A Note of Madness

by Tabitha Suzuma

  Flynn put down his pen and forced himself to look up. ‘I’m not embarrassed!’

  Harry started to laugh, then swiftly turned it into a cough. ‘Just finish your sentence then. It’s not as if you what?’

  Flynn quickly averted his eyes. ‘I can’t remember what I was saying.’

  Harry gave a sigh of exasperation but still seemed to be trying not to laugh. ‘Stop playing all innocent! You’ve only had a crush on Jennah, like, for ever!’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ He glared at Harry hotly.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Harry laughed. ‘Isn’t it time you stopped kidding yourself?’

  ‘I’m not!’

  ‘Look, how hard can it get? She’s just broken up with her boyfriend. Go and ask her out!’

  Flynn jumped up, the blood hot in his cheeks. ‘I don’t want to, OK?’

  ‘You don’t want to, or you’re afraid to?’

  ‘Drop it, Harry.’

  ‘But why—?’

  ‘Drop it, will you!’

  ‘Fine!’ Harry slumped back in his chair, an amused but slightly confused expression on his face. There was a silence. Then he looked at Flynn and shook his head. ‘What the hell are you afraid of?’

  Flynn slammed into his bedroom, heart pounding, as the irritating sound of Harry’s tuning wafted through the wall. He dumped his books on the bed, sat down cross-legged in front of them, picked up his pen and took a deep breath in an attempt to gather his thoughts. Why had he allowed himself to get so rattled by that conversation? Why did he embarrass so easily and why was it that he was always so damn transparent? What was Harry trying to do? Did he think it was funny?

  Flynn remembered the first time he heard about Charlie, the shock that one of the group had broken rank, then the realization that his dreams about Jennah – his stupid, childish, impossible dreams – would have to come to an end. Seeing Jennah with Charlie had been like a fist in the stomach, and Flynn had sworn to himself then that that was it, he wasn’t going to let his emotions run away with him like that ever again. So he had forced himself to think of Jennah as his friend – only his friend and nothing more. And now – now he was over her. Harry was just talking bullshit. So what if Charlie was no longer on the scene? Jennah went for the tall, dark, mysterious type. She only thought of him as Harry’s quirky sidekick – Harry’s crazy sidekick if Harry had leaked information about the depression, the pills and the psychiatrist, which was distinctly possible.

  He gazed at the Mahler article and tried to banish thoughts of Jennah from his mind. Despite every effort not to, he couldn’t stop thinking about her break-up with Charlie. Who was she in love with? Another student? Somebody really good-looking, no doubt. Somebody really good-looking but also into music; somebody talented like André, or that Croatian trombonist, or – or— He racked his brain, trying to come up with a student that Jennah had been particularly chatty with recently, but came up with a series of blanks. She was always hanging around with him and Harry.

  He threw down his pen. Why was it that he could never concentrate? He needed to get this essay over and done with so that he could get back to his practice. The deadline had already passed – he had been granted an extension courtesy of the concert rehearsals, but Myers was not going to fall for another excuse tomorrow! It was almost ten. His mind began to race. If he wanted to get in two hours’ practice tonight and get to bed before one then he had to finish this essay in the next hour. He still could not remember what the Mahler article was about, despite now having read it for a third time. Gritting his teeth, he began reading it for a fourth . . .

  Harry seemed to think he should ask Jennah out . . . The print danced before his eyes, he could not hear a single word inside his head. He tried to read aloud but his dull monotone made no sense. Reeling, he picked up one of the library books and tried to decipher his own pencilled scrawl . . . Being around Jennah made him feel awkward and breathless . . . He felt the adrenaline rise. Nothing was getting through. He couldn’t even remember the essay title. He pressed the heel of his palms against his eyes. Don’t think about her! Mahler, not Jennah. Jennah, Mahler; Mahler, Jennah. The names went around in his head like a crazy chant. He began to rip up the blank page into tiny pieces, letting them fall to the carpet like snow.

