that they’re meant to be a symptom of my illness too. But, wherever they come from, they seem to make sense.’
‘Why would the government be listening?’
‘This is really hard for me to explain, to admit to, but over the last few years, at different times, I’ve been sure that I’ve been able to do things that’ll probably sound quite absurd.’ She took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I’ve been sure that I can fly, and I think there’ve been times when I’ve been able to walk through walls.’
‘Do you remember actually doing those things?’
‘I’m not sure. I have problems remembering what’s happened, and when. It’s because of the medication. The pills dull my senses, my perceptions…and also my abilities. I’m told that I’ve done those things…’
‘By the voices?’
‘Wherever they’re coming from, yes. It’s hard to know what to believe, especially when I’m not on much medication, like now. It’s when I seem to be getting better and the doctors lower the dosage that my abilities seem to return, but I can tell that they’re watching me. I mean, just think of the implications if somebody could actually fly, or walk through walls! I’m sure that I’m being followed again; everywhere I go there’re people watching, spying on me. I’m convinced that they want to catch me doing those things. So, of course, I make sure that I don’t do them. If they caught me they’d take me away and try to work out how I do it. Mad eh?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think that maybe it gets out of hand sometimes; I mean, my illness gets out of control. I see their spies everywhere, not only in policemen, but traffic wardens, school children; anyone in uniform…I know, it’s silly. As I say, at times I’ve been convinced of things that must be absurd, but I think the pills have done that to me. I kind of lose track of time, of how long I’ve been in hospital, and how often…I can’t remember where I was, or how I was, when I believed different things…It doesn’t help that some of the things I’ve believed can’t’ve ever been true.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t want to tell you. They really have been the beliefs of somebody who’s psychotic; I know that. They would undermine the things I’ve told you. You see, I’m not a reliable judge of any of this.’
Kate put her hands over her face.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ considered Scott. ‘I’ve no experience of anything like this. What you’ve been through, well, it’s completely alien to me.’
‘I’m glad,’ she replied, composing herself. ‘Really, I am, for your sake. I hope you never have to know what it’s like not to trust your own mind.’
‘Have you tried doing those things, the things you believe you can do, when you’re completely off the medication?’
She nodded.
‘And…?’
‘I think that I could do them, if I’m not on much medication, but I’m worried they’re watching me, waiting to see how it’s done. So I don’t usually try.’
‘It would be lovely,’ he said, hesitatingly. ‘You know…to fly.’
She nodded and laughed nervously.
‘I wish that I could convince just one person. Then I wouldn’t mind everyone else telling me it was a delusion. I’d go along with it. I’d take my pills like a good girl and not resent them all calling me mad. You know what my sister calls me?’
Although he remembered Hattie’s outburst he shook his head.
‘A loony. I’m an embarrassment to her.’
Scott put his hand out over the table to hers and squeezed it. She stared down at him and he released her.
At that awkward moment there was a knock at the door and Kate frowned.
‘I’ll see who it is,’ she said and got up from the table. Scott sat back in his chair and wondered if the new visitor might not be the cue for him to leave. He heard the door open and was horrified to hear Hattie’s rather booming voice.
He then heard Kate say very precisely: ‘Could you come back another time?’
‘Why? Is there somebody with you? Who is it?’
‘A friend.’
‘Who? You don’t have any friends.’
‘You can’t come in. This is my flat.’
‘I still need to keep an eye on you, for your own good.’
‘Hattie, no!’ protested Kate, but Hattie was obviously through the door, into the hall and then Scott saw her enter the sitting room. When she saw him she looked appalled.
‘You again!’
He stood up, ‘Hattie, listen…’
‘Get out!’
‘Hattie!’ protested Kate. ‘I’m well-enough to be out of hospital and have my own friends. You can’t stop me, and nor can anybody else.’
‘I certainly can!’ she announced, and then pointed at Scott: ‘You, out, now!’
‘No!’ insisted Kate. ‘I’m talking to Scott, explaining things.’
‘What? Are you telling him that you’re schizophrenic? That you hear voices? That the schoolchildren are following you?’ she asked. ‘And is he saying that’s okay? It’s not a problem? Have you told him those embarrassing things you’ve done, like walking around naked because you thought you were invisible?’
Hattie then turned on Scott:
‘And are you so desperate for a girlfriend that you’d sleep with a girl who I once found smearing herself in her own excrement?’
‘I never did!’ said Kate. ‘You’re just being horrible.’
‘Oh yes you did. He needs to be told what a loony you are; a nutcase, a freak!’
‘Stop this now,’ insisted Scott. ‘What you’re saying is wrong.’
‘And what would you know about it? Okay, let’s talk about this sensibly.’
Hattie took off her coat and sat down in a rickety armchair.
‘Sit down,’ she ordered Kate, who did so nervously, perching on the edge of the sofa. Scott unwillingly brought through the kitchen chair and sat down a calculated and careful distance from both women.
