by Caroline Day
He’s pulling me really hard, with his fingers digging into my shoulders. And now it’s him who’s holding me. It hurts.
And I need to go away. My mum is dead. It’s the worst thing in the world. And it’s real. I need to go.
I lift up my knee very hard and it goes whack, right between Lu-do-vic’s legs which is where his goolies are, but inside his coat and his trousers. And he’s making a noise which is a bit like the soft corduroy cushion in my kitchen, when I sit on it very hard. Like bphhh. His fingers have stopped pressing into me.
There’s another noise which is like a crack or a bang, and it’s because of him bending over so quickly, with his hands between his knees, and his head hitting the desk as he bends down. And the other man, called Stephen or Simon, is saying, oh God, is he OK. The lift doors are still open. I’m running into them. The buttons say 1, 2, 3, and at the bottom there’s one that says G. I press that one because of G being ground, which is the library. And it’s still open, the library, with people in it. There’s an old lady who drops her books. I say sorry but in my head, only, because of my mouth not saying anything much, except for some noises, which aren’t crying, just like little sounds like maybe an animal.
My mum is dead.
I don’t have to think about where to go. Sometimes, I forget about the ways, the which ways to go, even if it’s to my house, but not now. Now it’s like my brain doesn’t even need to try to remember, it’s just taking me. It’s quite noisy with the car horns and the people shouting about watching where I’m going and also it’s noisy in my mouth, which is the sounds, like an animal, and the big breathing, because of not liking to run so fast.
Three words. One. Two. Three. Yes, she’s dead.
I don’t have my notebook. It is still in my bag, the one which is a backpack, and it’s still on the back of the chair, by the desk, in the reception of the writing class, on the third floor above the library. It’s in there with also some biscuits and some old knickers, which are a bit smelly, because of me forgetting them. And I’ll have to remember to take them out next time. And wash them to make them clean.
Except, that’s wrong. There isn’t going to be a next time. Silly me.
Even without my notebook, I’m thinking that I can remember my research, because of it not being very much anyway, and because of Connor Flynn helping me, too. Because of him saying the thing about throwing oneself into a train being maybe not the best way but being another type which is with the most probably-ty maybe. It’s not how doctors want to do it mostly, because of that being with poisoning. But that’s OK because I’m not a doctor. And, even without my notebook, I think it can’t be that difficult, not even for me, just when the train is coming, that’s when I have to do the throwing.
I think it’s probably easy-peasy.
The station is very close to my home. That’s why it’s called 23a Station Close: because of the station. It’s just on the left, like if you lift up your hand, with your thumb out and a space and your next finger out too, it makes a letter L. And L is for left, like G is for ground.
I can’t buy a ticket, because of my purse being in my bag, with the notebook and the knickers and the biscuits. But luckily, the gates are open, I don’t know why. So I don’t need a ticket to make the gates open. I’m thinking maybe I just need one because of it being the law. But I think it’s OK for me to not have one for the law, actually, because anyway I’m not going on the train. As I’m coming past the bit where the ticket machines are, there’s a noise, like whoosh, whoosh, rattle, and it’s the train which is leaving right now, so – flip a pancake, I’m missing it. And I’m running and running, in case I’m just in time. But when I get to the top of the stairs and then down again, which is the platform, it’s empty, with no people and no train.
There is a sign which says when the next one is coming and it’s at 18.16, then another one at 18.23, and the first one is to Gatwick Airport and the second one is to Rainham (Kent). For a moment I’m wondering which one is my train, which is very silly, but then I’m thinking how long is that, because of not having a watch and not being very good at the time. There is a big clock that is hanging up, with its letters very straight and red, and it says 18.07 and, as I’m looking at it, it changes to 18.08. I’m thinking it’s maybe not a very long wait, not like an hour, so I sit on a bench, which is a real bench, made out of wood which is hard. There are empty crisp packets on it, which are Prawn Cocktail and Barbecue Beef and a newspaper which is the Sun. And it smells a little bit like wee.
