Another Night, Another Day

  ‘I keep thinking of Glenn and that Cara woman,’ says Abby.

  ‘I can imagine.’ If I ever meet this Glenn, Karen thinks, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.

  Tash looks over from her armchair. ‘He sounds a right shithead from what you said in group this morning.’

  Abby lifts her head and Karen is pleased to see she is grinning. ‘He’s enough to make a saint swear, you’re right there.’

  ‘Fuck him then.’ Tash nods. ‘And her.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ says Abby. ‘I keep thinking of them . . . You know . . .’ Karen feels a shudder go through Abby’s body.

  ‘I don’t like women who shag other women’s husbands,’ says Tash.

  Karen has to admire how bluntly she communicates her moral stance. Tash has relaxed a lot in a relatively short time – her tic is scarcely noticeable.

  Abby pulls away from Karen so she can sit up straight. ‘I bet Cara’s more attractive than me.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ says Tash.

  ‘I used to think I was quite pretty.’

  ‘You are!’ Karen interjects.

  ‘My hair’s horrid this short—’

  ‘I love your hair!’ Karen can’t believe what she’s hearing. ‘I’d do anything for hair that frames my face the way yours does – mine’s like a great big thick curtain.’

  ‘You could always dye it pink,’ says Tash, shaking her cerise locks with a certain pride.

  ‘It’s typical, isn’t it?’ says Karen. ‘Here we go again. Being positive for others instead of ourselves. Once you’re through this – and you will get through it, Abby, I promise, though maybe you don’t believe that now – you’ll have men beating a path to your door. Don’t you agree, Tash?’

  Tash nods vigorously.

  Karen makes a mental leap. ‘You know what my friend Anna has been saying?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘She’s been on at me for ages to try Internet dating. Perhaps we should do it together.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ says Tash.

  ‘Oh God, I don’t think I’m ready for that.’ Abby looks startled Karen should even suggest such a thing.

  I’ve been crass again, thinks Karen. ‘No, no, of course not. I didn’t mean right now – I’m not sure about it either. It’s only when Anna split up with her last boyfriend, she started doing it right away. She said it was a good ego boost, and dating was like falling off a horse – the best way to get over a man was to get straight back on one.’ Karen laughs. ‘So to speak.’

  Abby swivels to see her more squarely. ‘Seriously, would you ever . . . um . . . look for someone else?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve no idea what sort of men you’d meet online.’

  ‘I’ve done it,’ says Tash. ‘Yeah, you meet some right weirdos. But they’re not all bad.’

  ‘Is that how you met your current boyfriend?’ asks Abby.

  ‘Not this one, actually, no. But the one before I did, and I know plenty of people who’ve met their partners online.’

  ‘My friend Anna’s boyfriend is nice, but she’s got less baggage. It can be tricky trying to attract someone as a single mum with two kids, never mind a widow.’ Karen laughs. ‘And soon I’m probably going to have Mum living with us too. Can you see the ad? Two widows, two kids, one husband needed.’

  ‘I bet that Cara hasn’t got children,’ says Abby. ‘Imagine me with Callum. If Glenn couldn’t cope and he’s his dad, who on earth would ever take us on?’

  ‘Now, now both of you,’ says Tash. ‘I’m hearing all sorts of negativity here, and neither of you has even been online.’

  ‘She’s got us sussed,’ says Abby.

  Karen nods. Tash might be half my age, she thinks, but she makes me seem unworldly. And she’s right – we should give it a go. After all, what have we got to lose?

  * * *

  Michael hears the rustle of cotton, feels the mattress dip as Chrissie edges close to him. Oh no, he thinks, as she starts to stroke his hair. Then she edges her fingertips gradually, lightly, down the nape of his neck.

  I wish she wouldn’t do that, he thinks, and sighs.

  But she misreads the signal, slips a hand under his T-shirt, between his shoulder blades, gently massaging, and actually he’s tense just there, and what she’s doing almost helps. A tiny, tiny part of him wants to moan softly in gratification, roll over to face her properly, kiss her tenderly, stroke her too.

