Too Close

by Natalie Daniels

  It sent me right back to childhood, to fond memories of bedwetting. It struck me then how much I have missed all those things you have to give up as a child: tantrums and bodily laxness, to name but a few. Perhaps it was time to reclaim them. The wonderful thing about losing everything, about having nothing left to dread, is that once your fear and reality have merged, there is only liberation; once that wardrobe of convention has been taken off your back, the relief is momentous. However, it was then that the Squeak had walked into the room to find two apparently unconnected events taking place: urine dripping from my chair and Mental Sita with her pants down. Mental Sita is truly mental; the Squeak barely gave her a glance. Me, she isn’t so convinced about. She thinks I’m a fake. The others are nervous around me. They think I am a danger, that I am something to be monitored. Except possibly the policeman who arrested me. I heard him talking to a colleague while I was put in the cell. He could always tell them apart, he said. The guilty ones, relieved at last of the burden of their own crimes, settle down and sleep like babies.

  I didn’t sleep a wink.

  The Squeak hands me the last of my pills. It really is agony to swallow them.

  ‘My mother will be very worried about me. Is someone going to bring her to visit?’

  She closes her paper and folds it up. ‘I don’t know anything about your mother,’ she says, sounding bored.

  ‘I don’t remember when she said she’d come …’

  ‘There’s quite a lot you’d think you would remember,’ she says, tapping the laptop with one hand and reaching for her trolley with the other.

  The staff can be very rude here. But I don’t get upset by it. And she does have a point: I don’t quite remember how my wrist got so cut up but I presume I must have done it; it would seem most unlikely to get randomly stabbed in vertical stripes.

  I go back to the leaf. The wind has dropped and it has ceased to tremble. I think about the old me. Sometimes I’m amused by her. When I think of the energy I used to expend getting hurt or offended. All those years I spent running the rat race, chasing my ratty tail, following the rat rules, being the right kind of mother, wife, daughter, breadwinner, keeping my home the right way, wearing the right clothes, holding the right opinions, drinking the right wine, eating the right food, bearing the right cynicism. For what? It all seems so utterly pointless. Is that what Dr Robinson wants me to write about? The darkness? Those nights I would wake up in a panic, my heart beating so fast, that ache in my body, like I was breaking? I don’t want to think of the pain. I am safe now. That was the old me, who felt too much.

  Now I am free.

  I glance down at the computer. It’s an old Dell with no plug – in case I try to prong myself to death, I suppose. I can’t remember when I last wrote anything.

  ‘What am I meant to write?’ I ask. The Squeak wipes a little spilt water off the tray and puts the serviette in her pocket. Before she goes she leans forward and looks me in the eye.

  ‘Why don’t you just do everyone a favour and write down what fucking happened?’

  She’s kind of impressive. She’s straight to the point. I go back to watching my brave little leaf while she and her fat arse leave the room.

  I won’t let her upset me. I get up and go to the bathroom. It’s not that great pissing your pants, to be honest. I use the loo and wash my unfamiliar hands in the mini basin. There’s a sheet of shiny metal above the sink and I see myself again. Thank God it’s blurry but I can tell I’ve had better days; I’m not looking my best. My hair is no longer lovely. It grows in strange red clumps like patches of coarse grass, my scalp visible. What the hell happened? I pat my head. I resemble a much-loved, worn-out child’s soft toy, although I feel no love, only exhaustion. I peer closer. My eyes are bloodshot, the whites all red. My face is covered in broken veins, my neck a myriad of colours: purples and reds, greens and yellows. I bring my hand up to my throat to check I’m not wearing some kind of ghastly autumnal scarf my mother might have given me. But this is no place for the fashion-conscious. I rub soap over the sheet of metal until I start disappearing.

