A User's Guide to Make-Believe

by Jane Alexander

  CHAPTER TEN

  She made herself walk. Back along the hallway, counting down the numbered doors. When she reached the big windows into the day rooms, she stopped – looking for someone in uniform, someone with a staff tag. But the room with the long trestles was deserted, and next door, as far as she could tell, was occupied only by patients: half a dozen women and men. Though the seats had been sociably arranged round low coffee tables, each patient had dragged his or her chair away from its group, angled it alone to face the TV screen. None of them noticed her staring in through the glass – or if anyone did, they paid her no attention. The swaddled man was there, frowning up at the screen, and a dark-skinned man who seemed to be talking, to himself or to the TV. One overweight woman, one who was very thin. And a young woman in figure-hugging clothes, full make-up and a high, shiny ponytail, looking as if she was waiting for a date. She sat with one arm wrapped across her chest, and her other hand cupping her ear; her fingers burrowed into her dark hair, absently massaging her scalp, till the ponytail sat squint and began to come undone. As Cassie watched, the woman suddenly tugged her hair free, shook it out and smoothed it back and up, fastening it into a new ponytail. She sat for a moment, arms folded, before her hand slid up to her head once more, started to rub again.

  Further along on the other side of the corridor, Cassie glimpsed a uniformed figure through a half-open door. A nurse, she guessed. He was standing at a high desk, she saw as she approached, head bent over a pile of papers.

  ‘Excuse me …’

  He raised his head. Studied her briefly. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Yes. Please. I’m visiting Alan Lauder.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ A curious look flitted across his face. ‘If you’re finished, I’ll get someone to take you out—’

  ‘I wanted to ask about something.’

  The nurse stood up straight, head tilted back to look down at her; he folded his arms, and didn’t say anything.

  ‘Why is he here? I mean not in the other ward? When I came before he was in another ward – he wasn’t locked in like this, he could go outside.’

  A shake of the head. ‘I can’t give you any information relating to Alan’s specific condition, unless you’re down as next of kin.’

  He knew fine well she wasn’t next of kin. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But his mother, I don’t know if it says in his files somewhere, she was his next of kin and she’s passed away, so—’

  ‘I can tell you that patients are admitted to this ward either because they pose a risk to themselves, or because they are a danger to others.’ He gave a little shrug, as if to say: Draw your own conclusions.

  ‘He’s got a scar on his head,’ she said. Again, there was no reply. ‘Why? How did he get it?’

  ‘As I’ve said, I can’t give you any information of that kind. Details about the patients’ treatment are confidential. I can only discuss Alan’s treatment with his next of kin.’

  ‘But who, now his mother’s gone? Who’s going to look after him? Who’s going to pay for him to be here?’

  ‘There’s no problem with that,’ said the nurse. Cassie opened her mouth, ready to press for more, but he was hailing one of the orderlies. ‘Ken,’ he said, ‘if you wouldn’t mind showing this lady out.’

  Back through the airlock, back to reception with its sunny yellow desk. Her signature in a book, to prove she’d left the building. Walking, still walking, through the sliding door – out onto the gravel drive – and now she let herself speed up, jogging along the dirt track, round the back of the hospital. Past the wing she’d thought was his, back to the bamboo screen and the hidden bench where she perched, arms tight across her chest, eyes fixed blankly on the ground.

  With the building at your back, you could imagine it didn’t exist.

  The scar. She shuddered, felt the sweat chill on her face. When her mum had got really sick, the cat had started overgrooming. He would twist round and rip the fur from his hind legs, leaving bald, reddened patches. That’s what Alan had reminded her of.

  You would almost think it was a rash from a receiver. She’d had them before, those times when she’d Believed for hours, after the cut-off had stopped working – head sideways on the pillow so the metal of the receiver was pushed hard up against her ear, the bony skin behind. But that was impossible. There was no way a patient at Raphael House would be allowed into Make-Believe. They could never provide the doctor’s slip, the clean bill of mental health, that was a prerequisite for signing up. Alan would have liked it in Make-Believe, would probably have Believed some really wild stuff, but by the time it was launched he’d been sectioned for well over a year.