  And yet a far bigger part of him resists. It’s been so long since they’ve been intimate; too long. It’s too difficult, too meaningful, too loaded – it – they – he – is sure not to work. The distance between them, so near in reality, feels impossibly, horribly far. He can feel her breath growing hotter, shorter, more urgent.

  But he’s weary; too weary for this. He can’t do it. Not tonight.

  So he rolls further over, curls away from her, back arched like a turtle shell, shutting her out.

  39

  There’s a dog on the beach in Rottingdean, yapping as it runs in and out of the sea. Michael watches for a moment from his vantage point on the prom. The dog’s owner is throwing a ball into the shallows – time and again the dog swims out to retrieve it, paddling eagerly, then returns with the ball in its mouth and puts it down, tail wagging, yapping until it is thrown again.

  I don’t – can’t – give a fuck, thinks Michael.

  He can’t feel enjoyment like that; he can’t feel even slightly happy, just for a second. The anger is gone, the tears – what few there were – are gone. Since he left Sunnyvale, all his experiences have flattened and blended together, so whilst he’s aware different things are happening to him, they don’t feel any different. This evening is the same; he’s not sure what he’s doing on the seafront on a Saturday night. He told Chrissie he was heading for the Black Horse but he has no yen to go there. He just wanted to get away from sitting at home surrounded by reminders of his failure – the devastation in the back garden, the empty space in the drive, the deluge of mail from his creditors.

  But besides getting rid of this sense of utter worthlessness, he has no desire to do anything. Somehow he has ended up here. The waves glisten in the fading light, but he’s unaffected by their beauty.

  I’ve lost myself, he thinks. I don’t know where the me I used to be is any more. That Michael disappeared months ago.

  It’s as if he’s vacated his own mind. He briefly glimpsed himself again when he was at Moreland’s, but that was just an interlude, a taste of respite which only makes the void he’s in more unbearable. And it was snatched away like everything else.

  He continues walking along the prom until a vast pile of rocks hides the dog and its owner from view. He looks about: there’s a couple strolling under the white chalk cliffs, but they’re at least a hundred yards off and walking in the opposite direction, towards Peacehaven. Otherwise, the beach is empty. It’s late, there’s a chill in the air, and Rottingdean isn’t Brighton: on this stretch of the coast there are no late-night revellers. For this, if nothing else, Michael is glad; he doesn’t want to be disturbed.

  He steps off the concrete path and onto the shingle. His shoes crunch against the pebbles; the gradient propels him towards the sea. Close to the water the stones are wet, shiny. He hears the dog yapping over the other side of the rocks, still audible above the crash of the waves. He wants to get away from it, this stupid, happy dog.

  A yard or so further and Michael is in the water. He’s still wearing his lace-up shoes, but so what? Now he’s past his ankles; soon his jeans are drenched. It’s very cold. He keeps going, pace slowed by his clothing; it feels heavy, yanked this way and that by the waves. The sea is choppy, with white horses running all the way to the horizon. But there’s something consoling about sensing that the elements have power over him, that there is a force bigger than his own awful thoughts. He’s been trying to escape them for an unendurable length of time. At last, he’s found a way.

  ‘I’m not myself,’ he has an urg
e to say to Chrissie as he pushes on. ‘That’s why I’m doing this.’ He’s up to his thighs now, and he’s freezing, teeth chattering like a clockwork toy.

  Once he’s in past his waist he starts to swim. The water gets colder the further he goes, but at least he’s getting away from everything and everyone, his fuck-ups, his future.

  It turns out to be hard moving in all his clothes, so he stops swimming and paddles so he can undo his shoes and kick them off. The jeans and sweatshirt he can manage – just – so he presses onwards with a mix of breaststroke and front crawl.

  Eventually he swivels to look back at the shore. He can hardly make out the row of beach huts on the prom, they’re so tiny.

  Then, somewhere in the very furthest, smallest recesses of Michael’s head, there’s a faint echo of Gillian: It’s just a thought, and thoughts can be changed.