  *

  I hear Dr Robinson from a way off. She wears the shoes of a tap dancer. I haven’t made up my mind about her yet. I have only seen her once. Dr Twat introduced her to me in an awed silence so I presume she must be a high-flyer in the world of Quackdom. I am not sure how much I like the idea of being forensically examined. That’s her title: Forensic Psychiatrist, which sounds frightfully swanky – though she most definitely is not. In fact, there’s something rather invisible about her. Dr Robinson has a soothing, knowing, professional voice that she has probably spent years perfecting; it’s all a bit too perfect. She is spruce and clean-looking; her clothes are expensive but deathly dull, unlikely to attract attention of any sort. Only her shoes have an attitude; they let you know she’s coming. Today, as she walks into the room, I notice a bit of bird shit or porridge on her right toe tip.

  She is here to help me, so she said last time, to get to the root of it all. I did some forensic examining of my own and caught sight of her travel pass: she lives in north London where the rumour is that there are more therapists than nutjobs. So, really, if you look at it, I’m the one doing her a frigging favour with her slatted blinds and her kitchen island and her Pouilly-Fumé cooling in the fridge.

  She smiles at me. Not a real smile, a professional smile. She has trained herself to enjoy eye contact. She thinks she’s good at it, but no one can out-loony a loony. Besides, I have all the time in the world.

  Everything about Dr Robinson is both intense and measured. She is a serious person. Nothing tumbles out by surprise. I appreciate that, having once been a tumbler myself. She has dark, glossy hair cut in a longish bob that slips out from behind her ear; the gesture with which she tries to correct this has become punctuation for her methodical thinking. I see. Hair back in place. And what do you think – hair back in place – she meant by that? Hair back in place.

  As she takes off her jacket at that leisurely pace of hers, I get a waft of menthol cigarette, or it could be a mint trying to cover the smell of a normal cigarette.

  It’s a weakness, smoking.

  I’d rather my forensic psychiatrist didn’t have such obvious weaknesses.

  I watch as she hangs her jacket over the back of the chair, which she then carefully pulls out from the table, before quietly sitting down in it and putting her hair back in place. Her phone beeps from the breast pocket of the jacket. She looks annoyed, slides it out of the pocket, bends over and glances at the screen. I can read it from where I am sitting because the text size is set to large. Yes, she’s late forties, like me. It’s a good age; our eyes might be fading but our powers are peaking. It’s a WhatsApp message from Si Hubby. Another flicker of irritation crosses her face as she reads the message, which she’s angled away from me now so I can’t read it. She turns the phone off and looks back at me with that stretched professional smile.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she says, not sounding sorry at all, putting her bag down on the floor. Dr Robinson very much lives in the land of rules and etiquette and she likes to pretend that I am with her there. She is very particular; she is not satisfied with the position of her bag and moves it to the other side of her chair. Then she gives me her full attention, cocking her head at that particular angle, a slightly alarmed expression on her face, as if she can hear the howl of a wolf some distance off. Her eyes bore into me. I fascinate her. I am like Sharon’s vagina: captivating but repulsive.

  ‘Right, Connie. Good to see you again. How are you settling in here at Tatchwell?’

  I don’t like this attitude of hers. So bloody superior. Well, two can play that game. I slowly pick a hair off my tracksuit bottoms.

  ‘You remember what we were going to discuss today?’ she says. ‘We were going to talk about Ness …’

  I yawn. I’m looking at the unostentatious ring around her wedding finger, next to the gold band. Everything she says is a question, which is rather
draining. She is constantly trying to catch me out. Today I am going to try and answer all her questions with questions.

  ‘Ness?’

  ‘Yes. Vanessa Jones.’

  ‘Is she coming to visit me?’ I ask.

  She pauses and shakes her head. ‘No, Connie. She is not.’

  I am momentarily hurt by this news. And Dr Robinson sees this; I see a little spark in her eye. Inside her head a crowd of idiots are whooping.

  ‘And why do you think Ness won’t be coming to visit you?’ she says, stretching the inch I accidentally gave her into a mile. She gives me the long stare and then takes a deep, changing-the-angle breath and puts her rebellious silky hair back in place. ‘I thought we could start at the beginning,’ she continues, as if the idea is stunningly original.

  ‘I’d like one of your cigarettes.’ I don’t smoke, but it’s nice to have things in here. I’ve started to collect bits and pieces where I can.

