“I don’t really remember what happened. Just, we were going for something to eat and then I was waking up in hospital.”
While Tom munched away in silence, Edward recounted as much as he could, in no order and sometimes repeating himself. It was not because he felt obliged to share details of that grotesque autumnal day, twelve months ago. It was because he wanted to share them.
“You know, if you’re feeling this down in the dumps, there’s people you can speak to for help,” Tom said, gazing at his legs swaying to and fro. “Like, doctors for your mind.”
“Everyone tells me the same thing. Mr Forester wanted me to speak to the tutors in school for advice. I don’t want to play their game and come crawling to them in desperation.”
“What do you mean? There’s no game being played here. Everyone wants the best for you and that’s it,” Tom said. “Besides, if you keep lashing out like you did at lunch, you won’t have a say in things. The decision will be out of your hands. You’re too young to make the call.”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Edward hit back. “I wouldn’t have a choice. I go for one session, end up blubbering and nothing gets sorted. I’m sent away with a gazillion meds to take, and then the cycle repeats. It’ll be like that show where the guy sees a therapist and ends up becoming like an empty shell. Completely changed ‘cause the doctor just doses him up with pills and asks him so many questions he just…” He gesticulated with his hands out in front of him, struggling to find the right word. “… changes.”
“I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen that series. Sure you’re not thinking of The Sopranos?” asked Tom inquisitively.
“No, I’m thinking of a show that’s actually half-decent,” Edward remarked, casting Tom’s mouth open. Edward was too proud to admit he had not seen The Sore Pianos.
Tom forced down his last mouthful of food and persevered. “Whatever, I don’t think that’ll be how things work. You should have seen yourself in the playground earlier. You looked like a baby, all sobbing with red eyes and snot dribbling halfway down your face.”
Edward swung his legs from side to side as they dangled off the wall. Occasionally they would collide with Tom’s feet, and almost without thinking they would start playfully kicking out at each other. A pair of pigeons approached, in a bid to reach the crumbs scattered on the ground. Edward flinched as his foot nearly clattered into one of them, much to the delight of the cocky seagulls roaming close by.
“I‘ll think about it,” he said finally. Tom seemed satisfied with this answer, since he offered him the last of his chips.
Once finished, they made their way back to school. If they hurried, they might make it in time for the final lesson.
“So, you still on for basketball tomorrow?”
“Promise I won’t launch the ball over the fence,” Edward replied, his voice still croaking slightly.
“Just as well you didn’t play earlier. Only ‘cause me and my mates would’ve swept the floor with you,” Tom retorted.
He ran ahead. Edward tried to catch up. They returned to school sweating, aching, rubbing greasy fingers into their bloodied uniforms. For them, it was all worthwhile.
From this point, they both knew that they had formed a friendship for life.
VII
The despair etched on Helen’s and Michael’s face was palpable, as Edward sported a black eye, cut lip and bruised forehead on his return home.
“Jesus wept Edward, what happened?” Michael exclaimed.
“I’m getting on the phone to Mr Forester now. This is sickening,” Helen added.
“I swear it’s not what you think,” Edward insisted. “I got smashed by a bigger kid when we played rugby in our PE lesson.” It was a similar excuse used when he had been challenged by teachers that afternoon. Plausible in its simplicity, unembellished with fine details.
“Let’s see your timetable,” Michael demanded.
His wife too was sceptical. “Where’s your games kit?” she asked.
“You don’t understand! I lost my timetable and I had to wear a spare PE kit, ‘cause I’ve been picked for the B team and we had to practice.”
Desperate for the truth, Edward’s parents encouraged him to sit on the couch in the living room. Helen sought out some ice and a pack of his prescription-strength analgesics, while hoping for the headmaster to pick up the phone. Michael, meanwhile, sat next to him on the settee. His considerable girth caused Edward to sink towards him, like a ripple in space-time pulling in distant planets.
“Edward, you’re not in trouble. Whoever did this – this! – to you needs to be found out and punished. Otherwise it’s just going to get worse.”
“I’m telling you, I just took a hit in the rugby. The black eye will heal and the blood will dry up in a few days.”
“Yes, but you see that isn’t the point,” Michael rubbed his hand through his straggly grey hair. His forehead glistened, affording his scalp a greasy sheen. His sunken eyes looked heavy after a long day’s graft at work. “We love you Edward. We care about you, and that’s the point.”
“I know, and I am telling the truth...” At this point Helen strode into the lounge, carrying a tray with hot chocolate, painkillers and an ice pack.
“Just got off the phone with Mr Forester. He told me that he’s aware of this and spoke to Edward this afternoon. Edward said that he did it playing basketball at lunch. He’s not taking any further action.”
“Why pull the wool over our eyes, Ed?” Michael asked.
Edward bit his tongue, trying to muster up the tears that would garner his parents’ sympathy. When his efforts at emotional manipulation failed, he told them, “I’m sorry, but you wouldn’t have believed me if I said I got them playing basketball.”
“No, we don’t really buy that excuse son, but we weren’t there and if your head teacher believes you then...well, who are we to argue?”
