A Voice in the Distance

  'Where is he?' I ask Harry.

  'He's having lunch with a crowd from Music and Literature,' Harry replies, his eyebrows arched in surprise. 'He's becoming very sociable all of a sudden!'

  After we've finished gorging ourselves on pizza, we get back to work again. Harry and Kate bicker amicably about the merits of paintbrushes over rollers. Harry gets paint on the cuff of his new shirt and then spends an inordinate length of time trying to get the stain out with white spirit and a nailbrush. Kate points out that if Harry spent more time putting paint on the walls and less time putting paint on himself, there would be a chance his parents wouldn't have to stay in a hotel. Harry points out that he wasn't the one allergic to red wallpaper. Kate points out that she wasn't the one who suggested they move in together. Harry adds that he wasn't the one who used to complain about the long walk home. Kate retorts that she wasn't the one to start this relationship.

  'You see what I have to put up with?' Harry turns to me for support.

  'Hey.' I hold up my hands, laughing. 'I'm keeping right out of this.'

  The buzzer goes and Harry gets up. I sit back on my heels and survey the room. 'We've nearly finished!' I exclaim with satisfaction.

  Harry comes back in with Flynn. I stand up for a kiss but Flynn is too busy looking around at the freshly painted walls. 'What colour d'you call this?' he exclaims. 'Vomit?'

  'Flynn!' I give him a meaningful look but he doesn't appear to notice. Kate is worried enough already about Harry's parents' reaction.

  'Did you remember the tea?' Harry asks him.

  'What tea?'

  I roll my eyes.

  Harry and Flynn go next door to make more coffee. I squat down and pick up my paintbrush again.

  'Is it really the colour of vomit?' Kate asks in a small voice.

  'No!' I exclaim vehemently. 'It's a lovely soft beige. Flynn just thinks he's being funny.' I can hear the other two in the kitchen. Flynn is talking rapid-fire about some television programme. They come back in, Harry holding coffee mugs, Flynn still talking: '. . . and so you can use the transfer of learning method to practise the same trick with the other hand. Except you don't actually have to use the other hand, so basically you could just practise all day with your right hand and then the next day find that your left hand has learned the sequence of movements without doing any practice at all . . .'

  'I thought you said the documentary was about circus clowns learning to juggle,' Harry says, handing out the mugs. 'I don't see how learning to juggle has anything to do with playing the piano—'

  'No, I'm talking about the transfer of learning!' Flynn practically shouts. 'Jugglers practise a skill with one hand only and then find that the skill has automatically been transferred by the brain to the other hand! So it means they can cut their practice time in half by training one hand to do one set of skills and then the other hand to do a completely different set of skills, rather than have to repeat the same skills with each hand . . .'

  'Who's learning to juggle?' Kate asks with an amused grin.

  'Flynn, apparently,' Harry replies with a roll of the eyes.

  'This means I could practise harmonic scales with my left hand and dominant scales with my right hand and then my brain would transfer what my right hand had learned to my left hand . . .'

  I feel uneasy suddenly. Flynn has a sharp, almost agitated look in his eyes. 'Watch out!' I shout.

  Too late. Flynn leans the whole of his left side against the wall that Kate has just finished painting. Kate and I look at each other in horror. Flynn straightens up and peels his arm away from the wet wall, gazing down at the mess of beige paint on his jacket and jeans.

  'Whoops.' Harry looks as if he is trying not to laugh.

  I look at Flynn's suede jacket and the massive splodge on the wet wall with bits of fluff stuck to it. 'Anyway,' Flynn goes on, taking off his jacket and tossing it onto the floor – apparently unaware that it's now ruined – 'I'm going to put it into practice by learning a fast new piece with my right hand and then the next day I'll see if I can do it with my left hand, and I should get exactly the same results, because if it works with juggling—'

  'Flynn, stop talking for a sec,' I cut in, worry making my voice sound harsh. 'Why don't you sit down and have something to eat?'

  But now he is off again about how juggling is going to make a significant difference to his practice schedule. Harry and Kate, good-natured as usual, seem to be finding it all quite amusing.

  'I'm sure Professor Kaiser will be delighted when you inform him you've given up the Rach Two in favour of one-handed juggling.' Harry laughs. 'Just let me know in advance so I can watch the spectacle from a distance.'