  ‘You can’t smoke in here.’

  I stare at her. She’s so wrapped up in what she’s supposed to do, she could become tedious. She leans back decisively and stands up. She stretches and winces a little. She wanders over to the window, her back to me, to show me how she isn’t intimidated by me, how we could just be friends having a catch-up. She stands there looking out. I don’t want her to notice my brave little leaf manically waving at her; I feel rather possessive of it. She wanders slowly down the stretch of the unbreakable windowpane. I watch her. I like her body: it is strong and solid, fit, a body ready for hard physical labour, broad but languid – an unusual combination. She tries to open the window but it is locked, of course. Anything and everything in this place that can be opened is always locked: cupboards, windows, doors, minds. It is rather sweet that she seems annoyed. She tries a different window. Maybe she fancies herself as a bit of a maverick, an opener of windows.

  Slowly she walks back across the room and sits down again. ‘Are you going to use that computer we brought you?’ she asks.

  ‘I’d have preferred a MacBook Air,’ I say.

  She smiles. For the first time I think that if it wasn’t for a hundred different things, I might quite like her.

  ‘You’re a writer – don’t you miss writing?’

  I’m free of all that crap in here.

  ‘Sometimes we find that writing things down works as a memory trigger. It can unblock the amnesia.’

  She really hasn’t got it.

  ‘You could try. See what you recall …’

  ‘How old are your kids?’ I ask.

  She crosses her legs and smooths her skirt. ‘Am I right in thinking this all started six years ago?’

  ‘And you and Si Hubby, how long have you known each other?’ I ask.

  I’m starting to annoy her. ‘This isn’t about me, Connie.’

  ‘But one-sided relationships are not conducive to intimacies.’ I smile at her. It’s a genuine smile. I’m having fun. ‘Go on,’ I say. ‘Where did you and Si Hubby meet?’

  She squints her blue eyes, angles her head and listens to the howl of that wolf. This is a serious pose. She can come over a little headmistressy; she ought to be careful about that.

  ‘You know, Connie, we all have to accept responsibility for our choices and for our actions.’ She seems impressed by her own profundity. ‘You are not going to be able to use avoidance tactics for ever.’

  I think about this while she changes her focus and looks out of the window. I think she’s spotted my leaf. She turns to me decisively. ‘I am here to help you,’ she says. ‘We can go about it any way you wish, Connie, we can take different roles if that is more helpful …?’ She lets that idea float about for a bit. I hope she can read my expression: she can ram her drama games where the sun don’t shine. Talking of which, the sun has stopped shining and the room seems suddenly dark. She is still staring at me. She’s got flecks of brown in those hard blue eyes.

  ‘Would you say your life’s pretty good?’ I ask her, folding my arms, cocking my head, listening out for her wolf. ‘You’ve got this interesting job, you must make decent money. You’ve got lovely Si Hubby … He’s such a good loyal husband, isn’t he? Maybe he’s put the kids to bed by the time you get back tonight after your hard day of being so helpful. You get home, chat in the kitchen, open a bottle of wine, move through to the sitting room, maybe have dinner in front of a few episodes of the latest Scandi TV drama. Then eventually you’ll go up to bed.

  ‘Ah, here’s the rub,’ I add, sotto voce for maximum effect. ‘It might turn out to be that night, the one you’ve been subtly avoiding: the once-a-month duty fuck. Or perhaps you can continue to avoid it, stall a bit, or go up before him and feign sleep. Don’t get me wrong – you’re a good wife, you love him and all that, and you know that sex is important in a relationship, blah blah blah, all the magazines tell you that; in fact you probably tell people that, troublemaker that you are. But still, you’ll eke out your time in the bathroom in case, you know, he tries something on. You’re so tired, you see, saving all these people, such exhausting work. And besides, sex is such an effort. But how long can you realistically avoid it when it’s all part of the deal, the unspoken contract of a couple?

