So I can tell myself rationally that talking to Linus in the same room and everything will be fine. No worries. What’s the problem? A conversation. What could be dangerous about a conversation?
But my stupid lizard brain is all, like, Red alert! Danger! Run away! Panic! Panic! And it’s pretty loud and convincing. And my body tends to listen to it, not to me. So that’s the bummer.
Every muscle in my body is taut. My eyes are flicking around in fear. If you saw me now you’d think there was a dragon in the room. My lizard brain is in overdrive. And even though I’m telling myself frantically to ignore the stupid lizard brain, it’s kind of hard when you have a prehistoric reptile banging away inside your head, yelling, Run!
‘This is Linus.’ Frank’s voice breaks into my thoughts. ‘I’ll leave you two together.’
And before I can escape, there he is, at the door. Same brown hair, same easy smile. I feel kind of unreal. All I can hear is my own brain saying, Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hi,’ I manage to reply.
The thought of facing him or looking at him is impossible, so I turn away. Right away. Staring into the corner.
‘Are you OK?’ Linus takes a few steps into the room and pauses.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look that fine,’ he ventures.
‘Right. Well.’
I pause, trying to think of an explanation that doesn’t involve the words weird or nutty. ‘Sometimes I get too much adrenalin in my body,’ I say at last. ‘It’s just, like, a thing. I breathe too fast, stuff like that.’
‘Oh, OK.’ I sense that he nods, although obviously I can’t look at him, so I can’t be sure.
Simply sitting here and not running away feels like riding a rodeo. It’s taking a major effort. My hands are twisting themselves up in knots. I have an aching desire to grab my T-shirt and start shredding it to bits, only I have vowed to Dr Sarah that I will stop shredding my clothes. So I will not shred my top. Even though it would make me feel a ton better; even though my fingers are dying to find a place of safety.
‘They should teach us this stuff in biology lessons,’ says Linus. ‘This is way more interesting than the life cycle of the amoeba. Can I sit down?’ he adds awkwardly.
‘Sure.’
He perches on the edge of the sofa and – I can’t help it – I edge away.
‘Is this to do with everything that . . . happened?’
‘A bit.’ I nod. ‘So you know about that.’
‘I just heard stuff. You know. Everyone was talking about it.’
A sick feeling rises up inside me. How many times has Dr Sarah said to me, ‘Audrey, everyone is not talking about you’? Well, she’s wrong.
‘Freya Hill’s gone to my cousin’s school,’ he continues. ‘I don’t know what happened to Izzy Lawton or Tasha Collins.’
I recoil at the names. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘Oh. OK. Fair enough.’ He hesitates, then says, ‘So, you wear dark glasses a lot.’
‘Yeah.’
There’s a silence which I can sense he’s waiting for me to fill.
And actually, why not tell him? If I don’t, Frank probably will.
‘I find eye contact hard,’ I admit. ‘Even with my family. It’s too . . . I dunno. Too much.’
‘OK.’ He digests this for a moment. ‘Can you do anything contact? Do you email?’
‘No.’ I swallow down a wince. ‘I don’t do email at the moment.’
‘But you write notes.’
‘Yes. I write notes.’
There’s quiet for a moment, then a piece of paper arrives by my side, on the sofa. On it is written one word:
Hi.
I smile at it, and reach for a pen.
Hi.
I pass it back along the sofa. The next minute it appears again, and we’re into a backwards and forwards conversation, all on paper.
Is this easier than talking?
A bit.
Sorry I mentioned your dark glasses. Sore point.
That’s OK.
I remember your eyes from before.
Before?
I came round once to see Frank.
I noticed your eyes then.
They’re blue, right?
I can’t believe he registered the colour of my eyes.
Yes. Well remembered.
I’m sorry you have to go through all this.
Me too.
It won’t be for ever. You’ll be in the dark for as long as it takes and then you’ll come out.
I stare at what he’s written, a bit taken aback. He sounds so confident.
You think?
My aunt grows special rhubarb in dark sheds. They keep it dark and warm all winter and harvest it by candlelight, and it’s the best stuff. She sells it for a fortune, btw.
