A Week in December

  There were no fatties tonight, Sophie noticed, though Micky Wright, one of her singles repertory, had always been broad across the beam – ever since they’d met at school in Epping. Amanda Malpasse was like a breadstick, lucky thing. Gillian Foxley, the agent’s wife, was plump and motherly, but she didn’t really count because she wasn’t local; ditto Brenda Dillon, who’d obviously spent too long in the House of Commons tea room. Vanessa, John Veals’s wife, was irritatingly slim and good-looking. Cold, though, Sophie thought; she doubted Vanessa ever went face down into a Pizza Palace family-size American with a two-litre bucket of Toffee Double Gush ice cream.

  The thought of the evening ahead made Sophie Topping feel light-headed with apprehension. She decided to spend an hour in the gym before going to the hairdresser at two o’clock: that would still give her time before the caterers arrived at four and might calm her down a little. It was going to be a memorable night; of that alone in her competitive anxiety, Sophie felt convinced.

  Vanessa Veals, far from thinking about food or competition, was wondering if she would ever see her only son again. A sword of guilt was driven up through her entrails as she sat by the orange and brown curtains, flicking through the out-of-date magazines in the reception area of Wakeley. It wouldn’t have taken so very much courage, would it, to have gone up to Finn’s room from time to time and have a talk with him? Suppose he’d been surly, and had made it uncomfortable for her. Suppose he’d been abusive and had hurt her feelings. Discomfort, hurt feelings ... These would not have been much to put up with if it might have meant saving him from whatever psychiatric black hole had swallowed him.

  She put down the plastic cup of tea on the table and gazed through the window, where some of the patients were walking aimlessly over the bare lawns. She had never been to a psychiatric hospital before and had the unreasonable idea that the patients were kept in pyjamas. What could be the point of that, though, unless they were in bed all day, like physically sick people? Perhaps to make them conspicuous if they escaped.

  Vanessa checked herself. ‘Escaped’? What sort of word was that to use of an institution that suddenly contained her son? She knew nothing of this world, she was gradually having to admit; she had even been slightly surprised that such places still existed, vaguely believing they had all been closed down by the government. When people heard that Finn was in Glendale Psychiatric, she would be blamed. It showed either some here ditary weakness, unstable ancestry, or was a damning verdict on her motherhood; it was a public shame as well as a private devastation.

  ‘Mrs Veals? I’m Dr Leftrook. Sorry to keep you waiting. Would you like to come this way?’

  Dr Leftrook was a woman in her sixties with wiry grey hair; she reminded Vanessa of the old type of severe schoolteacher, possibly lesbian, with a hint of the arty in her John Lennon glasses and ecological sandals.

  ‘Can I see Finn?’ said Vanessa, taking the indicated chair.

  Dr Leftrook sat on the other side of a desk. ‘Yes, I don’t see why not. But I expect you’d like to know what the problem is first.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Vanessa felt rebuked.

  ‘Your son has something we are seeing increasingly often with young people. It’s a disturbance caused by drugs – usually by genetically modified cannabis or “skunk”. He’s had a psychotic episode.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Vanessa felt her mouth go dry. It sounded terrible.

  ‘Psychosis is the name we give to the serious illnesses, such as schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. It entails a more or less complete severance with reality.’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘What we don’t know yet with your son is whether this will be a one-off episode, from which he should make a complete recovery, or whether it will be more serious and long-lasting.’

  ‘When will we know?’

  ‘Over the next ten days or two weeks we’ll get a good idea. I’m sorry I can’t be more positive at the moment. We know that schizophrenia has a strong genetic component, but we also know that other factors can be involved. A very large number of schizophrenics are heavy cannabis users in their teens, but the profession is divided as to whether there is a causal link. It may well be that people with the schizophrenic make-up are just more likely to indulge in drugs and alcohol. They already feel less attached to reality, they’re naturally careless of their health. In fact, that’s the majority medical belief at the moment.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I would like to know if there are instances of serious mental illness in your family or your husband’s.’