  'You don't believe me. I'll show you.' Flynn downs his coffee in three loud gulps and jumps up.

  'Jesus,' Harry breathes. 'How does that not burn your mouth?'

  Flynn whisks the sheet off the desk like a magician, uncovering Kate's computer and a plethora of office knick-knacks.

  'Hey, careful, I mustn't get paint on that—' Kate begins.

  'OK, now, watch!' Ignoring her, Flynn grabs a stapler, a roll of sellotape and the remote control, throws them in the air and attempts to juggle. Kate yelps as the stapler hits her on the arm.

  'Hold on, hold on, this really isn't the best room for a circus act . . .' Harry protests, his laughter fading slightly.

  'The walls are wet!' Kate says desperately as Flynn grabs the offending articles off the floor and tries again.

  'Watch, watch! I've been practising and it isn't actually that difficult!'

  'Flynn, this isn't funny!' I yell. The stapler, sellotape and remote go skidding across the floor again and this time I get to them first. Flynn is momentarily distracted by a large tub of paint by the door and drags it to the centre of the room. 'Hey, I know how we can get rid of this vomit paint! Have any of you heard of the artist Chris Ofili?' His voice is so loud, he is almost shouting. I am starting to feel frightened.

  'Flynn, that's the paint for the front door . . .' Kate looks frantic.

  'You remember him, don't you, Jen?' Flynn continues as if she hasn't spoken. 'We saw some of his exhibits last year at the Tate Modern.' He squats down in front of the paint bucket and begins to prise the lid open with his fingertips. 'He was the guy who did the Virgin Mary out of elephant shit and won the Turner Prize—'

  'Flynn, that's black paint!' I shout. Then several things happen at once. The lid flies off and Flynn plunges the paintbrush into the inky pool. Kate's hand shoots out to stop him and knocks over Harry's coffee. Harry jumps to his feet and tries to grab Flynn's arm. Flynn jumps back, dodging him easily, and shakes the paint-loaded brush vigorously, sending a splattering of black drops onto the nearest wall.

  Kate lets out a small scream.

  'What the hell are you doing?' Harry yells, his eyes wide with disbelief.

  'Wait, wait, I haven't finished!' Flynn dodges Harry and dives for the paint tin again. 'Look, it has a speckled effect, you have to do each wall in turn, all you do is shake it like this . . .'

  Kate jumps up, looking close to tears, and flees the room. Harry lunges again for Flynn's arm, misses, slips in the spilled coffee and crashes to the floor. Flynn starts to laugh. 'Yeah, this is what I'm talking about! Abstract art – scene of a struggle – get paint and put it on your clothes, press yourself to the wall, the paint will show the movements of your body, like shadows, like spectres . . .' He dips his hands into the black paint and slaps them against the freshly painted wall, smearing black streaks into the wet beige.

  'What are you doing?' Harry tries to block him but Flynn just grabs Harry by the shoulders and pushes him back against the wet wall.

  'Stand still!' Flynn shouts. 'I'm going to paint round you! Now this is how you create a shadow . . .'

  Harry attempts another desperate lunge for Flynn's arm and Flynn grabs a handful of paint and smears it onto Harry's clothes. Harry tries to wrestle Flynn to the floor, but with the speed of lightning, Flynn escapes Harry's gras
p. I realize I haven't moved since the carnage began. It's as if my body has gone into shock and all my muscles have frozen. I force myself forward, towards Flynn, who is now smearing handfuls of black paint down his own sleeves, over his jeans . . .

  'Oh my God, he's lost it, this time he's really lost it . . .' Harry stares in horror, starting to back away.

  'Flynn, stop it!' My voice shakes, and I try to grab his hands. 'Stop it! Look what you're doing! You're destroying Harry's flat!'

  Flynn laughs. 'I know, I know, I know, it looks great – d'you wanna help? Look, Jen, you just have to put it on your hands and then press your hands to the wall and then—'

  I've got hold of one arm, Harry grabs hold of the other. Flynn shoves us off him, hard, and overturns the tin of paint.

