All of Me (27 page)

And was it my imagination or had I started going to the Maudsley more often since I changed jobs?

Appearing at the Maudsley when I least expected it was disconcerting but at least familiar. I opened my eyes and there I was. I recognised the chairs, the waiting room, some of the faces. It was still absolutely confusing to be going to get a coffee or think about nipping out to the shops and then the next second suddenly appearing there, but at least I was used to it. Even if I couldn’t explain it – how I’d got there, when I’d had time to change, all those regular questions – at least it only took me a moment or two to adjust, to get my bearings. It was only when I found myself one day mysteriously in another hospital that I really began to panic.

This isn’t the Maudsley!

A sickening fear swept through me. Anxiously I looked around for clues.

Check the walls. Check the doors. Check the staff.

Check my clothes!

I was in my own things.

Thank God – I’m not in Warlingham.

It was my worst fear to realise I’d appeared there again. There’d never been any warnings in the past. Why would there again? Even after the tribunal, I never doubted that I could be spirited back there at a moment’s notice. I hadn’t realised it before, but I suppose it was my biggest fear.

If I wasn’t in Warlingham then where was I? And what did they want with me?

I’m in a chair, next to a bed. But wait – the bed’s not empty. I don’t believe it, I’m a visitor!

I got another shock when I saw who was asleep in the bed: it was Mum. The arthritis had been getting worse and worse and finally she’d had knee replacement surgery. She would be in there for a few more days.

‘Then,’ a doctor appearing next to me said, ‘she would need round-the-clock help for a couple of weeks. I understand you live together?’

‘No, I don’t live there.’

‘Really? I thought you told me … Never mind. Perhaps if you could pop round. Your sister says she will help as well. Otherwise we can call on social services.’

Mum wasn’t very good at being helped by strangers. She hated anyone else knowing her business. That part of her personality hadn’t changed. She was always cancelling the meals-on-wheels people or telling the cleaners not to bother returning. I decided that perhaps it would be better for her if I moved back home.

And maybe it would help me settle down as well …

Even though I’d never told Mum I’d gone, I think she was grateful to have me around more. She’d always given me a lot of credit for helping her out when, I had to admit, a lot of those times she’d said I’d helped her to bed I really hadn’t. Still, I could do it more now.

I enjoyed being back home but it was horrible seeing Mum suffer. Even with new joints she was so immobile and in such a lot of pain even if she tried to do simple things like pick up a bag or turn herself over in bed. At least once a week – although of course Mum insisted it was more like every night – I’d hear the thud of her walking stick on the bedroom wall and I’d stagger in to help her roll over and get comfy again.

Apart from weekends now, Mum was still on her own during the day because of my work, so a home help used to come in every morning and wash and feed her and look after the house a bit as well. What I didn’t know at the time was that the woman used to bring her kids sometimes, and even her boyfriend. They’d all hang around the entire day, watching telly, using Mum’s things, generally carrying on like they owned the place. Loads of stuff went missing during that time and naturally I blamed Mum. I thought,
She’s blind, who knows where she’s put it?
It was years later when I learnt how she’d been terrorised by the people employed to help her out.

Mum’s health really deteriorated. She’d suffered a serious stroke. After she was released from the hospital she needed twenty-four-hour assistance. Social services supplied some care. Other than that it was up to the family. My boss said I could change my hours to get off earlier so I was home when the help left.

I’d worked as a courier for five years and it seemed like a couple of months. I realised now, with Mum’s operation, that I’d been in my new job for three years already. I honestly couldn’t put my finger on where the time was going. Days, weeks, months and maybe even a year or two seemed to be slipping through my fingers like dust. No sooner had I got up some mornings than it felt like I was already climbing back into bed. Sometimes I recalled having a glass of wine, sometimes I didn’t. The weird thing was I never really had a craving for a drink. If booze was the problem, shouldn’t I have at least wanted it more?

Between looking after Mum and trying to track down my missing minutes there hardly seemed to be much time left for work. If it weren’t for the money in my bank account at the end of the week I would probably have questioned whether I was even going in some days.

But if they are paying me, everything must be okay.

Except everything wasn’t okay. Far from it. I couldn’t put my finger on why but the mood in the office had changed. In fact, the atmosphere around the whole building was completely different – and not in a good way. First of all there were the whispers. People were talking about some really unpleasant things. Not openly, but I’d hear snatches of conversations in car parks or toilets or occasionally in the pub after work. There were rumours that a certain member of staff had complained of being sexually assaulted by others. No one told me directly, and they certainly didn’t mention who the victim was. I felt sorry for whoever it was. They were just whispers, not much better than gossip really. But people seemed to be taking it seriously and, day after day, that was the secret topic of conversation behind the work façade.

The worst thing about the rumours was not having a name. I realised,
Anyone could be involved.
Everyone who came into my room was suddenly a suspect. Relationships generally appeared strained.

How is anyone meant to get any work done like this?

Even though I seemed to be going into work less and less frequently – or so I remembered – the atmosphere was getting worse. Paranoia was in the air, you could feel it. Was I imagining it or were people staring at me? Did it go quiet when I entered the room?

Pull yourself together,
I told myself.
You’ve got nothing to do with it.

People were also talking about a paedophile ring which had been discovered. I’m not even sure I knew what that was. When I found out, my stomach turned. I couldn’t imagine a worse crime. I still can’t.

