‘I will not give up on my dreams. I will make my life count. Repeat after me . . .’
Martyn obediently follows the green coats’ instructions, speaking the words into the room, believing, as he does so, he will eventually heal.
Although he’s finding it difficult to trust the process when the process sounds so frightening.
Knives stabbing. Sensations similar to dying. Florence’s words have been doing loops around his head and he can’t help wonder – is the treatment safe? It sounds horrifically painful and although Flo appears to have shown some radical improvements – she’s getting flexible and stronger by the day – there are clearly side effects.
Last night he found her sleepwalking the corridors, tears streaming down her face. He was afraid to wake her but, when he did, she hugged him so tightly, like her life depended on it, and she kissed him lightly on the cheek. He’s held onto that moment ever since.
‘I will not give up on my dreams. I will make my life count.’
He moves his eyes around the room, watching the group mechanically echo the mantra. He’s made no effort to get to know them; he feels a sting of guilt. But they seem so different, even though they have pain in common, he can’t relate to them or their journey. And if Martyn’s honest with himself, he’s a little envious. It’s not helping he’s the last one left to have the treatment.
Despite the vitamin drips and the supplements, his blood tests aren’t showing any significant improvement. Whenever he’s found the courage to ask those in charge how much longer, they reply with the same vagueness – ‘Soon’ or ‘Hang in there’ or ‘You’re almost ready to heal’ – and it seems like an endless process to get there. Martyn examines the puncture marks on his arms. A constellation of holes from all the needles, and he’s bruising badly. He’s also suffering fits of light-headedness without his daily medication.
It’s the fear of missing out that hurts the most. The exclusion – it evokes feelings of loneliness, it reminds him of his old life, the guy nobody wants.
Martyn feels the salty sting of tears and bites into his cheek to stop himself from crying. He mustn’t appear weak in front of the others. Especially as they all seem to be thriving, going from strength to strength while his light is diminishing.
It’s the story of his life, always being the one to miss out. Florence is the only one who understands. She knows what it feels like to be an outsider. But she’s back in treatment and he’s all alone.
The talk comes to an end. Joe immediately stands up and starts clapping while Kara moves among the group, dispensing hugs. She lowers to one knee and brings her arms around Becky, drawing the little girl with cancer in to her chest.
Martyn can’t bear it; he turns to leave and then someone shouts his name.
He balks. He doesn’t want to be hugged or consoled, he wants to slip away unnoticed so he can be alone to think about her.
‘You having dinner with us tonight, Marty?’ Joe asks kindly.
He feels his cheeks heat up. He’s a terrible liar. Good Christians don’t ever lie, it’s the devil’s work. And he hates letting people down.
‘I’m not feeling so good. Going to lie down.’ His chest twinges as the words leave him but he carries on walking.
There’s a voicemail from his mum waiting when he gets back to his room and his stomach fills with butterflies. Not good butterflies. He swipes the notification away, returning to his phone’s wallpaper.
It’s a photo of them – Flo is pulling a silly face, her tongue stuck out to one side, and he’s wearing a goofy grin. Martyn smiles and plugs the phone in to charge, lying back on the bed, folding his arms behind his head.
He stares up at the ceiling, uncertain how to reply. He can’t continue avoiding his mum; he’s been here much longer than he promised and her anxiety is palpable. He can picture her alone at home, folding his clothes, returning to old photos of happier times, wandering the supermarket aisles with nervous energy. Unlike his dad, who won’t have even noticed Martyn’s gone.
While his mum is counting down the days, hours and minutes, he’s barely thought about home. Time in here seems lost. Martyn kept track of the days when he first arrived. But now his world has lost shape. The relentless darkness isn’t helping: no windows, no light, one day blurring into the next. The only structure comes from his evenings with Florence. Hiding out in her room, chatting into the small hours, comforting her after she’s woken from another night terror. It’s ‘their time’, in the dead of night, when everyone else on the programme is asleep.
His fingers find their way to the St Christopher. He can’t bear the thought that his mum is suffering; he clutches the pendant tightly, but he’s not ready to give up and go home yet. He can’t leave Florence, she needs him. Her safety and well-being have become even more important than him having the treatment.
Martyn wishes Flo would tell the green coats about the side effects. The flashbacks are growing in frequency and intensity. Dread swoops into his stomach as he recalls what she told him last night. A fresh memory.
Florence was in fact frightened of her boyfriend. He was controlling and dangerous and she was scared about him visiting her at the country house. That’s why she got drunk on the night of the party. To numb herself to him.
Thinking about how much sadness and pain Florence has endured, even before the fire, makes Martyn miserable. And he thought his life was hard. It almost seems selfish in the face of her suffering.
Something else is bothering him. He has this terrible feeling that her dredging up of the past could be dangerous.
Who is the person she’s remembering in her dreams? Her ex sounds ghastly; could he have had something to do with the fire?
Florence’s dad was clearly mixed up in some shady business. The activists sound dangerous; anyone who is capable of burning a family alive wouldn’t hesitate to strike out again if they knew they would be incriminated.
Flo needs to be careful. But she won’t listen, she’s become obsessed. All she talks about now is the treatment and how it will help bring back the past.
They had their first argument yesterday – she called him interfering – and thinking about it stings. He tried to make up for his stupid, careless words by suggesting she keep a treatment diary so she won’t forget what she’s remembering. Flo seemed impressed with his idea. They hugged after that.
He knows it’s unhealthy, the way his thoughts of Florence are taking over. He’s imagining what it will be like to be friends on the other side. When they leave here, maybe they could go travelling together. See the world. He can feel himself withdrawing from the others so he can have some time alone with her in his head.
How does he stop or slow it down? He hasn’t felt like this before. Is it normal? Is this love? Maybe she feels the same way? No, Martyn, of course she’s not interested in you! Don’t be pathetic, you brain-dead idiot. Although she’s always hugging him and she laughs at his jokes and she’s the first person to not look at him like he’s a total freak. Talk about mixed signals. Why are girls so hard to read? Maybe he’ll ask Florence how she feels about him tomorrow, when . . . if he’s built up some confidence.