  'Ha ha ha! You wanna play catch? You think you can get me? You think you can catch me?' He leaps effortlessly up onto the table. I grab the tail of Flynn's shirt and hang on for dear life. Flynn drags himself away from me and the shirt rips in my hand. Harry grasps hold of one leg and Flynn kicks him away. Harry staggers backwards, gasping, holding his side. 'I'm calling the police—'

  'No! Call an ambulance – just call an ambulance, please, Harry.' I am almost sobbing. Harry staggers from the room. I crawl up onto the table. Grab hold of Flynn's arm and hang on for dear life.

  'Flynn stop – please stop – just sit down – Flynn, please!' I am clawing at his clothes, trying to drag him down from the table. He pulls away easily, leaps onto the back of the sofa, then starts climbing onto the bookshelves. He pulls out a handful of books and hurls them down into the growing pool of black paint. 'It's art, it's art!' he whoops. 'Can't you see? It's modern art!'

  Harry is pulling me back by the arm towards the open door.

  'No, Harry,' I protest. 'We've got to—'

  'They're coming, the ambulance is on its way.' Harry's grip on my wrist is like iron as he forces me out into the corridor. He closes the living-room door and holds onto the handle.

  I try to force my way back in. 'No, Harry, no!' I protest frantically. 'The window – he might jump!'

  'He's getting violent!' Harry shouts back. 'We've got to stay out here!'

  My knees give way and I sink to the floor. Harry is still hanging onto the door handle. From inside the living room, the crashing continues.

  'We've got to try and help him!' I beg.

  'Believe me, this is the kindest thing we could do,' Harry says quietly. 'The last thing he'd want would be to hurt you.'

  And so he restrains me until the wail of the ambulance rises from the street.

  Chapter Four

  FLYNN

  There are bright lights and busy corridors. Lots of corridors, lots of people. Everyone is tall. The people around me are green. One is pushing this chair, the other is walking. I am gliding along in this magic chair. The speckled lino keeps disappearing under my feet. The ambulance was tiring. Everything is tiring. All these corridors, all these white lights, all these people. The corridors are very long. At the end of each one there is another. And another. And another. And another.

  Finally we stop. There are lots of voices but no people. There's a bed. Curtains drawn around me and the bed. The first green man says, 'I better stay with this one till the doc comes round.' The second green man says, 'I'm going to head back. I'll catch up with you later.' The second green man disappears through a gap in the curtains. The first green man sits down on the edge of the bed. I close my eyes.

  There is a hand on my arm. A woman in a white coat is sitting opposite me. She has curly hair. 'Hello,' she says. 'I'm Doctor Stanton. Do you know where you are?'

  I look at her. I blink.

  'What's your name?' she asks.

  I look at her some more. I say my name in my head, but no sound comes out. My lips have been glued together.

  'You're at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital,' the woman says. 'You were brought in by ambulance because you'd been acting strangely. You've been given a large dose of sedative, which is why you're finding it difficult to talk right now. But I want you to try. Can you remember what happened?'

  Her eyes are green. With little flecks of gold. Just like Jennah's.

  'Flynn, open your eyes a minute.' Her voice is very loud. 'Open your eyes. That's it. What's all this black stuff on you? Is it paint? Do you remember the paint?'

  Her eyes are like Jennah's. But her face is not. Her face is nothing like Jennah's. Even her hair is different.

  'Right,' says the woman. 'The nurses are going to clean you up. Then we'll get you into bed.' She puts a hand under my chin and shines a light into my eyes. My head hurts. Jennah, where are you?

  My skin burns. The nurses keep rubbing with foulsmelling liquid and cotton wool. One is doing my hands and my arms. The other is doing my face. My eyes sting. It takes a long time.

  They take off my shirt and jeans. They are covered in some kind of black stuff. I have to stand up but my legs aren't working. They make me get into a white bed. The sheets hurt my skin. I am so tired. I want to sleep. But the bed starts to move. Strips of light flash past overhead. More corridors, more people. I close my eyes.

  Rami is here. He is talking to a man in a white coat. We are in a long room with lots more beds. People keep coming and going. One man is attached to a bag on a pole. There is the smell of school dinners. Sunlight streams through a wall of windows. There are flowers in vases. Cards. Balloons. Is it my birthday?