  ‘None that I know of. But my husband’s family only goes back three generations. Before that I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, that’s helpful,’ said Dr Leftrook.‘That’s a good sign. You may also hear people talk of something called “cannabis psychosis”. I’d ignore that if I were you. It’s not an established condition. But heavy use of the drug by teenagers is definitely very dangerous because their neuro-development is undergoing its final, infinitely subtle changes. It’s like plunging a large spanner into those delicate works.’

  Vanessa put her head in her hands and began to cry.

  Dr Leftrook said nothing, for which Vanessa was grateful. Eventually, having taken a tissue from her bag and recomposed herself, she said, ‘You’d better tell me what’s the worst thing that can happen.’

  ‘The worst is that your son has a schizophrenic inheritance and that his drug abuse has provided the catalyst to activate that inheritance. We can manage schizophrenic symptoms with modern drugs, but we can’t cure the disease.’

  ‘Ever?’

  ‘No. But some patients can live a reasonable life.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what’s the next worst?’

  ‘That your son remains ill with psychotic symptoms which, while not strictly schizophrenic, are so similar as to make little difference. But if there’s no genetic inheritance he may well recover completely.’

  ‘After how long?’

  ‘A year, perhaps. Two years.’

  ‘And what’s the best outcome?’

  ‘The best hope is that your son has suffered a one-off psychotic episode and that with the right treatment and support from us and from his family, he will resume a full and healthy life within a matter of weeks.’

  ‘And which do you think is most likely?’

  Dr Leftrook paused and looked out of the window; Vanessa felt Finn’s life hanging on the thread of her silence. ‘I think,’ the doctor said at last, ‘that he’ll be all right. I think we’ll have him out of here and back to you within six weeks. But that’s not a promise and it’s not a prediction. It’s my best guess.’

  ‘But why has no one ever warned us of all this? Why have you people never—’

  ‘Some of us have tried,’ said Dr Leftrook. ‘But I think it’s a case of the profession being a little too scientific, almost too precise. Until a causal link is established, it’s only correct to assume it’s absent and that the coincidence of high use with psychosis is exactly that, a coincidence, and so—’

  ‘But for God’s sake,’ said Vanessa. ‘Just some clear warnings, just some bloody common sense would have helped, wouldn’t it? Surely when you’ve seen all that you’ve seen and all the stuff you’ve told me.’

  Dr Leftrook stood up. ‘I have to admit, it hasn’t been my profession’s finest hour.’

  Vanessa was silent.

  ‘Shall I take you to see him now?’

  Pushing back her chair, Vanessa said, ‘Can I quickly telephone my husband first?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll wait in the lobby.’

  Outside Wakeley, on the tarmac beneath the cedar tree, Vanessa rang the house in Holland Park. ‘John? I’ve talked to the doctor and I’m going to go and see him now.’

  ‘Great. What did they say?’

  ‘It’s a bit long-winded. Basically, on balance, they think he’s going to be OK. But—’
r />   ‘That’s great news.’

  ‘But they don’t know yet because it’s all a bit—’

  ‘Darling, do you mind calling back a bit later? I’m expecting a call from Duffy in Zurich.’

  ‘All right, John. Goodbye.’

  * * *

  Spike Borowski was also saying goodbye: to Olya, in their hotel suite. He told her he would not be back before 7.30, as he would need to spend time rehydrating, ‘warming down’ and stretching with the physiotherapy team for at least two hours after the match. They’d leave at eight for dinner with the politician-man he’d met when his team turned on some Christmas lights.

  ‘Look beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘I try,’ said Olya, shaking her black hair, then pushing it back from her face. ‘I buy a new dress, yes?’

  Spike drove his disappointingly small German car to the hotel where the team were assembling for an early carbohydrate lunch. Mehmet Kundak took him to one side over the fusilli with ham and cheese. ‘You start today, Spike,’ he said. ‘Play good.’

  This was the first time Spike had been asked to start a game and the first time he had played at home. The training ground with its offices and medical back-up was the players’ base; the stadium was for show, and for the fans. At two, the team coach parked flush against the main building, with security guards appearing at either end of the vehicle, so the players had to run a gauntlet of only two or three paces before they were inside, away from any taunts or missiles of the visiting supporters.

