41

He’s staring at me from the silvered glass. Enquiring. Demanding. I can’t meet his stare, and I look away.

Am I awake, or in a dream state? Or am I permanently roaming the corridors of this halfway house for disturbed souls?

My skin chafes.

My mind is blistered.

My heart is withered for the want of blood soaked in honesty.

I lift my head and look back at him and I recognise the way I tilt my head, the way my mouth opens slightly, the way I look like a man who from time to time visits his own haunting, and demands of himself, will it ever stop?

This is my secret self. My real self. My lost self. The version of me that lurks behind the welcoming smile, the solid handshake, the attentive nod. But it’s only in this place I see him. It’s only in this place I can acknowledge he exists.

He’s here. Oh, he’s here.

He’s been hiding among splintered memories.

In the space behind the mirror.

The persistent, shrill scream of the telephone leaked through to my somnolent brain. Stumbling from the bedroom, I moved through to the living room to answer it. But the call ended before I could press the accept button. The name I read there made me stumble.

Angela.

I held the phone away from me, then looked at it again. Yes. It had been Angela.

Why had she called me? My finger hovered over the redial button before I stopped myself. I couldn’t speak to her in this state. She’d know instantly I was in a bad place, and if she came over it would be out of sympathy rather than genuine affection.

On the way through to the kitchen, I caught my reflection in the hall mirror. My face was gaunt and my eyes, squinting against the pain in my head, were puffy and ringed in red. I looked about ten years older.

Then with a charge of guilt, I looked back at my phone. What day was it? What time was it? I should be at work. With a massive sense of relief, I realised that it was Sunday.

What kind of state had I been in that I didn’t even know what day it was? I had several faint memories of Chris’s head appearing at my door. Me telling him to go away. His almost pleading reply each time. ‘Okay, let me know when you want to talk.’

Strong coffee did little to revive me. So I tried a shower. Leaning against the wall under it, I turned the water from hot to cold, giving my skin shock after shock. Feeling a little more awake after this ritual, I stepped out of the shower, rubbed myself dry with a towel and dressed.

Back in the living room I reached for my phone. The screen I had last visited appeared at the press of a button, Angela’s name hanging there like a promise. My imagination brought up a myriad of reasons for the call. I pressed a button to return to the main phone screen and saw that I had ten missed calls in total. One from the school, and nine from Paul. Why was the school calling? And why was Paul being so persistent? I checked the time of his calls, and was shocked to see that they’d been over a thirty-six-hour period. I’d slept that long? How come I hadn’t heard any of the calls?

Then the doorbell went. It couldn’t be Chris, he should have his key. Where was he anyway? I wondered. He’d probably given up trying to get some sense out of me and gone over to spend some time with Thomas.

‘Hello?’ I asked when I arrived at the intercom.

‘John, its Angela.’ She was outside my flat. I felt such a pang for her I almost doubled over. This was followed by a touch of panic. I couldn’t let her see me in this state.

‘Hi, Angela,’ I tried to sound like nothing was wrong.

‘Can you buzz me up? It’s freezing out here.’

A series of excuses scrolled across my mind, none of them plausible.

‘John?’

‘Come on up,’ I replied, pressed the buzzer to let her in the main door downstairs and then went to stand by my internal door, feeling pleased that at least I’d had a shower. However she saw me, at last I would be clean.

Her face formed a faltering smile when she arrived on my landing. ‘Oh goodness, I’m so unfit,’ she said, and took a couple of deep breaths, while I drank in the sight of her. She looked amazing. Even more beautiful than the first time I saw her.

‘In you come,’ I said, rubbing my hands on the sides of my jeans, not sure what to do with myself. Should I give her a hug? Would a kiss on the cheek be inappropriate? I held a hand out as if to touch her shoulder, but let it fall to my side.

She stepped past, and made a little nod of apology as she did so, as if she was sorry she’d stood too close.

‘You know where to go,’ I said. As I followed her into the living room I drank in every detail. From the gloss of her hair to the pace of her feet hitting the carpet.

In the living room we sat on either side of the settee. Angela almost hugging its arm, as far away from me as she could possibly sit.

