The Shock of the Fall (Special edition) (15 page)

‘I can’t. Not like this, try and understand.’

‘I’m going to be late, I’ll be late for work.’

‘Matthew, you can’t—’

‘Stop it. Don’t tell me what I can’t do. I’ve got to, okay? You don’t understand. I’m not trying to upset you, Nanny. It isn’t that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you in.’

Nanny Noo visits me every other Thursday, and every other Thursday she visits Ernest. She talks about him from time to time. He’s handsome and has grown more so with age. He always combs his hair and shaves before she visits him, and he helps to tend the small garden at the special hospital where he has lived for most of his life. Some days are not so good, but that’s just the way it is with family. That’s what Nanny says.

She’s not a bit ashamed of him.

‘I’m going to work,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go.’

I don’t know how long she stayed. Alone in my kitchen, with night pressing at the window. She cleaned as much as she could, scouring at filth until her hands were sore, until she was too exhausted to carry on. Her brother has a disease, an illness with the shape and sound of a snake. It slithers through the branches of our family tree. It must have broken her heart, to know that I was next.

THEN ONE NIGHT SHIFT. At around 3 a.m.

When I hadn’t slept, when I hadn’t taken my break because we were short-staffed, and because breaks were deducted from pay, so if I didn’t take it I’d get an extra £7.40 towards the rent.

I had just helped a new resident into bed after spotting him moving unsteadily through the gloomy corridors, his pyjama bottoms slipping down over bony hips. I wanted to know something about him, something I could say to help him feel at ease, a reassurance about when his wife might visit, or his children. I switched on his bedside light, unlocked the drawer and took out his folder. Attached with Sellotape to the inside front cover was his personal note. It looked different to the others though, the handwriting was different. That was the first thing I noticed. Most of the notes were written by Barbara, this senior care assistant, who would take real pride in making them all neat. But this one wasn’t neat at all. The words wobbled across the page, each letter pressed too hard in pencil. I could picture him doing it, his face scrunched up with the effort. It said,

Inside my head is a jigsaw made of trillions and trillions and trillions of atoms. It might take a while. The old man gripped at my uniform tunic, his brittle fingernails snagging on the poppers. He pulled me so close that his stubble scratched against the tip of my nose.

‘Is that you, Simon?’ I whispered. ‘Is that you in there?’

He stared at me with watery eyes. His voice was distant – in that way so many of them sounded, when they no longer owned their words, but were possessed by them.

‘I’m Lost, I’m Lost, I’m Lost,’ he said.

I tore myself away.

I’m Lost, I’m Lost, I’m Lost.

In the forecourt the other care assistant was smoking a cigarette under the scrutinizing glare of a security light. ‘Jesus Christ, Matt,’ she said. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Her face was floating towards me, changing shape. I pushed straight past. As I ran out of the gates she was shouting at me to come back. That the shift wasn’t over, that she couldn’t get the residents up by herself.

I’m Lost, I’m Lost, I’m Lost.

A group of lads poured out of a side street, ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’

Their faces were hidden beneath hoods and baseball caps. It wasn’t until I got closer that I could properly see him, see his face in their faces. You have to come and play now.

‘Is that you, Simon?’

‘You what? Look at him, he’s off his face. What you talking about you fucking weirdo?’

‘Sorry. I thought—’

‘Hey mate, you couldn’t lend us a fiver could you?’

‘What?’

‘We’ll give it back.’

‘Yeah, I’ve got—’

I’m Lost, I’m Lost, I’m Lost.

I stumbled into a new morning, blurred at its edges. The streets stirred to life under a cloudy sky. People were staring at me, pointing, or turning quickly away. Each of them had him inside; his many, many, many atoms, and each of them with his face, his beautiful smiling face.

It wasn’t frightening, it wasn’t like that.

It was glorious.

Then things took a turn

for the worse.

