‘I sometimes get afraid I’m being followed,’ the Artist said, and raised her palms in the air, as if she was confessing to something simple and ridiculous when it clearly wasn’t either of those things to her.
She was late twenties with the appearance of a mature student, possibly, or perhaps she worked somewhere nearby. Pretty, with delicate features. Her hair looked recently cut and blow-dried. Look closer, though, and you could see the patches of dry eczema on the backs of her hands, the strips of raw flesh where she’d picked at the skin next to her nails.
‘I get scared when I go somewhere. When I’m coming home. It’s as if I can feel it. This sense that someone is following me.’
‘Nasty,’ the Lost Girl murmured.
‘It’s made me really isolated. I live alone and I haven’t been going out as often because of it. A few of the people at my job have asked me to go out with them, but I keep saying no because I’m scared about getting home afterwards, especially after dark.’
‘Are you concerned about someone in particular?’ the Athlete asked.
‘No, that’s not it.’
She smiled at the Athlete as if he’d asked the very question that got right to the heart of her phobia. As if she sensed that he understood her better than anybody else.
Sam waited, gratified to see the group beginning to interact with each other. In his experience, the support groups that functioned the best were the ones where he ended up speaking less and less.
‘Ever see anyone?’ the Boxer asked.
‘Never.’
‘OK, but if you haven’t seen anyone—’
‘That’s not what this is about,’ the Athlete told him, then immediately glanced at Sam, as if he was afraid he’d overstepped the mark. ‘Sorry for interrupting.’
‘No, that’s OK. Why don’t you explain your thinking?’
The Athlete looked at the Artist for a go-ahead, who smiled and nodded at him. ‘Please. It helps hearing someone else talk about it.’
‘Well,’ he said, sitting up in his chair, the fabric of his fitness top clinging to his muscular torso. ‘It’s not really about evidence, is it? Because it’s the same with my worries about having a heart attack.’ He motioned to the Lost Girl. ‘Or her worries about sleeping.’
‘They’re more than just worries,’ the Lost Girl told him.
‘You’re right. I apologize. What I suppose I’m trying to say is that you don’t have to see something to believe it’s happening. You can believe it in spite of a lack of any evidence to support what you believe.’
He peered at Sam again, as if waiting for his opinion, but instead of giving it, Sam raised his eyebrows as he looked around the rest of the group, inviting their input.
‘I agree with that,’ the Artist said, picking up the thread. ‘I know I need to make more effort to meet people, go out and about, make connections. I don’t want to let this beat me.’
‘Well, I had that one lass who was ill in my cab,’ the Boxer grumbled.
‘And how long ago was that?’ the Athlete asked him. ‘A while, didn’t you say?’
‘He is right, though.’ The Artist touched the Athlete’s hand in a gesture that seemed intended to thank him for defending her while at the same time letting him know that she could defend herself. ‘I don’t have any real reason to think someone could be following me. I’ve never been stalked, to my knowledge. Or threatened. It’s just that lately it’s nearly all I can think about. And when I do find myself outside on my own I keep having these panic attacks where I can’t breathe. Can’t think clearly. I hate getting home because I have the sense that someone has been there before me. It’s terrifying.’
‘Same,’ the Lost Girl said. ‘About the panic attacks, anyway.’
‘I sometimes want to bang my head against something,’ the Athlete said. ‘Just to stop the thoughts.’
‘Been there,’ the Boxer agreed.
‘Me too,’ the Librarian whispered, looking up from his hunched position.
They all turned to him, almost as if they’d forgotten he was there.
‘Well, then.’ The Artist smiled at him encouragingly. ‘Will you tell us all about it now?’