  It was inconceivable that tomorrow he would be walking into the Royal Albert Hall to rehearse with the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Flynn was overcome with a feeling of dread so strong that his limbs seemed to be in a kind of torpor and his brain felt like it was working in slow motion. Everything seemed to be a huge effort; just sitting up on the sofa, gazing blindly through the living-room window at a couple of bare, ugly trees was absurdly exhausting, yet he had slept more in the last twenty-four hours than in the whole of the previous week, and knew that more sleep would bring little relief. He felt chilled to the bone but couldn’t even be bothered to get up and turn up the heating or fetch a jumper. Anything in the least bit positive or proactive lay completely beyond his reach. In fact, after some reflection, he realized that the only two things he felt able to do were think – black and negative thoughts – and cry. The thoughts just kept welling up of their own accord – a constant, steady flow.

  The pressure behind his eyes reminded him that tears were never far away. He managed to hold them back, but only through fear that Harry might suddenly walk through the door. It was suffering, in its simplest, purest form, and all he could feel was the pain, unidentifiable by its cause or exact location but present all the same, permeating his every pore. I can’t. The two words seemed permanently lodged inside his head. I can’t play tomorrow . . . I can’t go to the rehearsal, I can’t tidy the flat, I can’t go for a run and I sure as hell can’t practise. He kept his eyes purposely averted from the keyboard in its corner but its mere presence weighed on him like a physical ache. Part of him hated the thought of anyone seeing him in such a pathetic state, even Harry, but another part of him wished for Harry’s return in the hope that it might provide some relief, if only temporary, from his unbearable self.

  He flushed the remaining anti-depressants down the toilet. Fat lot of good they had been. After the first flush, some of the green and white capsules bobbed irritatingly to the surface; he threw a wad of toilet paper over them and flushed again. The toilet gulped in protest, the cistern still emptying. Flynn bit his lip against a wave of violence and gripped the sides of the washbasin, head down, breathing heavily. He could feel the blood throbbing in his cheeks. He would not go under again. Would not go to bed with a bottle of alcohol and barricade his door. There was the big rehearsal tomorrow. There was Rami, never far away with his concern and his pep talks and his psychiatrists. Mum and Dad would make him leave the Royal College and come home. He had to hold it together. Had to get through the next two weeks at least, the rehearsals and then the concert. He had to show them, had to show himself that he could do it . . . But could he? That was the million-dollar question.

  His legs felt unsteady. He lowered himself to the floor, one hand still gripping the edge of the basin, and drew his knees up to his chest. He must not give way now. This was just a temporary feeling – he was just over-tired, just a bit nervous about the concert. Why then did the mere thought of practice fill him with horror? Why did tomorrow overwhelm him with fear? Why did the pain of his own existence cause him to break out in a cold sweat? He was losing it, he was losing it again! But he mustn’t let this happen. He couldn’t go through this another time. He could not risk ruining this chance, could not make a fool of himself in front of everyone.

  The vision of the Royal Albert Hall stage – the orchestra sitting behind the gleaming Steinway, instruments poised, waiting for his cue – flitted across his mind and a wave of sickness engulfed him. He dragged himself to his feet and walked blindly into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. He would not give in to this, he would not let himself fall apart. This time he would fight it, for there was too much at stake. He would keep his composure, he wo
uld go through the motions of an ordinary life, he would do it, he must.

  He finished the water and looked around wildly for something else to do. He had to keep his mind occupied to prevent himself from thinking! He strode resolutely into the living room. The late-afternoon sunlight filled the room with a golden hue, illuminating the dust on the surfaces. Going for a run crossed his mind but the mere thought of looking for his trainers filled him with despair. The television was the only easy option to hand. He switched on the news and stared at the reader’s face, willing himself to listen to the monotone. Such a simple task was excruciating.

  Harry’s arrival made him start. He did not know whether the breaking of his solitary confinement was a positive thing or not. Perhaps it would prevent him from thinking but it would also throw up the real test – making conversation, appearing normal, behaving as other people did. The task appeared almost impossible.

  ‘Hi,’ Harry said. ‘You’ll never guess what happened. Sally, that crazy redhead in HS, went over to Phil and slapped him, right across the face. It was hilarious! Turned out he’d been caught snogging her best friend. She marched out and all the girls started cheering. Phil was gob-smacked. Honestly, it had to be seen to be believed!’

  Painfully, Flynn forced himself to make eye contact, to nod in response, gnawing savagely on his thumbnail.

  ‘You look a bit red in the face. What have you been up to?’ Harry grinned.

