8 February 2013 / 10:35
‘It was just to stop him hitting me. I didn’t mean to hurt him.’
‘He was clearly provoked,’ says Dr Lovelock, the psychiatrist Miss Moloi ‘strongly recommended’. A tall, gaunt man with narrow shoulders, he looks as if he’s been folded into his chair.
Kyle Blake’s parents refuse to consider that Kyle is in any way to blame. They want to see Noah in a proper facility. If he stays with a programme, gets the treatment he needs, they will drop all charges.
‘Well, Mrs Groome.’ The psychiatrist passes a sheaf of brochures to Kate. ‘Let’s have a look at these.’
Noah’s fingers slide across his pebbles as Dr Lovelock talks and his mother listens and nods her head. Dr Lovelock looks over the top of his spectacles. Does he even need them, Noah wonders. He peers over them at Noah and his mother and examines the paperwork on his desk.
The words ‘residential’ and ‘programme’ snap Noah back into the present, back into the gloomy room where Dr Lovelock tells them what has to be done.
‘According to the terms of this agreement, you have to choose a suitable residential programme, and I will have to approve it.’
Noah’s fingers move faster and faster as his mother nods, his pebbles clicking quietly. He tries not to look at the brochures, tries not to count the number of glossy options. His mother’s studying them now, her face intent and unhappy. He should speak up; maybe it’s not too late to set things right. His breathing speeds up, puffs out in short bursts, more than 6 inhalations and exhalations per minute; that’s not good.
Slow and controlled, Noah. You know how to do it.
His mother’s on her feet now, looking earnestly at the psychiatrist, thanking him and saying, ‘We’ll try it, Dr Lovelock, anything that helps Noah.’
We? Noah wants to yell, Who’s your ‘we’? But the words won’t come.
‘I’d recommend Greenhills,’ Dr Lovelock says, his voice treacly as he guides her out of his rooms.
The words on the tip of Noah’s tongue pour down his throat, along with their commas and question marks and apostrophes. They taste terrible, yet are strangely easy to swallow. He’s eating words, chewing punctuation, but it doesn’t help. Noah’s world is tilting and he’s losing control.
It’s 5 steps to the door, and then another 5, and the psychiatrist’s at Noah’s side, and he’s saying, ‘Trust me, Noah, this is for the best. You’ll see.’
His mother nods again when Dr Lovelock reminds her about Greenhills. ‘They offer a three-month residential stay. I can get in touch with Ellen Turner, if you wish. She’s an excellent therapist. If you like the place, she’ll see all of you before he checks in. Given Noah’s situation at school and his high levels of anxiety, this isn’t the worst thing. It will be a blessing in the long run.’
Dr Lovelock’s ready with a prescription too. ‘Better up his meds for now, too. Just temporarily.’
His mother’s holding up a glossy pamphlet – all pristine white buildings with red tiled roofs, tall chimneys and neat lawns.
‘It all looks very nice—’
‘It is,’ says Dr Lovelock. ‘Just right for Noah. And it will definitely satisfy the conditions stipulated, provided he’s willing to work with the programme.’
Noah stares at the floor. He’s busy slicing words into sets of 5, seeing them hang – perfect in the air – before they slowly melt away.
Finally, it’s time to leave. 5 steps to the middle of the waiting room, 5 to the door, 5 to the lift.
Greenhills.
Green-hills.
It should be two separate words. Green and Hills – 5 letters for Green. 5 letters for Hills.
That’s something at least.
His thoughts are looping, he can’t make them stop. He should try – now would be an excellent time to start working on the problems that landed him here – but he’s scared. It’s too big a risk to take. He can’t expose his family to danger.
Everything lucid and rational tells him that his precautions and safety measures do nothing, mean nothing, but the moment Noah allows himself that thought, a heavy shadow descends, woken by him.
Green has 5 letters; hills has 5 letters.
Noah’s hanging on.
3×5 steps from the lift to the door that swings into the street, 6×5 more and there’s the car. He’s tapping his forehead now and then his nose, cheeks, mouth.
His mother watches him, but this time she doesn’t tell him to try not to count, try to think of something else.
The shadow is growing, dark and menacing, but it’s okay because Noah’s at the car: 5 taps on the handle, 5 pats on the seat and Noah’s left foot is 5ing and his right is too.
5 fingers pressed against his thigh on one side, 5 on the other.
They want to take him away from his parents and Maddie, but if he’s not there, who’s going to keep them safe?