  Cassie lifted her gaze from the fag-end flowerpot at her feet, as something occurred to her. That nurse. He’d tried to tell her nothing, and in doing so had told her something – something that felt significant. Because if Alan had hit his head off the wardrobe, or got in a fight with another patient, or believed again that he could fly and dived off the end of the bed – that wouldn’t be confidential, would it? It wouldn’t be part of his treatment.

  They used to operate on people with schizophrenia. Not that long ago, either. Used to dig right into their brains, and slice the nerves apart. But lobotomies didn’t happen any more, did they – and if they did, wouldn’t the scars be somewhere else? Cassie touched her temples, felt the flick of her pulse against her fingertips.

  In the trees, in the distance, something moved – made her jump. Just a bird, or a squirrel. She shook her head, impatient with herself. There was nothing lurking here. God, she hardly knew what she was thinking. She had to get home. She checked her screen: half an hour before the next bus was due. Started back along the path.

  Before, when she’d found herself there stiff and cold and alone as the afternoon ebbed into evening, the worst thing was what she’d left behind. Or rather, that was the best thing – the best ever – and the worst was knowing it was only Make-Believe. Better Than Real was one of their straplines, and yeah, she’d Believed plenty of amazing stuff before, had flown and changed sex, been a basking shark, a superhero made of flame – but she’d never emerged and felt the world back-to-front like that. Like she’d spent two bright hours in her real life, then been vomited into a washed-out dream called reality. And the strangest part of it all was that she’d Make-Believed Alan before – of course she had – but she’d always got him wrong: flat, or blurred, or with bits of other people mixed in by mistake. She would re-run memories, and while parts of them would come alive, the rest lay dead around her – so she’d get the blue smell of his deodorant, but not the lightness of his voice, would Believe his sleeping face up close, but not his deep, slow breath. And always he would do and say just what she made him. He couldn’t surprise her, because she couldn’t surprise herself. Imagination wasn’t enough.

  Except for when it was.

  When she’d mentioned it to the tech team the following Monday, tried to report it as a glitch, she found it hard to put into words what the difference had been. Brighter, or something, she’d said. Less clear? I don’t know. The guy from tech had refrained from rolling his eyes, just. But what was actually wrong? he’d asked. And she’d shrugged. Because nothing was wrong, and everything was right.

  If it wasn’t a glitch, perhaps it was like training your body: you pushed it and pushed it and eventually you were faster or stronger than you’d ever thought possible. She had made some kind of leap, that afternoon, had unlocked an imaginative capacity she never could have guessed at. And from then on, there was no point to swimming with dolphins or interspace travel. Those were a child’s games. From then, it was Alan, always Alan – the way it always had been. And from then she couldn’t bring herself to return to Raphael House, to endure the terrible remnants of him. Not when she could Make him, Believe him, every night the way he ought to be.

  As she left the path and rejoined the drive, her crunching steps grew steadily faster. Her whole body wanted to run, to leave this place behind. Leave him behind. The
slumped body that was meant to be Alan.

  She kept on seeing him. His hand jumping to the side of his head. And she saw Lewis too, hand lifting to his ear – and she felt that same urge to movement in herself. In her arm, to rise. In her fingers, to touch.

  FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

  Q. How do I enter and leave Make-Believe™?

  A. The first time you enter the world of Make-Believe™, simply use the single-dose nasal spray to introduce our specially engineered biomolecules to your brain – exactly as you might use a smart drug spray to enhance your mental performance. It’s these clever biomolecules that will translate your wildest imaginings into virtual reality. Then just pop your receiver onto your ear, and you’re ready to begin.

  Once you’ve entered Make-Believe™, each session will automatically time-out when you’ve used your daily limit of two hours – but you can end your Make-Believe™ session at any time, just by thinking your preset exit command. Don’t worry, you don’t need to understand how all this works! All you need to know is that you’re in control. You can enter and leave Make-Believe™ whenever you choose.

  ‘Chips,’ he said. ‘You just like chips.’