  He could not even come up with a witty reply. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Nothing.’ It hurt to talk.

  ‘I’m meeting Jen at her salsa bar in an hour,’ Harry went on. ‘I told her I had two left feet but apparently I don’t have to dance. Kate’s been wanting to go for ages. Clive and Nikki are going to be there too. And Jennah says I’m to drag you along on pain of death.’

  Flynn looked at him hotly.

  ‘I said you’d be practising . . .’ Harry rolled his eyes with a weary shake of the head. ‘I told her that with the big rehearsal tomorrow there was no way you’d be parted from the piano . . .’

  Going to a noisy bar full of people would be horrific. Staying at home alone with his thoughts would be worse. ‘I’ll come,’ Flynn said impulsively.

  Harry looked suitably surprised. ‘Really? Great, just what you need. A bit of real music before the heavy stuff in the morning!’

  He knew about the rehearsal with the Philharmonic. God, they all knew.

  ‘I’m going to have a shower and change,’ Harry informed him. ‘Jen will be pleased – she was complaining she hadn’t seen you for ages.’

  He departed, whistling, and Flynn returned to the television screen. He breathed deeply, trying to quell a rising knot of fear. What was he thinking, going out the night before his first rehearsal? But he clung to the desperate hope that maybe being around people would force this thing out of him, oblige him to behave rationally and purge this wave of blackness from his addled mind. He had to believe, had to be positive. Otherwise, alone with the long evening hours and the intolerable night ahead, he would go mad, he felt certain of it.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Harry asked him as they made their way down Bayswater Road, towards the bright lights and hubbub of Notting Hill Gate, cutting through the harassed-looking commuters spilling out of the tube station.

  Flynn nodded, hands in his pockets to deter any further nail-biting, and managed a smile.

  ‘Nervous about tomorrow?’ Harry suggested with a sympathetic grin. ‘Hey, it’ll be great. I’m so jealous. You’ll probably feel a bit stressed at the start but when you get into it, playing at the Albert Hall . . .’ His eyes lit up. ‘Wow. This really might be better than sex!’ he laughed.

  Flynn managed another strained smile, his eyes on the ground. He wondered whether he was going to manage to say anything again, ever. The paving stones in front of him blurred together in the fading light. The energy and determination of the passers-by amazed him. They all appeared to want something, looked as if they had somewhere important to go. He wanted to shake them for their assurance, for their place in the world.

  The purple lettering of the bar came into view as they turned the corner. The beat reached out to greet them halfway down the road. A couple of semi-clad girls laughed loudly in the doorway. The place was heaving. Through the darkened entrance, Flynn could make out a mass of heads flashing with fluorescent purple lighting. Crossing his arms, he hung back, reeling. Waves of adrenaline crashed through him, turning his stomach. He was suddenly appalled that he had agreed to this.

  Harry turned in the doorway and gave a brief smile. ‘Busy, isn’t it? By the way, I know you’re broke, so drinks are on me.’

  Flynn found himself staring back at him like a cat caught in headlights. Now was the time to open his mouth, to tell Harry he had changed his mind, to make some excuse and leave. But Harry pushed open the door and ducked inside. He had lost his chance.

  The sight of Jennah, Kate, Clive and Nikki, holding drinks and chatting animatedly around a small table, rooted him to the spot. The urge to bolt was overwhelming. This was too much. He couldn’t go through with it. He wouldn’t be able to hold down a conversation, would be quite incapable of engaging in small talk with these people as if he were part of their group.

  Harry, bounding ahead, was greeting everyone exuberantly with much cheek-kissing and back-slapping. Flynn hung back, trying to disguise his panic, trying to keep the terror from showing and, when Harry had finished, managed a brief smile and a vague ‘Hi’ at no one in particular. But, to his horror, the attention was on him.

  ‘Hey, it’s the elusive maestro!’ Clive greeted him. ‘All ready for the big concert?’

  Flynn smiled and nodded, feeling his face burn. The heat from all the bodies was oppressive and it hurt to stand. He could not think of a thing to say. Harry came to his rescue, plunging in with the story about Sally’s slap, which everyone seemed to find surprisingly amusing. But then Nikki edged her way towards Flynn and started going on about Eastern European music, sounding as if she had read too many books on the subject, and going on about the different interpretations of the Rach Three. She was bright-eyed and attractive, very intense and completely over the top. Flynn struggled to nod in the right places and string together some kind of coherent answer to her myriad questions. It was as if he were an extra in some crazy film.