In my ears and in my body I can hear a sort of banging, which is bumbum bumbum, and that’s my heart, because of running. And I’m thirsty again, like Kurt Vongut says, because of wanting another glass of water. And I’m wondering how long the train will be.
I’m thinking about the throwing. I’m thinking probably it should be like a jump, like when I was at school and we did the long jump and the high jump. And I’m thinking this should be most like a long jump, really, but maybe I don’t need to count the one, two, three steps first. But then I’m thinking maybe one, two, three would be good, because of already counting it in my head, with my hands under my bottom, because of not feeling very calm, and because of my chest being too fast. And I’m really very thirsty now, and I’m humming a bit and I’m thinking about the three words.
Yes, she’s dead.
I don’t really want to be a person on the track. But I don’t want to be a Hope Nicely without a Jenny Nicely. I just want to be the old way, like before, with my mum who had her big arms and her nice smell and wasn’t open eyes with no words and wasn’t dead. But now she is. She’s dead and in a box.
Now I have to rub my hands over my face, because of all the tears, and because of my nose being snotty. I’m crying very hard. And I’m wishing I had my bag, because of having some tissues in there, because of my mum, Jenny Nicely, always saying to me, have you got your phone, and have you got your purse, and have you got some tissues. And now my fingers are wet with the snot and the tears and I can only wipe them on my leggings.
I’m thinking about a squirrel. I saw it one time, when I was going into the park. And the squirrel was lying in the road, with its tail still all fluffy and its arms and legs straight out, like maybe it was reaching for a nut. And its eyes were open and black. And it was dead. But when I came out of the park, after doing my walks, where the squirrel had been, it was more like a pile of goo. It was red and pink and bits of purple. And if there hadn’t still been the tail, it wouldn’t even have looked like anything.
18.10. I’m thinking that after this it will be 18.11 and then 18.12, then 18.13 then a few more and then 18.16 and then it will be the train to Gatwick Airport and I can do the long jump.
I’m shaking now. When I wipe the snot away from my nose, it’s like my hand is banging against my face, because it’s shaking so hard.
One, two, three.
There is someone else coming down the stairs onto the platform. And it’s a person who’s walking towards me.
‘Hello, Hope.’
25
It’s a way of walking that isn’t like most other people. It’s quite straight with arms swinging, and it’s a way that I’ve seen when I’ve been walking Barry in the park on – not yesterday but maybe the day before – with Tinie Tempah too. And I’m confused. Because what is he doing here?
I’m looking at him without really knowing what to say, but thinking he really is the cleverest person in the whole wide world, and thinking how, how, how did he know. But he’s putting his hands to his ears and putting his head down. For a moment, I don’t even understand why, but then I do. It’s bingo in my head. It’s because of it smelling like wee and crisps, so I say does he want to go to another bench maybe? He says yes.
I say OK. I say, but not for very long. Because of the train coming.
He looks at the sign and says, what, the Gatwick Airport train in five minutes, and I say yes.
‘How did you know about me being here?’ We’re walking
to the next bench up the platform, which is one that doesn’t smell, but it has a plastic bag which is from Tesco at one end, and I pick it up and put it in the bin, because Connor Flynn doesn’t like it being there.
‘I assessed it to be the most probable location. Danny called to say that you had run away from the library and to enquire whether you might have returned to our house. He said that he believed you to be in a state of distress. He seemed to feel that you would most likely be in the park. I believe your employer Karen is there now looking for you. But having seen the list of suicide methods in your notebook, with “beneath a train” underlined, coupled with your recent evident interest in the subject, I felt it was more logical to make this my first destination in trying to locate you.’
‘I …’ I’m looking at him and I don’t really know what to say. ‘You thought I’d be here because you read my notebook?’