‘Now,’ Hattie said, presumably trying to keep the patronising tone out of her voice, but failing. ‘Kate believes she can walk through walls, and that she can fly. Did you know that Scott?’
‘She told me, yes.’
‘And do you believe her?’
‘Kate believes it.’
‘That’s not what I asked. Do you believe her?’
‘I think it’s highly unlikely…’
‘Nicely put.’
“But I see no problem with discussing it with her.’
‘Why? It’s a waste of time. You know and I know that it’s utter rubbish. And if Kate believes it, then it’s proof that she’s a nutter.’
‘If she has an unreasonable belief…’
‘Yes?’
‘A belief that doesn’t get in the way of her functioning in everyday life, then what’s the problem?’
‘You’re not being serious?’
‘I am. Look, why is Kate’s belief any more silly than, say, a belief in God? From my perspective as an atheist the whole concept of God seems just as unlikely. But we’re meant to respect those who have a religious faith.’
‘That, Scott, is rather different.’
‘No it’s not.’
‘Why isn’t it?’
‘Believing that some bloke two thousand years ago was the son of God, was crucified and then came back to life…it sounds like nonsense to me. But if people want to believe it, then the best of luck to them. Why should I care?’
‘What you don’t appreciate is that they have a religi
ous faith. What Kate has is a chemical imbalance in her brain. Her beliefs are potentially dangerous whereas religious ones aren’t.’
‘Religious beliefs aren’t dangerous? What about all the wars in history?’
‘That’s hardly helping your argument…’
‘Stop it, both of you,’ shouted Kate, standing up. ‘At this moment I don’t know if I can fly, but sometimes I just want to let myself go up into the air, and go up and up and continue up and up and leave this whole horrible world behind me.’
‘I think I understand,’ Scott said.
‘And what do you think you’d find up there?’ asked Hattie.
‘I don’t know. Angels?’
‘Angels?’ her sister raised her eyebrows and looked at Scott with pantomime incredulity.
‘I don’t know,’ Kate replied. ‘It sounds better than passenger jets or weather balloons.’
‘See, she’s mad,’ said Hattie simply.
‘You believe me,’ Kate turned to Scott. ‘Say you do. You’re the one person I want to believe me.’
‘I don’t know what to think. But does it matter?’
‘Of course it bloody matters,’ said Hattie.
‘Why?’
‘I thought it mattered,’ said Kate. “I thought that I wanted Scott to believe me. I thought, for some reason, that he might, but I don’t suppose it does matter.’
‘What you need to realise…’ Hattie started to say.
‘No, wait,’ said Kate with quiet determination. ‘Scott, would you think any the better or worse of me if I actually could or couldn’t fly?’
‘I don’t think it would make any difference. It would be marvellous if you could, but…’
‘Okay,’ she held up her hand to stop him. ‘Hattie what is it you want from me?’
Her sister frowned, and then looked uncomfortable.
‘I want you to be well, to be normal.’
‘Not a loony, not a freak?’
‘Look, why are we even having this conversation? This whole business can be simply cleared up. All you have to do is fly, or walk through that wall into your neighbour’s flat. If you succeed, then I will apologise and agree that you’re not ill, but amazingly gifted. If you fail then you ought to agree to stop believing these things are possible.’
‘Okay,’ agreed Kate and stood up.
Scott saw the psychiatrist after he had been give the all-clear from the fracture to his skull, although the complications from his broken collar-bone would persist for another six months.
‘I know what I ought to say,’ Scott told him, and the psychiatrist smiled. ‘I know what the appropriate response should be, and if that’s what you want then I suppose I’ll have to give it.’
‘But it wouldn’t be what you really believe?’
Scott didn’t reply.
‘It’s entirely reasonable to have a false memory of what happened after Kate walked out of her front door that evening.’
‘I know, and it’s been explained to me that I probably don’t actually have any real memory because of the injuries I sustained.’
‘Your mind will have tried to make up for the lacunae, to imagine the events in an effort to explain them. Those thoughts are what you’re remembering; not the actual event.’
‘But all you’ve got against my word is that of the young men who’d been hanging around outside her block of flats?’
‘We’ve rather more evidence than that, I’m afraid.’
‘Hattie can’t contradict me.’
‘Her sister? No, apparently not. She’d remained sitting in the living room until she heard your screams. But the boys saw Kate climb over the railings two storeys above them. They saw you trying to stop her but you couldn’t quite grab hold of her properly. You did what you could…’
‘I’m sure I remember that I nearly had a hold of her, but she slipped away from me; she was too insubstantial to get a grip on…I have it my mind that she just flew away from me, into the night, out among the great big flakes of sodium-coloured snow.’
‘I know that’s what you want to believe happened, but it wasn’t what the witnesses saw. They saw her fall, and then you lose your balance and fall after her. She hit the ground first.’
‘They said that?’