  None of this seemed real, somehow. The pounding music, the exuberant voices, the raucous laughter – it was all acting. No one felt so great they wanted to laugh all the time, no one had so much to say that they could not stop talking, no one liked people so much that they wanted to pack themselves into a couple of small rooms filled with heaving bodies. He wanted to tell them all to quit the joke, to stop pretending, to be honest and say what they really felt, to be real again. But was this not reality? Their reality, if not his? He did not belong, did not fit in and that was why he could not tolerate being here. But there was nowhere else. Nowhere else but alone – alone with his painful thoughts. Where did he belong? Not here, among this crazy, heaving mass of flesh, nor with his friends, nor with his parents. Not anywhere. He wanted to run and keep running, to try to find his place – a place where he felt comfortable, where he felt real. A place where he could stop hurting, far, far from all this.

  ‘Sorry?’ he said yet again, leaning towards Nikki. The music was deafening and conversation futile. Yet everyone else seemed to be chatting with ease, albeit at the top of their voices. Did he now have some kind of a hearing problem? Nikki repeated her question, leaning in close, her hair brushing against his cheek. Flynn pulled back quickly. Someone touched his arm and he almost lashed out. Managed to turn round instead and, with considerable relief, discovered Jennah, standing at his elbow.

  ‘Come and help me get the drinks?’

  He nodded, excused himself and followed her over to the bar. She stopped at the counter, turned and smiled. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me doing that. You looked like you needed rescuing.’
r />   ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How are you?’ Jennah asked. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’ She was wearing a black, knee-length dress and her arms were bare. Her eyes looked very bright in the half-light.

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘How was your dad’s birthday?’

  ‘OK.’

  Jennah crinkled up her nose. ‘Thanks for coming along, Flynn. I know you’d rather be practising but I really wanted to see you and, anyway, it’s better to chill out the night before so that you’re nice and relaxed for the rehearsal – or too hungover to be nervous, whichever way you want to look at it.’

  Flynn almost laughed.

  ‘Hey, I knew I’d get you to smile!’

  The smile faded with embarrassment and he looked away.

  ‘I’ve been worried about you. I hardly see you any more. You work too hard!’ Jennah nudged him teasingly, making him flinch.

  There was a silence. ‘Is everything OK?’ she asked.

  No, it’s not! he wanted to shout. I can’t cope with this any more! I’m dying inside and I’ve got nowhere to go! Nobody understands me, not even my own mother, and just getting out of bed in the morning terrifies me! I’m sinking, sinking and there’s no way out! But instead he gave a shrug and nodded.

  Jennah cocked her head with a small smile. ‘You’ll have to do better than that!’

  He looked at her, breathing hard, suddenly terrified that she was going to break in, see through and realize what was going on. He could not watch himself carefully enough, could not be sure he would not let something slip. ‘Shall we get the drinks?’ he managed.

  Jennah nodded slowly and turned to lean over the bar. She did not turn back as she waited to be served.

  Flynn found a chair on the other side of the table from Nikki when they returned. Harry was on the dance floor with Kate – so much for his two left feet. Flynn sipped his beer with mounting dread. Now that he had cut short his conversation with Jennah, he was exposed to either sitting alone and looking pathetic, or to being pitied and talked to. Neither was appealing. How soon could he leave? He tried to look interested in Harry and Kate’s comical moves but he obviously wasn’t convincing enough, because Clive started talking to him. Better than overzealous Nikki but Clive was loud, confident and cracked a lot of unfunny jokes. Clive too wanted to talk about the concert, and Flynn could not understand why until he realized that they did not know him well enough to talk about much else. He was not volunteering any free information, nor enquiring about them at all. Anyway, they probably knew him as the eccentric always holed up in the piano room . . . It was an effort just having to pretend to listen to what Clive had to say. The image of the concert hall flitted repeatedly across Flynn’s mind. He was suffocating . . . Eventually, Clive grew tired of Flynn’s catatonic answers and took Nikki to the dance floor. That was when Jennah reached her arm out across the table.