The biggest blow for me was realising Carol, who always helped me, had disappeared – literally just walked out one day. I’d gone to her house but she’d moved. It was really odd. Was it something I said? Carol and I loved a night out. Had I let the vino get the better of my tongue?

Or was she something to do with what everyone was talking about?

I really hope not. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Even though I didn’t have a clue what was going on, I had a sense of things building to a head. The final straw came when I found myself turning up to work and the girl in reception saying, ‘I thought you were on sick leave.’

I just stared at her. Sick leave? What for? I wasn’t ill. I’d just come to work, hadn’t I? But she insisted I’d been signed off indefinitely by a doctor. Usually I just play along with whatever people tell me and try to connect the dots as I go but this time I was stumped.

‘What’s supposed to be wrong with me?’ I heard myself ask.

The receptionist started to reply then changed her mind.

‘It’s probably best if you just go home, isn’t it?’

Just at the point I really needed time to get my head clear and start collating all the various strands of information I’d learnt over the last few weeks – or was it months? – I found myself getting shorter and shorter on time. As usual I chalked it up to the wine. Stress from work, I reasoned, was obviously making me drink even more than usual and as a consequence I was blocking out a lot of memories. But I never seemed to have a hangover. And I never seemed to be drunk, either. But something was happening to me, even I could see that. For the first time in my life I even began to wonder whether the doctors had been missing something every time they locked me up.

I’m not an alcoholic, I know I’m not,
I told myself.
So what is the matter with me?

I was none the wiser, when, what felt like the next morning, I casually rested my chin on my hand while I was watching television.

Ouch! That hurts.

It felt like my face was on fire. What on Earth had I done? Gingerly I ran my fingers along my cheek. The slightest touch was like a dozen pinpricks and yet the skin didn’t feel cut. In fact it felt like I was one massive scab.

My mind went into overdrive. What was the last thing I remembered? Nothing rang any bells. Reluctantly I considered the only possible cause.

Had I fallen? Too drunk to walk? How embarrassing.

I just hope it was a good night …

I was annoyed with myself for joking about it but what else was I going to do? My life was a mess. What the hell had I done to my face? I couldn’t even bear to think about it. Just too much to take in. It had been too much for a long time. I needed to get out, find somewhere to sort out my life. I needed some fresh air.

I grabbed my coat and marched to the door. ‘Just going out!’ I called up to Mum. I snatched the handle, flung it back and nearly jumped out of my skin. Two men, dressed head to foot in black, spun round, almost as surprised as me.

‘All right, Kim,’ one of them said. ‘Going out?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘Do we need the car?’

Who the hell are you?

‘I was going for a walk actually.’

They looked at each other and shrugged.

‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ one of them said.

Ten minutes later I was marching angrily through Croydon’s shopping area with Tweedledum and Tweedledee about ten feet behind. It didn’t matter which shop I went into, they followed. If it was a small place then one came in and the other hogged the doorway. They were big buggers, too. You wouldn’t want to mess with them.

On the way back I couldn’t bear it any longer. I’d worked nothing out for myself. I needed to know who the hell they were.

‘How long will you be here?’

I thought that was pretty clever.

‘Until we’re called off,’ the talkative one replied, ‘or they find the maniac who threw acid in your face.’

Usually after a hospital visit I knew it had all been a waste of time. I shouldn’t have been there in the first place and, far from curing me, normally it was the doctors and their team who were subjecting me to painful tests and so-called cures. This time was different. I could feel my face had changed. It was rough, like crêpe paper. And even a week afterwards it still hurt like an open wound. Just smiling felt like I was ripping my own face. Laughter was completely out of the question, although, for obvious reasons, there wasn’t much chance of that.

Learning that I’d been attacked was a lot to take in. Initially I’d denied it. But having a couple of security guys on twenty-four-hour duty outside my front door pretty much won the argument. These men cost money. From what I knew about the world, you had to be in pretty deep trouble for anyone to put their hands that far into their pockets. I wanted to argue, to say it was all a mistake, a bad dream, a misunderstanding. But then I would touch my face and have to admit there was no other explanation.

I just wished somebody could tell me why.

*

Answers had been in short supply for most my life. In the months after the mysterious acid incident they were virtually non-existent. In fact, although I would eventually discover why it happened, by then I had bigger problems to deal with. At the time, however, I had no information about the cause or the culprit. I wasn’t even told that the security team would be taken away. One day they were there, the next they weren’t. I could cope with that. Compared to somebody else who suddenly went missing, they were nothing.

I remember sitting at home, staring at the TV one day. The house was so quiet and I realised the television wasn’t even turned on. How long I’d been there I didn’t know, although there wasn’t a glass near me. I hadn’t been drinking.

I looked at the time and decided to check on Mum. Then I remembered.

She’s gone.

The pain never got any easier to bear. Mum had died. I was alone – and distraught that I couldn’t even remember the funeral. I must have attended. It was inconceivable that I would miss it. But I couldn’t recall her dying or saying goodbye. It was as if I hadn’t even been there.

I had to blame the wine. There was no other explanation. I’d obviously drowned my sorrows at the wake as though there were no tomorrow. But even so, you’d think I would remember some of it.

Mum’s death wasn’t the only thing I missed. A few days – or maybe weeks, months, I don’t honestly know – later I remember coming home, being on my road and stopping outside the house.