‘They said she simply fell without a sound, the snow doing nothing to cushion her fall on the frozen ground. She died instantly; she wouldn’t have been in any pain.’
‘How come she died but I survived? After all, I landed on my head!’
‘It was a fluke. You apparently flailed around as you fell, shouting, before landing awkwardly, but luckily.’
‘Luck? I suppose so.’
‘It was a miracle you didn’t break your neck at the very least.’
‘I was told that Kate’s legs crumpled up beneath her. Her pelvis was shattered and her spine broken.’
‘As I said, she died immediately; she wouldn’t have been in any pain.’
‘I’m glad of that. But…’
‘But?’
‘None of that is how I remember it,’ Scott said quietly. ‘She slipped through my fingers but she was flying away from me; up, not down. Why are you trying to convince me otherwise?’
The psychiatrist shook his head: ‘It’s my job to. From where I am sitting yours is an unreasonable belief, but I don’t know…So what? I’m wondering whether it will make you a happier, better person if you accept my version of the facts? Is society really in danger if you believe that Kate Wilkins flew? I think not.
‘Scott,’ the psychiatrist said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss, and for your injuries. But I don’t think you need my services.’
The Dress
I awoke this morning in what appeared to be a strange house and I lay between unfamiliar sheets trying to remember exactly where I might be. I was not especially worried at first. I was wondering whether I had been put to bed drunk after a party, but I did not feel particularly jaded. I was tired, but then who isn’t, first thing in the morning? And it did seem to be early morning; the bright sun, only just above the horizon, came in through the large bay window and lit the room with precision. This was silly, I thought, and I decided to get up, asking myself who my host or hostess might be.
I walked, slightly shakily, across the carpet in my bare feet and looked out of the window. I appeared to be in an elegant arts and crafts house with a short drive and a well-tended garden. There was a pleasant view out over what I thought might be the Lake District.
When I turned back to the room I was not sure that it was entirely unknown to me after all. I looked up at the ceiling and there was an old cracked patch in the plaster moulding around the light fitting. I knew it; I was sure that I did. But why did this knowledge reveal nothing to me? This was just one of a number of important questions that I needed to have answered, but my attention was taken by a photograph on the chest of drawers. In a thin silver frame, it was a studio portrait of a very elegant young woman with heavy eye makeup. She was wearing an angel dress from the 1960s, but who she was I could not imagine.
And then I noticed a copy of Pride and Prejudice on the window-seat. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands and felt as though I had been reunited with an old friend. The blue cloth was worn and soft, and the coffee-ring on the front suggested to me that I had seen it before. I opened the book and noted the name, ‘Cecilia’, written on the flyleaf with a bold ‘C’. But who was Cecilia? Was it me? And if the book was mine, what was it doing here, in this strange room?
I put it back down and picked up a Moorcroft vase, causing something to clank inside it. I did not need to look to know that there was an old, rusty key in it that would not come out; I knew that it had found its way inside the vase during some dim, far-off childhood, and that for some logic-defying reason it would not now come out.
I looked down at myself, in a plain white nightdress, and that, too, was familiar. I realised, of course, that something was fundamentally wrong. I walked over to the full-length mirror by
the door and the moment before I saw my reflection I was afraid that I might not recognise the person that would be staring back at me. For a whole second, perhaps, the reflection was a surprise.
I had shoulder-length dark hair, reasonable features, not too lined for my age, and I was quite slim. And as I considered my reflection I decided that perhaps the way that I looked was not completely alien. But I could not have said that the reflection was really mine with any confidence.
So who did I think I might be? If the book on the window-seat was mine, and that was my vase, then yes, I even had a vague memory of the mirror I was staring into.
I opened up one of the cupboard doors and the clothes inside dismayed me. Even if I thought I had known them before, they could not possibly have been mine. There were dresses, possibly hundreds of them; they were beautiful, of the best possible quality, but they were old and belonged to another time. From their styles and colours they dated from the late fifties and early sixties.
They seemed to suggest that this was not my house after all. And surely I ought to know my own home? My own bedroom? I looked down at my hands, and I felt the same way about them as I did the objects around me; they might well be mine, logic suggested that they were, but I was only just able to recognise them, and it took a while to do so.
Panic and tiredness engulphed me in a combined wave; I felt nauseous and my limbs were suddenly heavy. I had to sit on the edge of the bed, not wanting to give in to the weariness because I had to make sense of what I was experiencing. It seemed to me that the first time I looked at anything I believed it to be new to me, but then I doubted that first impression. However, given a little time, I would then accept that whatever I was looking at did belong to me after all. But I did not like the fact that I believed these things to be mine without any understanding of them. I was worried that I was deluding myself; that my mind was trying to assure me that everything was fine, when deep down I knew that it was not.
What really thwarted my attempt to feel at home in that room were the dresses in the cupboard; however hard I tried I could not appropriate them for myself. I was becoming scared, and looked around to see if there was anything else that could explain my situation.
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