  But his jeans are weighing him down and he’s tired, very tired, so when a large wave catches him as he swims round to face the ocean again, he has no energy to resist being pulled beneath the surface. It’s only Gillian, and what does she know?

  ‘MICKEY! MICKEY!’ Now he hears Chrissie calling him.

  He comes up gasping, spluttering for air. It’s only his mind playing tricks again – trying to make him turn back when everything is hopeless. He’d never hear anyone on the shore from here.

  And then it’s too late: another wave drags him under.

  IV

  The Morning After

  40

  ‘No!’ says Johnnie. The news is a punch to his gut. ‘When?’

  ‘At the weekend.’ Gillian’s voice catches.

  ‘But it wasn’t here, surely?’ It’s almost impossible for patients to harm themselves at Moreland’s; there are safeguards in place throughout the building. No knives in the communal kitchen, no scissors in the art room, no razors in the patients’ rooms – they have to ask if they want to shave, and are watched by nurses while they do so. The bedroom doors are kept unlocked at all times, and those patients who are thought likely to hurt themselves are checked on regularly.

  Gillian shakes her head.

  It’s dreadful, yet Johnnie can feel his shoulders slump with relief. To have a suicide on the premises would make the situation even worse. There would be questions and finger-pointing, possibly an enquiry – who knows where that might lead. Most distressing would be the impact on other patients. Still, Johnnie feels terrible. I should have done more, he thinks.

  Gillian seems to read his mind. ‘I know you ran several of the relevant group sessions, but I don’t want you to feel you’re in any way to blame.’

  ‘I should have realized how desperate things were,’ he says.

  Gillian glances through the window. ‘Once someone is discharged, there’s not much we can do . . . Unfortunately we can’t keep people in here forever.’ Her expression is so sad that Johnnie has a sense she wishes she could protect everyone from the struggles to be found in the world outside.

  ‘But it’s only been ten days—’

  ‘I know. Unfortunately a lot can go wrong in a very short time when you’re dealing with acute mental health issues.’

  Johnnie knew he’d have to face a patient’s suicide one day; he can even recall Gillian warning him he’d have to be prepared for it in his initial interview. Nonetheless it’s one thing knowing something might happen, quite another having to cope with the reality. He’s not had a chance to hear the full story, let alone absorb it, and he’s got to guide vulnerable patients for the next hour and a half. He’s at a loss as to what he should say to them. The prospect makes him panic.

  Ironic, he thinks, all those months talking about anxiety; here I am thrust right into the agony of it.

  ‘I realize you’re running the next group,’ says Gillian. ‘I can’t offer to take over the session – I’ve a patient at half past. But I could come with you to break the news. They’ll hear of it anyway, if they haven’t already, so in this instance we’d better take the lead. Would that help?’

  Gillian is so much softer and kinder than she seemed when I first started, thinks Johnnie. ‘Thank you. That would be good.’

  ‘I won’t say “My pleasure,”’ says Gillian with a rueful laugh. She gets to her feet. ‘We’ll talk about it more at lunch. It’s hit a lot of the staff hard, and we’re going to need to process this too. Meanwhile, we’d better head on up. You ready?’

  ‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ says Johnnie.

  * * *

  It’s 11.05: Karen is late. She parks her car (badly), flings money into the meter and charges up the steps into the clinic.

  ‘Traffic was awful,’ she says to Danni, signing in with a hasty scrawl.

  ‘Lots of people have been having problems getting in.’

  Karen waits to be buzzed through the coded door, then pounds upstairs – no time to make a cup of tea – and down the corridor.

  The moment she enters the lounge, she knows something is wrong. Rita is in the armchair where she always sits, but she’s hunched over and enfolded in a clumsy embrace by Colin, who’s crouched at her feet. Abby is on one of the sofas jigging her legs, face drained of colour; Tash is next to her, jerking her head and yelping like a dog in distress. Only Rick, who’s kneeling at the coffee table with a tabloid spread before him, so much as registers Karen’s arrival.