  Rami is sitting on a chair close to my bed. He is holding a clipboard and reading intently. He looks at me. He smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. 'Hey, buddy,' he says. He squeezes my arm. I open my mouth. Something warm and wet trickles down my chin. Rami's eyes water and he turns away.

  The windows are full of night. The lights are dim. Someone is groaning loudly in the bed opposite me. If I turn my head to the right, I can see into the corridor. There is a big desk. People behind the desk. On the other side there is another long room just like this one. There is somebody crying out, 'Help me, help me.' Help me too. I'm lost and I'm falling.

  It's morning. Sunlight streams in through the wall of windows. It's busy; people are walking about with trolleys. There is that food smell again and the clattering of plates and cutlery. I have never needed to pee so badly in my life. But it's an effort just to move.

  I sit up slowly and lower my feet to the floor. I'm only wearing a T-shirt and boxers. The floor is cold. My legs are tired. I try to stand up. I wobble. I am walking through thick soup. It's an effort not to fall. Someone touches my arm. 'Where are you going?' they ask. 'Toilet,' I answer. 'Last door on the right,' they say. I keep on walking. I'm not moving very fast.

  I reach a door that says TOILET. I go inside. It takes me a very long time to lock the door. I pee for ages. When I've finished, I go back to my bed. I want to lie down.

  There is a table over the bed. They want me to eat cereal. I take one mouthful and feel ready to throw up. I lie back down. They pat my arm. They say I have to eat. I ignore them.

  A woman in a white coat is standing by my bed. She asks me how I'm feeling. She shines a light in my eyes. She asks me to follow her finger. She asks me lots of questions – my name, my age, the date, the season, where I live, where I am now, why I came to hospital. Sometimes I answer, sometimes I shrug. When she leaves, I close my eyes.

  The nurse says I have to get up. She says the psychiatrist is ready to see me now. She takes me down the corridor to a little room. There is a man with a beard who stands up and shakes my hand. He is smartly dressed. He has a badge. I can't read what it says. We sit down on brown chairs. He asks me lots of questions about the bipolar and the lithium. He says I have to take a stronger dose now.

  When I return to my bed, Rami and Jennah are there. Jennah looks frightened. There are purple halfmoons under her eyes. My heart squeezes. 'Nice to see you a little more vertical, old man,' Rami says. 'I'll be back in a bit.' He winks and walks off. I get into bed and sit up against the headboard.

  Jennah is sit
ting on the plastic chair. She is nervously tucking her hair behind her ears and trying to smile. 'You've still got paint in your hair.'

  I look at her. 'Oh.'

  She looks away and bites her lip. Her eyes glisten.

  I want to touch her but I don't dare. I don't even know if she's mine any more.

  'Are you feeling a bit better?' The words catch in her throat but she smiles. 'Did you get any sleep?'

  'Yes,' I say.

  'Flynn, what happened? Did you stop taking your lithium?' Her voice shakes.

  'No,' I reply truthfully.

  She stares at me, her eyes registering first shock, then disbelief. 'What did the psychiatrist say?'

  'I've got to go onto a stronger dose.'

  'I–I should have seen it.' Jennah is stumbling. 'You – you started being different, you started getting really hyper, and – and really agitated. But I just thought you were in one of your annoying moods . . .' She bites her lip and looks away.

  'I'm sorry about yesterday,' I say.

  She reaches out and touches my hand. I take her hand in mine. Something starts at the back of my throat. I bite my tongue. My eyes feel hot.

  'Harry and Kate's living room does actually look as if it belongs in the Tate Modern,' Jennah says with a smile. 'You weren't far off the mark with that one.'

  A hot tear escapes down my cheek. I swipe at it.

  'Perhaps you're in the wrong profession.' Jennah tries to smile again. 'You're even more creative with paint than with music. Who needs paintbrushes when you can just throw paint at the walls? You could start off a whole new trend in interior design.' Her voice has a desperate edge.

  I try to laugh, but it comes out as a sob. Jennah gets up and sits on the edge of the bed. She strokes my arm. 'Flynn, it's going to be all right. You got better before, you're going to get better again, OK?'

  I rub the corner of the sheet over my face and make foolish gasping noises.

  Jennah strokes my leg. 'So what d'you think? Should we enrol you at the Chelsea Arts College?'

  I manage a laugh this time. 'What are they going to do? A-about the mess?'