  ‘You get into bed, hoping he won’t … but, oh, he does, he makes a slight advance, just a touch, more of a nervous hand reaching out, nothing more, but you know where it’s going, what he wants, although even he has almost given up these days. Yes. Tonight is the night I really ought to make the effort, you say to yourself. So you roll over to signify that he may continue and you let him do it. And it’s not nearly so bad once you get started. I should do this more often, you think as you feel him inside you; it’s even quite pleasurable (although you’re ready for it to be over pretty soon) …’

  I pause. She is staring at me; her facial muscles seem to have gone a little lax. I lean in a touch, whispering in my strange new rasping voice that I’m beginning to rather enjoy. ‘But fucking is easy, isn’t it, Doc? It’s kissing that you can’t fake; kissing is the real intimacy. It’s kissing that’s unbearable. When did you last kiss Si Hubby? Not a peck on the cheek kind of kiss, no – a real melt-in-the-mouth kiss. Think about it, that mouth of his: the disgusting way it eats, the stupid things it says, the idiotic expressions it pulls … that mouth you’re stuck with for the next forty years. But you try not to think of it like that because … well, a lifetime without passion?’

  I sit back and look into those steadfast unblinking eyes. Then I start to laugh – really laugh. She’s not quite as cocky as she was half an hour ago. ‘I think all of us use avoidance tactics, don’t you, Dr Robinson?’

  Chapter 2

  Emma sat on the bus. It was a horrible evening. The clocks had fallen back an hour and winter had arrived like a smack in the face. She wiped a clear smear in the condensation of the window so that she could see out on to the slippery streets of Wood Green beyond, the lights of consumerism reflected on the glistening pavements, the uniform, disgruntled people piling out of the tube station with such purpose, an army of wet misery marching onwards in this hour when people rush. The bus stank of damp bodies and fusty clothes, like a charity shop. The rain had magnified the senses and Emma was bombarded by sounds: tyres through puddles, footsteps, engines, voices, tinny thumping headphone noise.

  She tried to go back to her book, Hotel du Lac. She was only reading it because it had been on her shelf for years and she couldn’t bring herself to throw away an unread book; it didn’t seem right. Besides, it was short and light and fitted in her bag. But it was a futile exercise. She couldn’t concentrate. She felt tired and irritable, her mind an endless tangle of disquiet. She hadn’t practised meditation or yoga for months now. Always the same: as soon as she re-established her own calm, found a little peace, she forgot to continue with it. And her mind would crowd itself again. She really should try to prioritize it.

  More people piled on board: city folk, inner-city folk, last of the schoolkids, a bus full of all colours and creeds, everyone e
qually tired and wet. Her eye was caught by a woman in a burka carrying two heavy bags full of shopping. The truth was that Emma found burkas scary. She stared at her, this formless shadow like death without the scythe; she had no idea whether the woman was staring back because her eyes were not visible. To Emma, who was feeling irked by everything today, she was a walking symbol of female oppression, a woman who had been both blinded and made invisible by men. It made her angry; we, as women, have worked very hard in this country to be heard and seen.

  Immediately she felt guilty and shifted apologetically to make room for the woman, but the actual room she was making was nothing; she was merely demonstrating that she was a good person and that she wasn’t Islamophobic. Or was she Islamophobic? No, misogyny was the problem and that was a cultural problem, not a religious one.

  The woman sat down and put the bags between her legs, her thigh rubbing against Emma’s. Emma instinctively responded in the trusty British way: ‘Sorry,’ she said, and shifted again. But instead of politely retreating, the woman’s thigh quickly took up the new space Emma had provided. Emma felt annoyed then guilty again, hoping that the woman didn’t think she’d moved her thigh away because she was a racist. The bus lurched forwards and the driver beeped. She was longing to get home, to get this day over and done with. Like a magic trick, the woman then produced a phone from within the folds of her garment. Emma watched the scrolling screen from the corners of her eyes; the woman’s fingernails had little pictures of moons and stars on them. They stopped at the name Mo. The woman held the phone to her ear, which was almost equidistant from Emma’s own ear, and Emma found herself waiting expectantly for Mo to pick up.