So, what, I’m rhubarb?
Why not? If rhubarb needs time in the dark, maybe you do too.
I’m RHUBARB?!
There’s a long pause. Then the paper arrives back under my nose. He’s done a drawing of a rhubarb stalk with dark glasses on. I can’t help a snort of laughter.
‘So, I’d better go.’ He gets to his feet.
‘OK. Nice to . . . you know. Chat.’
‘Same. Well, bye then. See you soon.’
I lift a hand, my face twisted resolutely away, desperately wishing that I could turn towards him, telling myself to turn – but not turning.
They talk about ‘body language’, as if we all speak it the same. But everyone has their own dialect. For me right now, for example, swivelling my body right away and staring rigidly at the corner means ‘I like you.’ Because I didn’t run away and shut myself in the bathroom.
I just hope he realizes that.
At my next appointment with Dr Sarah, she watches my documentary so far, while making notes.
Mum has come to the appointment, as she does every now and then, and she keeps up a running commentary – ‘I don’t know WHAT I was wearing that day . . . Dr Sarah, please don’t think our kitchen is usually that untidy . . . Audrey, why did you film the compost heap, for goodness’ sake’ – until Dr Sarah politely tells her to shut up. At the end she sits back in her chair and smiles at me.
‘I enjoyed that. You’ve been a good fly-on-the-wall, Audrey. Now I want that fly to buzz around the room a bit. Interview your family. Maybe some outsiders too. Push yourself a little.’
At the word outsiders I clench up.
‘What kind of outsiders?’
‘Anyone. The milkman. Or one of your old school friends?’ She says this casually, as though she doesn’t know that my ‘old school friends’ are a sore point. For a start, what ‘old school friends’? There weren’t that many to begin with and I haven’t seen any of them since leaving Stokeland.
Natalie was my best friend. She wrote me a letter after I left school and her mum sent flowers and I know they call Mum every so often. I just can’t reply. I can’t see her. I can’t face her. And it doesn’t help that Mum kind of blames Natalie for what happened. Or at least, she thinks Natalie was ‘culpable’ for ‘not acting sooner’. Which is so unfair. None of it was Natalie’s fault.
I mean, yes, Natalie could have said something. The teachers might have believed me sooner then. But you know what? Natalie was paralysed by stress. And I get that now. I really do.
‘So you’ll do that, Audrey?’ Dr Sarah has this way of pressing you until you agree to do something, and she writes it down like homework and you can’t pretend it doesn’t exist.
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good! You need to start widening your horizons. When we suffer prolonged anxiety, we have a tendency to become self-obsessed. I don’t mean that in a pejorative way,’ she adds. ‘It’s simply a fact. You believe the whole world is thinking about you constantly. You believe the world is judging you and talking about you.’
‘They are all talking about me.’ I seize the oppor
tunity to prove her wrong. ‘Linus told me they were. So.’
Dr Sarah looks up from her notes and gives me that pleasant, level look of hers. ‘Who’s Linus?’
‘A boy. A friend of my brother.’
Dr Sarah is looking back at her notes. ‘It was Linus who visited before? When you found things difficult?’
‘Yes. I mean, he’s OK, actually. We’ve talked.’
A pink tinge is creeping over my face. If Dr Sarah notices it, she doesn’t say anything.
‘He’s a computer-game addict, like Frank,’ says Mum. ‘Dr Sarah, what am I going to do about my son? I mean, should I bring him to see you? What’s normal?’
‘I suggest we concentrate on Audrey today,’ says Dr Sarah. ‘Feel free to consult me at a different time about Frank if you feel it would be helpful. Let’s return to your concern, Audrey.’ She smiles at me, effectively dismissing Mum.
I can see Mum bristle, and I know she’ll slag off Dr Sarah a little in the car on the way home. Mum and Dr Sarah have a weird relationship. Mum adores Dr Sarah, like we all do, but I think she resents her too. I think she’s secretly poised for the moment when Dr Sarah says, Well, Audrey, of course it’s all the fault of your parents.