She looked around her, trying to ascertain my mental state from the condition of my living quarters, I thought. The place was in a mess. Angela crossed her legs, her shapely knees pointing away from me.

‘How are you, then?’ Angela asked.

‘Oh, you know, fine.’ I settled for the platitude.

‘I thought that I would just pop in and see how you were.’

‘I’m fine,’ I repeated. Then I paid attention to what she just said. She just thought she’d pop in? Last time we spoke it was well and truly over. Why on earth would she decide just to pop in?

‘That’s good.’

‘How are you?’ I asked when she had been silent for a long moment.

‘I’m fine too.’

‘What have you been up to?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I found my brother. He’s alive. I actually had … coffee with him the other day.’ As the words tripped from my mouth I couldn’t believe I was being so matter of fact.

‘What? Really? You found him?’ Her mouth was a perfect O of surprise.

I recounted the whole experience.

‘Oh John, that’s fantastic … I can hardly believe it.’ She looked genuinely pleased for me, and relaxed for the first time since she’d entered my flat. Which made me think she had not just popped in, but had some other motive.

‘Did Paul put you up to this? Or was it Chris? He’s been conspicuous by his absence. Has he cleared out to give you a chance to talk to me?’

‘What do you mean?’ She shook her head, her face a blank of confusion.

‘I’m not daft, Angela. I…’ I rubbed at my forehead. ‘I appreciate the visit more than you can imagine, but it’s been weeks since we last spoke to each other. Why would you suddenly decide to visit?’

‘Okay, Paul came to see me at work and asked me to look in to see you,’ she admitted after a pause.

‘Oh, he did, did he?’ My heart sank a little. I’d still held out a little hope that this visit wasn’t someone else’s work. ‘Why?’ I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased with Paul or mad at him.

‘He’s worried about you. He said that you wouldn’t talk to him, but maybe I could reach you.’

‘I don’t look that bad, do I?’

She clasped her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers, as if deciding how honest to be.

You look fine, John. Just … like you’ve not slept for a month.’ She warmed this comment with a smile. ‘But it was more your mental state that Paul was worried about. He said you guys met for lunch the other day and that you kept shaking your head, as if you were trying to get rid of something, and that you kept fading in and out of the conversation. He also said something about you possibly being … suicidal.’ She looked over at me, assessing, eyes heavy with concern. ‘I told him not to be daft. But he was really spooked, John. He must have thought something serious was up if he came to me.’

I wasn’t used to this. People caring. I didn’t know how to handle it, or how to be when offered help. My habit when hurt was to retreat, find the closest thing to a cave that was possible and keep to myself until my mind began to quest outside my own head – when my thoughts once again turned to what was outside of me.

‘I appreciate the concern. I do,’ I said, aware that I was sitting bolt upright with arms crossed. ‘But Paul shouldn’t have called you, and you shouldn’t have come.’ I felt distant from my body, as if watching from the side. I could hear how irrational I was sounding, and how my tone was edging into anger.

‘Really?’ Angela said, her face tight. ‘I shouldn’t have come. I’m told the man I thought I was in love with could be suicidal and I shouldn’t do what I can to help?’

‘I don’t need your help.’

The sensible, held-at-a-remove part of my mind recognised I was becoming defensive and knew that would lead to anger. But I was incapable of controlling the impulse. The switch had been flicked to self-destruct.

‘Yeah, right,’ Angela responded and it was clear some hurt that still lingered from my rejection of her and her child was feeding her energy. ‘Look at the state of you.’

‘Well, thanks very much.’ Anger was like a hot lance. ‘If that’s what you came to say then you can piss off. I don’t need Paul and his sympathy, and I certainly don’t need you.’ The speed of my rage took me by surprise. Heat blazed from me, but was immediately quenched by the sight of Angela lifting herself from her chair and leaving the room. Like a pauper chasing a gold coin, I rushed after her.

I caught her at the front door and held her arm. Angrily, she pulled it from my grasp, eyes blazing.

‘This was not my idea of a fun afternoon, John. I was doing a favour for your friend because he was worried sick about you, but as you so succinctly put it, you don’t need or want anyone’s help. So let me go and I’ll piss off out of your sight.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I am. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.’