  There was no one else around, so he had to be talking to her.

  ‘I’ve always liked that vegetarian way you look, but you could do with some blood. Some red meat. An enormous steak. Maybe just some vitamins. Leafy greens.’

  ‘Salad?’

  ‘Mmm. Yeah, I suppose.’

  ‘You’ve never said that before; about blood.’

  ‘When would I have said it before?’

  ‘Other times, when we’ve been here.’

  ‘But we’ve not been here before. Or I haven’t, at least. Where is here, come to think of it?’

  It comes gradually into focus. First there’s the sound: a soft drumming, a forest of dot dot dots.

  ‘It’s raining on our tent. Funny. I thought the sun was out.’

  But they’re not in a tent. Leaves. Above them, a glossy canopy, dark green. Big tropical looking leaves, hand-sized, dinner-plate-sized.

  ‘It’s raining, but it’s not cold. At least, are you cold?’

  ‘A bit.’ She’s not cold, not at all.

  ‘Here.’

  His hug is meltingly warm. She can feel her limbs grow heavy, like all the energy, all the determination the hard work of standing alone, of moving alone, is ebbing away. It is such a relief.

  ‘Oh …’ he says, long and soft, and she knows he is feeling the same.

  ‘What’s the rain saying?’ she asks. ‘It’s like it’s saying something, but it’s too fast. Is it all dots, or are there dashes?’

  ‘I don’t want to listen to that,’ he says, ‘there’s too much of it – too many voices and all at once.’

  It fades as he speaks, diminishing, almost gone, just the odd fat droplet falling from the tip of a leaf.

  ‘I want to listen to just your voice.’

  ‘Makes a change,’ she says. ‘You don’t usually.’

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I was good at that, you always told me I was. A good listener.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Sure: before. Not lately. You were a better talker, mind, you’ve always been a totally first-class talker.’ She means it, and her meaning it glows from her, yellow and bright, and they’re both lit up, delighted.

  ‘Say something else nice.’

  ‘I love you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your turn: say something nice.’

  ‘Um. You’re the bonniest vegetarian I know.’

  She punches him, a play punch.

  ‘Vegetarian or not, you’re the one for me. Listen, do you remember that time … up by the falls?’

  ‘Summer,’ she said. ‘Or maybe it wasn’t; just in my head it’s always summer. Late summer.’

  ‘That’ll do. So long as it’s warm enough still to take off our clothes.’

  ‘Go there now?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  The raindrops are gone. Instead, water laughing, water falling.

  ‘That’s good. It’s softer than it was.’

  ‘I remember twigs. Scratchy. I made you go underneath.’

  ‘I was a gentleman.’

  ‘There you go: feather bed for the gentleman.’

  ‘Much appreciated. I would lie on a bed of stones for you …’

  ‘I can do stones. If that’s what you’re into.’

  ‘No, thank you, I’ll keep this, whatever it is. Bed of clouds, bed of delight …’

  ‘You’ve been playing football?’ Bruise. Bruise. She points them out: one on his bicep. One on his thigh.

  ‘If you like. You like me damaged?’

  ‘Not damaged. Perhaps – it makes you more real.’

  Him pulling back. ‘Oh, Cassie. How am I not real? Don’t you believe in me? Here, you’re not going to cry? Eh?’

  ‘I’m not, if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘Not. Definitely not. Tears begone. That’s better.’

  He kisses her eyelids, then her lips.

  ‘Alan. I believe in you. It’s the other you I don’t believe in.’

  ‘Him – let’s not talk about him. Let’s not talk at all, for a bit. Mm-hm?’

  ‘Mm-hm.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lewis was calling, from up ahead. He’d reached the curve of the hill.

  ‘The view – it’s amazing!’

  She had no breath to shout a reply, couldn’t lift a hand to wave. The track was taking all her strength, all her focus to ride; her boneshaker would never have coped, but this mountain bike was a joy, strong and flexible, eating the hills. She hadn’t asked where it came from: a small-framed Norco, shiny purple, stashed in the cupboard in his hall, needing nothing more than air in its tyres and a squirt of lube on the chain. Ex-girlfriend or ex-flatmate, it had to be one or the other, but Lewis hadn’t offered and Cassie wasn’t going to ask. Letting him guard his past meant she could keep on guarding hers.