Which of course Dr Sarah never has said. And never will.
‘The truth is, Audrey,’ Dr Sarah is saying, ‘that yes, people will probably talk about you for a fraction of the time. I’m sure my patients talk about me, and I’m sure it’s not always complimentary. But they’ll get bored and move on. Can you believe that?’
‘No,’ I say honestly, and Dr Sarah nods.
‘The more you engage with the outside world, the more you’ll be able to turn down the volume on those worries. You’ll see that they’re unfounded. You’ll see that the world is a very busy and varied place and most people have the attention span of a gnat. They’ve already forgotten what happened. They don’t think about it. There will have been five more sensations since your incident. Won’t there?’
I shrug reluctantly.
‘But it’s hard for you to believe that, trapped in your own little world. And for that reason, I’d like you to start making visits out of the house.’
‘What?’ My chin jerks up in horror. ‘Where?’
‘To your local high street?’
‘No. I can’t.’
My chest has started to rise and fall at the very idea, but Dr Sarah ignores it.
‘We’ve talked about exposure therapy. You can start with a tiny visit. A minute or two. But you need to gradually expose yourself to the world, Audrey. Or the danger is, you really will become trapped.’
‘But . . .’ I swallow, unable to talk properly. ‘But . . .’
There are black dots in front of my eyes. Dr Sarah’s room was always a safe space, but now I feel as though she’s thrusting me into a pit of fire.
‘Those girls might be anywhere,’ says Mum, protectively grabbing my hand. ‘What if she bumps into one of them? Two of them are still at school in the area, you know. I mean, it’s outrageous. They should have been sent away. And when I say away, I mean away.’
‘I know it’s difficult.’ Dr Sarah is focused solely on me. ‘I’m not suggesting you go out alone. But I think it’s time, Audrey. I think you can do it. Call it Project Starbucks.’
Starbucks? Is she kidding?
Tears have started to my eyes. My blood is pulsing in panic. I can’t go to Starbucks. I can’t.
‘You’re a brave, strong girl, Audrey,’ says Dr Sarah, as though reading my mind, and she passes me a tissue. ‘You need to start pushing yourself. Yes you can.’
No I can’t.
The next day I spend twelve solid hours in bed. Just the thought of Starbucks has sent me slithering down a tunnel of fear, to the black, dark place. Even the air seems abrasive. Every noise makes me flinch. I can’t open my eyes.
Mum brings me soup and sits on my bed and strokes my hand.
‘It’s too soon,’ she says. ‘Too soon. These doctors get carried away. You’ll get there in your own time.’
My own time, I think after she’s gone. What’s that? What’s Audrey time? Right now it feels like a slow-motion pendulum. It’s lurching forwards and back, forwards and back, but the clock’s not ticking round. I’m not getting anywhere.
And then three days have passed and the darkness has lifted and I’m out of bed, having an argument with Frank.
‘Those were my Shreddies. I always eat Shreddies. You know that.’
‘No you don’t,’ I say, to be annoying. ‘Sometimes you eat pancakes.’
Frank looks like he might spontaneously combust. ‘I eat pancakes when Mum makes pancakes. When she doesn’t, I eat Shreddies. Every morning for the last five years. Ten years. And you just go and finish the packet.’
‘Have muesli.’
‘Muesli?’ He looks so aghast at the idea, I want to giggle. ‘Like raisins and shit?’
‘It’s healthy.’
‘You don’t even like Shreddies,’ he says accusingly. ‘Do you? You only took them to wind me up.’
‘They’re OK.’ I shrug. ‘Not as good as muesli.’
‘I give up.’ Frank rests his head on his hands. ‘You’re just trying to ruin my life.’ He shoots me a dark look. ‘I preferred you lying in bed.’
‘Well, I preferred you plugged into a computer,’ I shoot back. ‘You were much less of a pain when we never saw you.’
‘Frank!’ As Mum bursts into the kitchen, holding Felix on one hip, she looks shocked at the sight of him, collapsed on the table. ‘Sweetheart. Are you OK?’