‘That was one consideration, yes. You left it on the dining table, with your toothbrush, and Danny asked me to return it to your room. But, your recent fascination with the success rates of suicide methods was a more influential factor in my hypothesis, as well as Danny’s report of your state of mind.’
Connor Flynn is so clever. I’m quiet for a moment and then I ask: ‘Did you come here to stop me throwing myself?’
He puts his eyebrows close together and then says: ‘As I have already explained, I came because Danny asked me to find you and a process of deduction led me to think that this was where the probability of me doing so was highest. I’m assuming it’s the emotional response to a neuro …’
I’m trying to bring his words together in my head. I ask him, so doesn’t he care about me throwing myself?
He puts his head to one side, with his eyes not looking at me, but like they’re looking for other people over my shoulder. He says, yes. Evidently. It seems an entirely illogical course of action for me to take, stemming from an over-responsive emotional state. And he can only suppose that the neurological impulses—
‘My mum is dead.’ This is me, and when I say it, I’m having to make my hand wet with more wiping of my nose and eyes.
‘Your mother? Jenny Nicely? Is dead?’
I say yes, and I’m crying harder than ever.
‘Highly unlikely.’
And now I’m stopping wiping. Because I’m looking at him.
‘But you said the probably-ty …’
‘I mean not that the probability of her dying, per se, is unlikely. Merely that of her being dead at this actual moment. The probability of her making a full recovery is still relatively small, and there is still a chance of death. So, granted, death itself is not improbable. However, it seems highly unlikely that she should be dead at this precise moment, given that Danny had a phone call from the hospital twenty-one minutes ago, at which point she was certainly still alive. And on this basis, your suicidal intentions seem particularly illogical.’
When he says twenty-one minutes, he’s looking up at the clock, with the straight red numbers, and they’re saying 18.14, and I’m thinking that that means I will need to do my throwing soon, but also in my brain it’s like there’s just a sudden jumble – like one huge pile of clothes and toys and old spoons and things has just been dropped in it. Because why is Connor Flynn telling me that my mum, that’s Jenny Nicely, is alive, when the other man, who’s Simon I think, and probably not really Stephen at all, was telling me that she was dead?
Maybe it is a trick. Maybe Connor Flynn is being secret and sly to stop me jumping. Because soon I’m going to have to do the jump. And then I will be dead, like squirrel goo. Maybe that’s why he’s lying about my mum being alive.
‘Are you telling me a fib?’ This is me. ‘Is it to stop me throwing myself? Is it just a big trick?’
Now he’s really squeezing his face up, with his eyebrows nearly touching.
‘I find it almost impossible to lie. My brother would tell you that. He says it’s a character fault. So no, certainly not. I’m merely saying I believe your mother, Jenny Nicely, to be alive. And that if you are planning to take your life because you believe that she is dead, then it would seem a logical prerequisite that you should be certain that this fact is correct first.’
There are some other people on the platform now, a woman with a pushchair and a coat that looks like it’s a furry animal, and a man with a hoodie, and he’s moving his head, with headphones on his ears. They are standing on the platform and going a bit nearer to the edge, and there’s a sound, and it’s a train, even though I can’t see it yet.
‘It is correct. This fact. She really is dead.’ I’m feeling tight in my chest and jumbled in my head and inside me it’s going bumbum bumbum, so fast, because if I’m going to throw myself, I have to hurry up now. And I don’t want to do it. But I have to do it. And I don’t even want to think about how it will be. Maybe hurting and maybe screaming with the train hitting me. I’m looking to where the train will be coming, and up to the clock, which is 18.15, and back to Connor Flynn. ‘It is. Because otherwise why would Stephen Taylor say it? Simon Taylor. He works at the hospital – he really does – so he must know.’
‘Simon Taylor?’ It’s like Connor Flynn is sitting up, with a bit of a jerk, making himself taller on the bench. But now I can see the train and it will be here quite soon. And really I need to go and do my jump.