She let me lead her back into the living room.

‘Sit down, please.’ I was almost grovelling in my attempt to make her stay.

‘Can I get you something to eat or drink?’

‘No, thanks.’ Her voice was tired. But Angela could never stay angry with me for long, her voice softened. ‘What’s wrong with you, John? You’ve never spoken to me like that before. I’ve never seen you in such a state.’

I breathed out a deep sigh. Where was I to begin? I wasn’t sure if I was even capable of saying any of it out loud. If anyone could help me in this situation, I would rather it was Angela. I was struck afresh by her beauty. That someone like her would care about me gave me a sliver of hope. Pulling at my fingernails, I decided to start with something safe. As I told my story, Angela listened quietly, rarely interrupting, her face a study in concentration.

‘It began with me trying to find Thomas, and then the headaches, or was it the other way round?’ A stabbing sensation came from behind my left eye and I pressed against it with the heel of my hand. I groaned and took a moment, waiting for the pain to subside. ‘Like that. Paul reminded me I had these headaches when I was about fourteen. I’d forgotten all about them. I went for every kind of test that you can imagine and they found nothing. Eventually they just went away of their own accord. That’s why I haven’t been to a doctor this time…’

‘What about Thomas?’ she asked. ‘How did you meet him?’

I told her how Chris had found him.

‘I’m so pleased for you.’ Then she looked into my eyes and reached out for my hand. ‘There’s more, though, isn’t there?’

How should I tell her? There was no ‘right’ way. I just needed to open my mouth and speak and trust my mind would push out the words.

I told her everything Thomas had told me.

Angela’s mouth fell open. She sat in stunned silence. Then she rose from her seat and knelt at my feet. The compassion on her face nearly undid me. I struggled for control. She held my hands tightly. The question must have formed instantly in her mind but it came out of her mouth haltingly.

‘Did … the same thing … happen to you?’ She looked up at me.

I could only nod.

With a supreme effort of will I formed the word ‘yes’ with my mouth but heard no accompanying sound.

‘Oh, John.’ She sat on the settee beside me and held me in her arms. The silvery trail of a tear ran down her cheek. The pain and emotion inside me crested and something broke. Breath caught in my throat and was released into the air in a loud sob.

For a long spell my chest and shoulders heaved, pain twisted and tore at my chest, my gut, I could hardly breathe, and my face ran with tears. I honestly thought I could have had no tears left after the previous night, but on they flowed as if they would never stop.

‘Oh, John,’ Angela said, over and over again, those two syllables sounding like a lament.

Eventually I cried myself out – for the moment at least – straightened my posture and looked over at Angela, head up, as if putting myself on display. This is me. This is me in all my weakness and vulnerability and stain. How could you ever have thought you loved this?

Angela reached out and placed the palm of her hand against the side of my face. It was such a tender and thoughtful gesture I started sobbing again.

‘How could you bottle all of that up? How could you go through life with that in your mind?’

‘I think the technical term is disassociation. You’re a child. You’re helpless. Your betrayal is so deep you don’t know who you can trust, and in the absence of a miracle, the mind learns to protect itself. Everything is buried deep. It took meeting Thomas and hearing his story to dredge all of the memories up.’

Angela paused before speaking, as if she was trying to make sense of her own thoughts. She turned to gaze out of the window. The world outside held a weak light, and I was so lost I wasn’t sure whether a new day was rising or one was ending.

She swallowed as if a pebble had been stuck in her throat. ‘It never ceases to amaze me, what humans do to each other. Their own children, for chrissake. What makes people do that? They’re not people, they’re monsters … and your Dad was a policeman as well, a trusted member of the community. How could he do that to his own sons?’

‘My dad’s sin was one of blindness. Of being in a position to stop this but being unable to see what needed to be seen.’ My voice was so quiet I’m sure Angela could barely hear me.

I breathed in deeply, as if to cleanse the dark thoughts I was harbouring in my heart. My voice, when I answered her question, was filled with a sadness so heavy and profound it settled on the whole of the room like dust.

‘My father wasn’t the guilty one,’ I answered. And the fog cleared, just a little.

‘It was Mum.’