  ‘Hi,’ he nods. But even the way he says this sounds strange. Too quiet, sober.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asks.

  The silence, the tension, is horribly familiar.

  * * *

  I can’t believe it, thinks Abby. How awful. We got on so well, I thought we were friends, or could have been. We’re very different, but still, once I was out of here for good, I was planning to get in touch, find out how things are. I should have done it anyway. I should have called.

  Her legs won’t stop juddering; she feels sick.

  I suppose I’m in shock, she says to herself, trying to get a handle on what’s happened. But everyone around is in such a state too, it’s shaking her up even more. She feels scarily ungrounded, spaced out, just as when she first came to Moreland’s. I thought I was much better, she thinks, but I’m not. I’m as bad as ever. Maybe I’ll never get well. Evidently being discharged is no sign that anyone’s cured.

  And now Karen has arrived. She doesn’t seem to have a clue as to what’s going on. God, someone tell her – I don’t want it to be me – I’m frightened this will set her back too, and I couldn’t bear it.

  * * *

  Rick slides the newspaper across the table.

  Across the top of a double-page spread is the headline: TV STAR IN SUICIDE TRAGEDY.

  Karen gasps.

  Below is a picture of Lillie. Beside her is a woman Karen recognizes as her sister. They are arm in arm, dressed in white minidresses and patent knee-high boots, beaming at the camera. Karen falls to her knees. She reads:

  Tragedy hit the seaside town of Brighton yesterday when the body of much-loved TV presenter Lillie Laybourne was discovered in the early hours of the morning. Early reports indicate Lillie, 24, had taken an overdose of pills, and her death was caused by heart failure.

  Sussex-born Lillie was best known as the host of Street Dance Live, which she co-presented with her sister Tamara, 26. The glamorous duo lived only a floor apart in a block of luxury flats on the seafront. It was Tamara who found Lillie yesterday. Their friend and neighbour Jack Lawrence, 61, revealed that Tamara was worried when Lillie failed to answer her mobile, and let herself into the flat to check on her sister. Tamara called emergency services, but it’s understood that Lillie had passed away several hours previously.

  ‘The two of them were very close,’ Mr Lawrence said, ‘and Lillie was devoted to Tamara’s little boy, Nino.’

  HORROR BENEATH HAPPY-GO-LUCKY CHARM

  On screen Lillie’s warm and cheerful persona won her legions of fans of all ages. But whilst the public saw a bubbly brunette with a gift for boosting the confidence of young dancers co
mpeting in the prime-time show, it has emerged that behind the scenes Lillie was living with an agonizing mental condition. Only a few close friends and family members were aware that she suffered from bipolar illness, also known as manic depression, which meant her moods swung from dramatic highs to dreadful, debilitating lows.

  It is believed that Lillie may have ceased taking the medication she’d been prescribed to control her mood swings, according to a close friend, who preferred not to be named.

  ‘Antipsychotic drugs and mood stabilizers often help patients like Lillie lead a relatively normal life,’ explained leading consultant psychiatrist at the Maudsley Hospital, Dr Jiang Chung. ‘About 1 in 3 of those with bipolar disorder will remain completely free of symptoms with the use of carefully monitored medication. But problems can arise when individuals are tempted to stop taking the maintenance dose. They may feel clear of symptoms and think they don’t need it, or they may miss the euphoria of manic episodes. Research clearly indicates that stopping almost always results in relapse, especially if done abruptly. In the case of lithium discontinuation, mood can dip dramatically in a period of a few days, and the rate of suicide rises precipitously.’

  NIGHTMARE CHILDHOOD

  Sadly, it’s only a few weeks since Lillie told this newspaper she was back on track after a very dark period. ‘I had a particularly difficult childhood – my parents split when I was 15 and I haven’t seen my father since,’ she told our Celebrity Reporter Jayne Whitehead. ‘But with the support of my sister and friends, and help from a wonderful team of professionals, I’ve faced my demons and I’m pleased to say I’ve finally laid them to rest.’