‘Shreddies!’ Felix yells as soon as he sees my bowl. ‘I want Shreddies! Please,’ he adds sweetly as he slithers down from Mum. ‘Please may I.’
‘Here you are.’ I pass the bowl to Felix. ‘You just had to ask nicely,’ I inform Frank. ‘Try learning from your brother.’
Frank doesn’t move a muscle. Mum comes over and prods him.
‘Frank? Darling? Can you hear me?’
‘I’m fine.’ At last he lifts his head, looking wan and pale. ‘Tired.’
Now that I look at him, he does have black shadows under his eyes. ‘I think I’ve been overdoing it,’ he says weakly. ‘Homework and everything.’
‘Are you sleeping well?’ Mum peers at him anxiously. ‘You teenagers need sleep. You should be sleeping fourteen hours a night.’
‘Fourteen hours?’ We both stare at her.
‘Mum, even comatose people don’t sleep fourteen hours a night,’ says Frank.
‘Ten hours, then,’ she amends. ‘Something. I’ll look it up. Are you taking vitamins?’
Mum starts randomly pulling vitamin bottles out of the cupboard. TeenVit, KidVit, Well Woman, Osteocare . . . I mean, it’s a joke. None of us ever takes them.
‘Here.’ She plonks about ten capsules in front of Frank and another load in front of me. ‘Felix, sweetheart, come and have some magnesium.’
‘Don’t want nesium!’ he yells, and hides under the kitchen table. ‘No nesium!’ He clamps his hands over his mouth.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Mum swallows the magnesium pill herself, and sprays herself with something called Skin Enhancer, which has been sitting in the kitchen cupboard for three years, I know for a fact.
‘You need some iron,’ she adds to Frank. ‘And an early night. I’ve got a DVD planned for this evening, which we can all watch, and then straight to bed.’
‘That sounds super-fun,’ says Frank, staring blankly into the middle distance.
‘It’s a classic,’ adds Mum. ‘Dickens.’
‘Dickens. Right.’ Frank shrugs, like, Who cares?
‘At least we’ve got you off those wretched computer games!’ says Mum, sounding a bit too bright. ‘It just shows, you don’t need to play them, do you? I mean, you’ve barely noticed, have you?’
‘Barely noticed?’ Frank finally lifts his gaze to meet hers. ‘Barely noticed? Are you joking? Barely noticed?’
‘Well, it’s not like you’re
counting down the days until—’
Mum stops abruptly as Frank lifts his sleeve to reveal a digital watch strapped to his arm.
‘Sixty-one hours, thirty-four minutes, twenty-seven seconds till the ban is lifted,’ he says tonelessly. ‘I’m not just counting down, all my friends are counting down. So yes, Mum, I have “noticed”.’
Frank can be pretty sarcastic when he wants, and I see two little red spots appear on Mum’s cheeks.
‘Well, I don’t care!’ she snaps. ‘Tonight we’re all going to watch Great Expectations, as a family, and believe it or not, Frank, you’ll be amazed. You children think you know it all, but Dickens was one of the greatest story-tellers ever, and you will be blown away by this film.’
As she strides off again, Frank slumps down further on the kitchen table.
‘You are so lucky,’ he says indistinctly. ‘No one’s on your case. You can do what the hell you like.’
‘I can’t do what the hell I like!’ I say defensively. ‘I have to do this documentary the whole time. And now I’m supposed to go to Starbucks.’
‘Why Starbucks?’
‘Dunno. Starbucks therapy. Whatever.’
‘Right.’ Frank sounds supremely uninterested. But then, all of a sudden, he sits up. ‘Hey. Can you tell your therapist you’ll be cured if you attend this year’s European Gaming Expo in Munich and you have to take your brother?’
‘No.’
‘Phhhmph.’ Frank subsides onto the table again. Mum’s right, he does look rough.
‘You can have these.’ I give him the last remaining dregs of Shreddies, which Felix has abandoned.
‘Yeah, right. Soggy, third-hand Shreddies covered in Felix dribble. Thanks, Audrey.’ Franks gives me a death stare.