“Oh, honey,” Helen placed the tray on the coffee table and embraced Edward. He caught whiffs of her musky fragrance and the subtle aroma of fabric conditioner on her lime-green top. It instantly relaxed him and by the time she had finished tending to his wounds, he’d forgotten to tell them about the appointment he’d arranged for later in the week.
◆◆◆
The GP was sympathetic when the slim teenager with black fringe entered the room for his appointment. Edward was a fan of Dr Robson’s. He was kind and knowledgeable. Edward knew that Robson had been key in helping him recover from the trauma sustained in the crash. Dr Robson was the one constant who had been there to offer support throughout his recovery. He’d checked on Edward’s progress, even as the boy was ferried across the region during his time in care.
Dr Robson beckoned for Edward to take a seat next to his desk. Pleasantries aside, he crossed one leg over the other and began the consultation.
“That bruise around your eye looks nasty,” he said, leaning in for a closer look.
“I’m not here about that. I’ve started...I wanted to ask,” Edward swallowed and tried to avoid making eye contact with his physician. “I guess what I’m trying to say is...last week I started getting worked up because it’s been a year since...” he trailed off.
“The offer to have someone to talk to, it’s always been on the table for you Ed,” Dr Robson said.
“I know, it’s just…you won’t tell Helen and Michael, will you?” Edward asked sheepishly, fidgeting in his seat.
“I’m afraid you’re only thirteen and your parents really should know what’s happening. Why do you not want them to find out?”
“I don’t want their help. I just want to sort all this out myself. Please,” he added, as though ending with good manners would let him have his way.
“It’s in your best interests Edward,” explained Dr Robson. “I can recommend a fantastic counsellor – Elizabeth’s her name – but if she prescribes medicine or some other treatment, your guardians have to be made aware. If there’s a chance you may want to hurt yourself—”
> “Which I don’t.”
“Or others.”
“Nope.”
“I’m sorry Edward, I could lose my job if I don’t let them know. They will support you, you know that?”
Edward’s disgust was apparent in the way he glared at the floor. He cursed the fact he’d listened to Tom. He lamented the manipulation his new friend had worked, by getting him to book an appointment. He wanted to scream, hit back, lash out and fight against this unfairness. Kick the GP’s leg, throw his paperwork onto the floor, use his model skeleton in the corner of the room as a urinal…
“What’s the matter Edward? Talk to me here, come on.”
“If they find out, they’re just gonna interfere and stick their noses in and,” he grew more anxious as he spoke, “and make all the decisions for me.”
“Well, good,” the doctor said, to Edward’s irritation. “If they do what’s best for you now, you’ll grow into a healthy adult with the ability to make your own decisions.”
“You saying I don’t know what’s best for me?”
“If you did, you’d take us all up on the offer of talking therapy.” Dr Robson clasped his hands together and leaned forward, to try and win over Edward by beseeching him. “You don’t understand how lucky you are to have so many people, who care about you so much. More than you could know. You really want the opposite?”
That skeleton is looking really tempting right now, thought Edward. Yet he resisted the urge.
When the consultation ended, he trudged home deep in thought. He mulled over what he could say to Helen and Michael. It was dark by the time he reached the front door of his house. Even if the doctor hadn’t rung ahead to speak to them, it would have been hard to explain why he was coming home so late in the evening.
Edward used his own key to open the door, before prising his shoes off without untying the laces. The unmistakeable aroma of pastry wafted towards him; chicken pie and homemade mash were on the menu tonight! This cheered him. In the lounge, both adults were seated on the sofa with a glass of wine beside them. They saw Edward peering in from the hallway and beamed at him.
“Evening, sunshine,” Michael called from over the top of his newspaper. “Where have you been?” he asked casually.
“I met up with some friends and we hung out in the rec ground.”
“You must have worked up an appetite then,” Helen chimed in. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Your bedsheets are in the dryer. I’ll bring them to your room when they’re done.”
Edward was unsure if they knew the truth. He chose not to loiter, so turned to make his way to his room.
Then Michael piped up. “With your special appointment, Edward, do you want to choose a date that works for you? One of us can give you a lift if it’s too far to travel on your own.”
The shitty doctor did phone ahead. He looked at them. They continued to smile at him. Their lack of intrusion was unexpected and welcome. Edward nodded in answer to their question. He didn’t know what he ought to say.
“We’re not going to interfere, honey,” added Helen. “We’re pleased you’re finally doing this, especially arranging it all by yourself. You’re a brave boy.”
“We are proud of you son, and remember – we’re family now, so anything you want to tell us, we’ll be here for you,” Michael promised.
After a lull, Edward’s adoptive father continued reading his paper. Helen grinned and addressed him again.
“I’ll give you a shout when dinner is ready, alright darling?”
Edward needed no further invitation to dash into the comfort of his own room. He retrieved his diary from under his desk and set about scribbling.
VIII
The room was large, deceptively so, given the high ceiling. Beige wallpaper peeled away from the plaster. Bookshelves crammed with dusty hardbacks spread along one side of the room. A standalone desk, littered with journals and a PC monitor, rested in front of the bay windows. Two decrepit armchairs had been placed on the rugs, along with an opulent chaise longue.