MY SHOES WERE MISSING, replaced with yellow foam slippers. I think of this, and I am there. Some memories refuse to be locked in time or place. They follow us, opening a peephole with metallic scratch, and watching through curious eyes. I am there. In front of me is a huge metal door, coated in chipped blue paint. There is no handle on this side. It is not meant to be opened from this side. My pockets are empty, and the belt is missing from my trousers. I have no idea where I am. White light flickers from a caged fluorescent tube above my head. The walls are bare, tiled in dirty ceramic squares. In the far corner is a polished steel toilet bowl with no seat or lid. The air smells of bleach. This body isn’t my own, it merges into the space around me so that I cannot feel where I end and the rest of the world begins. I step towards the door, lose balance, stagger sideways, fall hard against the metal toilet. A string of red drips from my lips, taking a perfect white fleck of tooth enamel into the bowl. It descends slowly, weightless in the dark water. The peephole closes. Some memories refuse to be locked in time or place, they are always present. A person is saying I have done nothing wrong: You have done nothing wrong, you’re in a Police Cell for your own safety because you’re unwell, confused, disorientated, lost, lost, lost. I am there. I can taste cotton wool and the person is saying that I’ve been sedated, that I fell against the metal toilet. You nearly passed out they are saying. They are giving me pain killers. They are saying it could take a while, it will take some time to arrange a hospital bed. I will be sent to a PSYCHIATRIC WARD. Is there anyone they can call, someone who might be worried about me? I push my tongue into the sodden cotton wool and let my mouth fill up with the irony taste of blood. I don’t need them to call anyone. Not now. Not now I have my brother back.

Mr Matthew Homes

Flat 607 Terrence House

Kingsdown

Bristol, BS2 8LC

11.2.2010

Re: Community Treatment Order

Dear Mr Matthew Homes,

I am writing to remind you of your responsibilities under the Community Treatment Order (CTO). In consenting to this CTO you agreed to engage with the full therapeutic programme at Hope Road Day Centre, and to adhere to your medication plan.

You are not currently fulfilling these obligations and it is important we meet to discuss this, and decide how best we can support you. Please attend my clinic at Hope Road Day Centre at
10 a.m. on Monday 15th February
. If you are unable to attend this appointment you must telephone beforehand. If you do not attend this appointment or contact beforehand I will issue a request for you to be brought to hospital for a formal assessment.

In accordance with the plan agreed in your CTO a copy of this letter has been forwarded to your nominated contact – Mrs Susan Homes.

Sincerely,

Dr Edward Clement

Consultant Psychiatrist

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Knock knock KNOCK KNOCK. They are outside, standing at my door, they are peering through the letter box, they are listening to me type. They know I’m here.

Nanny Noo will have her hand on Mum’s arm, and she will be saying, try not to worry, he’ll be okay, he’s writing his stories. Dad will be pacing the concrete landing, picking up litter, angry, with no idea where the anger belongs. And Mum will keep knocking and knocking and KNOCKING with throbbing knuckles, until I open the door. I will open the door. I always do.

Nanny Noo will move to hug me, but it will be Mum who I turn to first. I know her desperation.

‘Do you want to come in?’ I’ll ask.

‘Yes please.’

‘I’m out of teabags.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘I haven’t done a shop in a while.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

I’ll step over the typewriter, over all the letters I’ve been ignoring. My parents and Nanny will follow. We’ll sit in my living room, except Dad will stay standing, straight-backed, looking out of the window, surveying the city.

‘We got the letter from Dr Clement,’ Mum will say.

‘I figured.’

‘He said—’

‘I know what he said.’

‘You can’t do this, sweetheart.’

‘Can’t I?’

‘You’ll get unwell, they’ll put you back on the ward.’

I will look to Nanny Noo, but she won’t say anything. She knows better than to pick sides.

‘What do you think, Dad?’

He won’t turn around. He’ll keep staring out of the window. ‘You know what I think.’

I will let them in. I always do.

And I will go to the Day Centre: to Art Group, to Talking Group, to Relaxation Group, and I will do as I’m told.

I will take my medicine.

It isn’t so bad here.

I’ve been spending time in the relaxation room. It’s just a normal room really, but there are a few beanbags scattered about, and a stereo with cassettes of gentle music and meditation. It’s as good a place as any, if you’ve nothing better to do.

Inside my head is a story. I hoped if I told it, it might make more sense to me. It’s hard to explain, but if I could only remember everything, if I could write my thoughts on sheets of paper, something to hold with my hands then – I don’t know. Nothing probably. Like I say, it’s hard to explain.

In the relaxation room I got thinking about trying one of the jigsaw puzzles. There is a drawer stuffed full of them, and a few more stacked on the shelves. I found myself looking at a thousand-piecer. The picture on the box showed a coastline with sloping cliffs above a pebble beach. Dotted along the cliff path are small wooden huts in different colours, and lined along the top are dozens of caravans, like a neat row of white teeth.

It reminded me a lot of Ocean Cove, and if I looked closer, maybe I could see two young boys running down the path. Or maybe sitting on the beach together, scrunching dry seaweed between their toes and throwing pebbles at a rock to see who could get closest. If I put my face right up close to the box, perhaps I’d hear them laughing together. Or practising new swear words, and promising not to tell Mum. But that was daydreams. There was nobody in the picture. And inside the box were a thousand pieces of nothing, and even some of them would be missing.