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Littleworth
Michael Hemmings had been looking forwards to another visit from Amanda McCarthy in Littleworth, but the tribunal panel had put a stop to all visits until he was safely inside the step-down unit – The Monastery. He thought about her. And Hemmings smiled.
Amanda McCarthy. Plenty of time to get to know her again, on the outside of this fucking place. He felt restless. This feeling had worsened since his mum had been.
But she’d said she wasn’t his mum. That this thing had to end once and for all. Margaret Hemmings was his mum. Hemmings knew that. He loved her. He fucking hated her. That was the way it’d always been.
But she had promised that one day they’d always be together.
When he was alone and calm he reverted back to the time when Margaret had looked after him; it didn’t seem that long ago. But time for Michael Hemmings was not linear and it was this fragmentation of time that set him on edge, mercilessly playing with his mind, making him agitated. He thought back, unsure if he’d liked what he remembered. The memories were grey, sometimes brown; like his auras.
Everyone wanted something. His mum wanted something; she wanted to be released from him; that’s what she’d said, and after years of doing the thing that he hated doing for her. And after years of saying that they’d be together one day. But he was getting confused because there were some things he couldn’t remember. Patterson had tried to make him remember – with the auras. Patterson was slowly bringing back the day that had put him in this place. His mum wanted him to forget that day. This place is good for you Michael, she’d said. Without me, getting on with things, no one to distract you.
She’d left him when he was young and now she wanted to leave him again, saying it was for the best. He tried to believe her. Because she was the only one he could believe. His brain flicked to someone else. The one who didn’t come to see him. He fought to remember her name. Bridget. Fucking Bridget.
Today Michael Hemmings’ world seemed too white. He thought about the sharp knife he kept under his mattress. He could easily end the dark colours, and today he wanted to do so. Today he wanted to die because he knew he was not a good person. And never could be.
He wanted to see his own white.
But instead of white he saw dark colours all around. He wanted to be normal. Wanted a house like the one he’d spent his early life in – a clean and tidy home. Margaret, his mother, loving him; before the fucker Rachel had been born. He wiped out Sam, and the other woman: was it Bridget? He couldn’t remember. He hadn’t wanted to be with Sam, or the other woman. He’d put up with a lot to stay with Margaret, stuff he hated, things he fucking hated doing. He still tasted it. Vile.
The brown enveloped him. Followed by a hint of white.
And that was the frame of mind he was in when he sat in front of the second tribunal review.
He couldn’t believe they were letting him out.
Afterwards Hemmings sought out Toby Abbs. ‘I’m out of here,’ he said to Abbs, his voice low.
Abbs didn’t look up. ‘Good.’ He feigned disinterest.
‘You can come and visit, Toby, they said so, said it would be good for my transition, make sure I’m settling in properly. I’ll miss you.’
‘I’ll miss you too.’ Abbs’ head lifted too rapidly, too needily.
Hemmings felt slightly repulsed but it didn’t last long. He would miss Toby, and not just the sex; he would miss him. If he’d known what it felt like to be vulnerable, he would have said that it was he felt at that moment. Open to attack.
‘When?’ Abbs carried on.
‘It’s all organised. I think they want to get rid of me. Leave on Friday.’
‘Three days? That’s unusual.’
‘It is. Have you been in touch with Amanda?’
‘No, but I can call her hotel to let her know.’
Hemmings sat on the edge of the desk. ‘Let her know where to find me, will you?’
Abbs nodded. ‘Course I will.’