  Spike was accompanied by Archie Lawler, the first-team coach.

  ‘Not there, laddie,’ he said. ‘That’s for the away team.’

  ‘It is nice,’ said Spike.

  ‘Aye. Used to be a shitehole. Tiny room with only two showers. The new sports psychologist reckoned it was giving the visitors a goal start. Now they have heating, air con, the lot. And we’ve lost at home only once this season.’

  The home team dressing room was almost large enough for an eleven-a-side game. Russian death-metal music was pounding out of concealed speakers from Danny Bective’s private collection. There were large chill cabinets with selections of sports drinks, and the extensive shower area was stuffed with shampoos, body lotions and conditioners of the same brand as those in Spike’s five-star hotel bathroom. His own locker, hand-made in walnut and ash, had hanging space, a socket for his personal music player, a lockable ‘bling box’ for his jewellery and, unless his nostrils misled him, rose-scented air conditioning being blown gently from a grille in the rear panel. A new green and white shirt, number 39, hung on the outside with his surname curving over the number. Inside the locker were three new pairs of shorts and socks of slightly different sizes. Max the bootman had already laid out his preferred boots, with scarlet flashes, and had two reserve pairs in his bag.

  Trying to look bored, as though all this was standard in Cracow, Spike did a few stretches and examined the studs of his boots. He waited till the others began to change, then put on his support shorts and cotton undervest beneath the man-made fabric of the club kit. This was the fourth professional club he had played for, but the thrill he experienced as he slid the green and white shirt over his head made him feel like a small boy: it was all he could do not to grin with glee. In tracksuits, they went out on to the pitch to warm up, and Spike went to the penalty area to hit some shots at Tomas Gunnarsson, the big blond goalkeeper, who caught them disdainfully in giant gloved paws.

  At 2.40 they went back inside, where Mehmet Kundak came to join them. He pulled Danny Bective’s music player out of the system and handed it back to him.

  ‘We see the video yesterday,’ he said. ‘Now you play. Vlad and Spike, you get in those spaces I tell you. Stop the keeper rolling it out to those two guys. Yes? I want you, Sean, Danny, put a foot in straight off. Fucking let them know. OK? Any questions? You win. You fucking win. OK?’

  It was not too technical for Spike. He’d been surprised at how much emphasis had been laid on his and Vlad’s defensive duties – disrupting the other side’s smooth distribution from the back. Almost nothing had been said about attack, but that, Archie had explained, was because all the teams from the Youths upwards used the same essential movements, so that any of them could slot in at any time in the event of injury. Most of the moves were diagonal, played off the two small English pivots, Bective and Mills, in midfield.

  At 2.50, they gathered in a circle with their arms round one another while the club captain Gavin Rossall, a bloodthirsty central defender, offered his final encouragement. Then they fell into line to leave the dressing room, with Spike being elbowed by one player after another until he took the only position in the order – eighth – not of superstitious value to someone else. They were on a purple carpet in the hallway when the opposition emerged. There were some half-hearted handshakes as they went down-stairs, under the glass-roofed tunnel and up three rubberised asphalt steps into the ‘technical area’, still below ground. The marked camber of the pitch at eye level made it look narrow for a moment, but as they climbed the last step and ran out on to the grass, Spike saw that it had been an illusion. To dispel his nerves he sprinted hard towards the penalty area, riding on the enormous wave of sound. He felt the need to remind himself that everything was normal, that it was just a game with a leather ball. He trotted over and put his arm round Vlad’s shoulder.

  ‘Is OK?’

  To his relief Vlad didn’t tell him to fuck off, but patted him reciprocally on the back, and Spike could see that Vlad, too, had felt the effects of the noise.