‘Who is Simon Taylor?’ This is Connor Flynn.
And I don’t know what to do. Because he’s asking all these questions but the train will be here so soon. I say, he’s just a man and he’s called Simon Taylor. I met him, at the writing group, because he’s one of them. But also he’s at the hospital sometimes because of working there.
‘Let’s consider this.’ This is Connor Flynn. And he’s being quiet. He’s looking at his fingers, doing the straight piano thing.
‘The train’s coming.’ This is me telling him. And inside me it’s bumbum bumbum bumbum and it’s so fast. I’m crying and I can hear myself breathing with big noisy breaths. ‘I have to get up … I have to go now.’
I’m standing up. The train is nearly coming into the station now. I take a step away from the bench, because I have to go to the edge now. Right now.
‘I have to go. I have to do it now.’
‘Technically not, since there’s another train in five minutes.’ He’s pointing to the clock. So now I’m looking there, when I should be making myself ready.
‘The one to Rainham (Kent)?’
‘Yes.’
I don’t understand why he’s saying this. Why is he talking about trains to Rainham (Kent)? I’m about to be dead, and he’s thinking about the thing – the word – about trains and the times and the tables.
‘I need to go now. Simon Taylor knows, he knows it even better, because of working at the hospital. It’s not just a phone call, it’s a real person. He knows and he says my mother is dead …’
I can see the front of the train. It says Gatwick Airport. I take one more step towards the edge.
‘But, objectively, I fail to see why you would believe his report of your mother’s death above that of the hospital worker who told Danny specifically that your mother was not dead. In fact, conversely, that she was positively alive. This must at least put into doubt the reliability of Simon Taylor’s information. The more natural assumption would surely be that it is Simon Taylor who is either mistaken or lying and the person calling from the hospital who is correct.’
And now it’s me looking at him, and my face feels like it’s a big open-mouth ‘O’. And I don’t have any words coming. Because I don’t even understand. And then there’s the train, and it’s already come and it’s stopping. And I’m not on the track. So, flip a pancake, now I will have to do the throwing when it’s the Rainham (Kent) train instead. But I’m not even thinking about that. I’m thinking about the jumble. And not knowing what it all means. In my head, it’s all the questions. I’m such a jumble head I can’t even throw myself right.
And I’m just looking at Connor F
lynn, and the train is going away again, with the woman with the pram and the man with the headphones and the whoosh and the rattle and the click on the tracks.
I’m putting my lips together, trying to make a word. But I don’t know what word. And then at last one comes and it’s just don’t …?
I’m not even sure what else I want to say.
Connor Flynn is looking at his hands, with the finger-piano-playing thing, and he’s murmuring a bit to himself, like, most likely assumption and interesting. And perhaps another Simon Taylor. And most probable explanation. And then it’s like he remembers that I’m there.
‘Simon Taylor is one of the members of the writing group that you and Danny both attend? That’s correct?’
I nod to tell him yes.
‘And is your mother – Jenny Nicely, I mean – aware of this? Of him being one of your classmates?’
I don’t know. I tell him, I don’t think she knows him.
I don’t know why he’s asking it. Because, even though he’s really so clever, he doesn’t seem to understand about Simon Taylor, who maybe isn’t Stephen at all and only ever Simon, being the one who works in the hospital, and that being why he knows these things. And that’s what is important, not about him being in my writing group. That’s just a thing. The word …
‘… possibility that it would be a coincidence.’ This is like he’s talking to himself again. And that’s the word I was looking for. About coaches and meeting people that you don’t know but who are your cousin really. And about the Ellies too. He looks at me again, but in his way that’s not really looking at me, but only at my ear or my shoulder. ‘This is very interesting, because Simon Taylor – Taylor is the name of the person named on the DNA paternity test in your mother’s paperwork.’
I don’t even know what he’s saying now. And I say I don’t understand. ‘What test …?’