  She yanked up, jumped a hollow in the dirt, plunged forward, losing altitude, then threw all her weight on the pedals to climb uphill again. She was nothing but action, burning muscles and gasping lungs – no thought, just focus, just staying upright, riding the trail. It was the last day of the sunshine. The weather was poised to turn, the way it so often did at the start of July, and the forecast said rain by tomorrow. Lewis had time off owed to him, and she had no assignment deadlines. There was nothing that couldn’t wait. A day out had been her suggestion; in the month since they’d met, they’d barely left his flat. Not that I don’t like your kitchen, she’d said, and your bedroom too, but perhaps we could spend some time together outwith these four walls.

  She’d thought he might take the chance, finally, to introduce her to some of his friends – not that she was about to arrange them a night out with Harrie, or Nicol … But instead he’d chosen a bike ride, just the two of them. They’d have the hills to themselves, he’d said, on a weekday – and he’d been right. A few dog-walkers, a hiking group with poles and backpacks; those were the only people they’d passed.

  She pushed harder, legs burning. Powered on towards the top – and forgot the pain of the climb.

  ‘Wow.’ It was a gasp – all she could manage, draped forwards over her handlebars, ribcage heaving as she chased her breath. The reservoir spread itself out before them, mirror-smooth, reflecting the high blue overhead. Patient. Perfect. Sun startled off the surface, flashing white.

  ‘Can you swim?’ she asked. ‘Swim here?’

  Lewis gestured towards a sign: DANGER. ‘You’re not meant to. You can get pulled under, apparently.’

  ‘But – it’s so still … D’you think people do swim, ever?’

  ‘I bet they do, yeah. Kids jumping in for a dare. People coming up here with a few beers, and suddenly it seems like a good idea. Never seen it myself, but … I’ve seen people fishing here, plenty of times.’

  ‘There’s fish?’

  ‘The guys with the rods seem to thin
k so. Ready for lunch?’

  They dropped their bikes at the top of the slope, made their way down to the water. Their side of the reservoir was sheltered; a little further out, wind rippled pale through the grass. Cassie let herself fall back, spread out flat. The day wasn’t hot, but she was burning up from an hour’s hard cycling. She closed her eyes, let the breeze mop her face. Meanwhile Lewis was unpacking his pannier, laying out a picnic. Sandwiches. Apples. Chocolate. Tea.

  Cassie opened one eye. ‘Water?’

  He handed her the canteen, and she sat up to drink. Her breath was back to normal now, more or less. She drank and drank till the canteen was half empty, then picked up a sandwich, dramatically hungry all of a sudden.

  ‘I can’t believe,’ she said between mouthfuls, ‘I’ve never been up here before.’

  ‘Your bike would have disintegrated in five minutes flat!’

  ‘No – but even walking … Have you been here a lot?’

  ‘Do I come here often?’ Lewis was smiling. ‘Yeah. I used to. It’s a while, though, since I came last.’

  ‘Listen.’ Cassie tilted her head, and Lewis raised his eyebrows in a question. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘It’s just – perfect quiet. It’s like being above the whole world. It’s like being in a dream. It’s not, is it? We’re not dreaming?’ He reached out, gently pinched her waist, and she batted his hand away. ‘No, can’t be. You don’t get ticklish in a dream.’ She finished her sandwich, started on a second. ‘It does seem like a dream sometimes. Us, I mean.’

  ‘I’m your dream man? Really?’

  ‘Not that,’ she said. Though he was, in a way; because every night as she slept beside him he followed her into her unconscious, into dreams soft and sweet enough that sometimes she couldn’t be sure whether something had really occurred – a touch, a look, a conversation – or had happened only in her sleep. ‘No, what I mean is, it’s so separate from everything else, you and me. From the rest of my life. It all feels so … unlikely.’