“Hello Edward. Come in, please, take a seat.”
Edward took a seat on one of the wingbacks and stared outside. The building was located in a serene part of the world. South-facing windows allowed maximal sunlight to bathe the room. Grand views overlooked a park, resplendent with well-maintained fields; clusters of coniferous trees, and neatly-pruned flower beds. Edward felt cheery. He couldn’t help but let his mind wander, embracing the sound of the wood pigeons cooing, and the smell of freshly mown turf wafting through the window.
Before his thoughts drifted further into obscurity, he noticed the trim woman peering at him. He scanned the rest of the room for a focal point, something else to stare at and let his mind carry him off to a happy place. It did not work, so he eventually returned his gaze to meet the eye of his interrogator.
“Do you like to be called Edward, or do you prefer Ed?” The lady glanced at him expectantly.
“Yes.”
She smiled. After a lengthy silence, she resumed. “I’m sorry Edward, let me introduce myself. I’m Elizabeth and you’ve been referred to me by Dr Robson for some help. Is that right?”
He looked at her passively. This was not insightful. Elizabeth Wells’ name was on his referral letter and engraved on signs outside the building and on her office door.
“I guess so.”
Another curious pause. Dr Wells had already set about scribbling comments in a notepad on her lap. She hardly looked down at what she was writing, trying to hold Edward’s eyes. He felt uncomfortable. Trying to pry into his soul, trying to loosen the very fabric of his being and untie the knotted mess of his life up to that moment. Good luck, he thought.
“Sorry about having you walk up the stairs. This is a listed building and we haven’t had permission yet to install a lift.”
Edward shrugged and averted his gaze. “Don’t say sorry,” he replied dispassionately. “My legs are grateful for the exercise.”
She tightened her lips, conscious that anything she said could be twisted into another smart-arse remark. “Did you ask for this appointment or did you feel like you were forced into it?”
“I didn’t want this, but I know it’s probably the right thing to do.” Edward turned his attention to the patterned rug beneath his feet as he answered.
“Who encouraged you to come?”
“Helen and Michael. My headteacher as well. But mainly my friend Tom,” he hastened to add.
“Oh? Do you get on well with them?”
“Who, Tom? Well he’s my friend, so obviously I would get along with him.”
“Do you get along well with Helen and Michael?”
“Normally, I guess. I mean…”
“No, no it’s fine. I’m not here to judge. It’s interesting that you call them by their first names.”
“They’re not really my mum and dad, they’re just strangers who took me in.”
“After…?”
“After the crash.” At this point, he felt the psychiatrist had got him where she wanted him. Suspicion abounded, illustrated by his one furrowed brow. Her face, on the other hand, exuded openness. An invitation to talk, for him to feel safe and be free.
“Tell me about it.”
“Don’t really want to, if it’s all the same.”
Her immaculate, smart blouse; her tightly-bound bob; her imperious stature, made him feel as though he were in a head teacher’s office for disciplining.
“You’ve certainly done well to make the effort to come and see me. Can I ask some more questions, to get to know you a bit better?”
“Can’t you just get me to point at shapes and colour stuff in?”
“I doubt they would help. Unless you find colouring-in helpful?”
“Maybe I do?”
“Do you see yourself as someone who’s quite creative?”
“I’m no Picasso, that’s for sure.”
Dr Wells went to the back of her desk and fetched some paper and coloured pens
from a drawer. She handed them to Edward.
“Draw me what you’re feeling. Doesn’t have to be fancy, I just want to see what’s going on in there.” She pointed to his head with the end of her Biro.
Edward held the stationery on his lap. He bit his lip gently, nib of the black pen hovering over the unblemished paper.
“I really see myself as more of a writer,” he said. “I’ve got journals that I like to write in.”
“That’s OK. You can show me—” she stopped as he shook his head. “Why not write down what you feel now?”
“No, I’ll try to draw it.”
And he did. He spent a minute or two silently sketching away on the paper. And Dr Wells watched him patiently without saying anything. She made brief notes in her jotter as Edward festooned the page with shapes and lines. Red, black, blue, green, even yellow! Who has ever seen a yellow ballpoint pen before? He used that one a lot, but mostly it was the red pen that worked its way onto the sheet.
He handed his finished work to the consultant. She stared at it, tilting her head a fraction to one side. Her head bobbed up and down, nodding at a glacial pace. “I see you’ve really emphasised the…”
“Yeah.”
“And this is…?”
“It’s meant to be a leg. Sorry, it’s not very clear.”
“No, no, don’t apologise.” She angled the drawing towards her so she could scrutinise it more easily. “So, this is you?” to which Edward nodded. “But you don’t have any arms. And is that your—”
“Yeah. In the road next to me.”
“I see. Your injuries weren’t as bad as you’re making out in the picture.”
“Yeah but they should be.”
“What do you mean?”
“It should have been me, dead.”
Dr Wells dropped the sheet onto her lap. She hooked him in with a reaction that came across as a potent fusion of defiance and compassion.
“Now Edward, no. The first rule, above all else, is that you are never – you were never – to blame in any way. Whatsoever.”
Screams of Thy Neighbour Page 5