  The referee, a paunchy little man in a tight shirt, blew his whistle and waved his hand; Spike wondered if his stubby legs would allow him to keep up. He himself scuttled back and forth for eight minutes before he had a pass – a slightly short one from the full back he was happy to lay off without mishap. After twenty minutes or so, Spike, his shirt damp and his hair dripping, had received no useful pass despite having taken up positions at the far post, the near post, on the edge of the offside trap, in behind Vlad and, on two or three occasions, out wide. Bective and Mills seemed automatically to look to play the ball to one of the full backs on the overlap or to one of the wide players. The consolation for Spike was that Vlad had received an equally meagre service. Then, finally, as one of the full backs escaped his opposite number and hit a long ball across, Spike was able to get above the Croatian defender who was marking him and meet it firmly with his forehead. The keeper, perhaps unnecessarily, palmed it over the bar for a corner; but the crowd roared its approval and Spike felt he had arrived at last in the English Premier League. A pat on the back from Gavin Rossall as he came up from the corner confirmed him in his belief.

  Shortly before half-time, the opposition, who had been content to defend and hit occasional long balls hopefully to their front players, had a piece of good fortune. Ali al-Asraf was undone by a high punted clearance which slid off the top of his head, allowing the opposing centre forward time to gather the ball, steady himself and guide it simply beneath the advancing Tomas Gunnarsson. Spike found the furious silence that greeted the goal more unnerving than the roar that had met the appearance of his own side.

  At half-time, he asked the manager if it was all right for him to come further back to find the ball.

  ‘Yes, is OK if Vlad stays up,’ said Kundak, half tripping on the step going up to the pitch as his transitional lenses darkened.

  The second half was a rerun of the first, with the home team increasingly frustrated by trying, at one end, to beat the offside trap and, at the other, to make sure the lone opposition striker didn’t latch on to one of the many hopeful long-ball blasts from his beefy defenders. Spike sweated and panted. In his experience, the one thing that managers, coaches, commentators and supporters never understood was how extraordinarily draining a ninety-minute football match was for the players. He personally might cover 10,000 metres, with three quarters on the run and maybe a tenth at a sprint, as well as twisting, leaping, stretching and occasionally kicki
ng the ball. In the second half he went deeper to find it, offering himself to the midfield when they were under pressure, and after an hour managed to work a ball through to Vlad, who was in space between the centre backs. As Spike took the return pass, he heard his name screeched by Danny Bective and pushed the ball into his path. Nothing he had seen in training had prepared him for the force of Bective’s sidefooted shot inside the far post to make it 1–1.

  The pace of the game became more frantic as they pushed on for the win. The visitors’ Texan goalkeeper, however, seemed untroubled by the half-dozen shots they managed to get on target. After eighty-one minutes, Spike saw his number, 39, being held up at the side of the pitch and trotted off to make way for Xavier, an ageing Spaniard who had once been prolific in front of goal. Kundak patted him on the shoulder as he went off, and Kenny Hawtrey wrapped a thickly padded parka round his shoulders. He sat behind the manager and shouted for his team until the final whistle went for a 1–1 draw. It could have been worse.

  At five o’clock, the football results were read out on the radio, but for once Finn didn’t hear them. His own team had won, and the performance of the players in his fantasy eleven, including Spike’s ‘assist’, had been good enough to move the team a place or two up the imaginary league in which they played; but Finn was asleep, alone in a four-bed dormitory, where he was to stay until a bed came free in Collingwood, the young people’s block.

  Rob, the charge nurse, put his head round the door. It was dark in the room where Glenys, the junior staff nurse, had drawn the curtains and switched off the lights when Finn had gone upstairs earlier. Only a night light glowed blue in the skirting board as Rob went over the lino and sat down on the edge of the bed. He could hear Finn’s breathing, as he sucked in long draughts of peaceful air. The longer he slept, the better it would be, Rob knew. It was heartbreaking sometimes to see them wake – to lose unconsciousness, the only happiness they knew.

  Rob searched for a pulse in the wrist and checked it against his watch. Then he lifted the eyelid of the sleeping boy. All was well. He would listen for him in the night and if necessary give him enough sedation to get him through till morning. Then they could begin to have a look and see what needed to be done.