Room Empty

by Sarah Mussi

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.

  ‘I was terrified you’d die. And I’d be alone. I was terrified they’d put you in a hole in the ground. I was terrified that you didn’t want to be my recovery buddy any more, so I just decided to leave the programme.’

  ‘But how has that helped? I don’t get it.’

  ‘The thing about the streets is that they’re always there. Once you’re homeless you don’t have to be afraid of being abandoned and rejected and left out – because you already are. So there’s a weird kind of security in that. It just felt too hard to keep on trying. I gave up. It just felt safer.’

  ‘But you threw everything away,’ I say. Maybe I still don’t get it.

  ‘I threw it away before you threw me away,’ he says. ‘It just made it easier. I don’t think I could have borne it if you’d rejected me or died.’

  Fletcher has such a long way to go. He’s totally making me his Higher Power again, and though it’s flattering it’s not right.

  ‘And you quarrelled with me,’ he says, ‘and you told me all about myself. And I knew there wasn’t any point in anything any more. So I left.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

  ‘I was never mad at you . . . I was mad at myself. I was mad at the world. I’m still mad at the world.’

  ‘That’s no good though.’ I say. ‘Think of everything we’ve learned. However much we don’t like the way we learned it, it’s true – some of that stuff is really true. Even Judith says stuff that really does make sense. I mean, we can’t control the world even if we stop eating altogether. We can’t escape it. We’re stuck with reality – big time.’

  Fletcher giggles.

  ‘We can’t control things and we’re not the cause of them,’ I say.

  ‘We’re pretty much losers from the start.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Tough.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I put on a Judith voice: ‘All you can do is choose not to let the past have power over the future.’

  Fletcher smiles. ‘At last the penny drops. Bit late, but there you go.’

  ‘It’s never too late,’ I say. Then I pause.

  He pauses too.

  The moment lingers.

  Then I tell him my big news.

  The honeysuckle quivers.

  The blackbird sends out one last sweet note.

  ‘I ate lunch today,’ I say.

  56

  ‘You what?’ he says.

  ‘And supper,’ I say.

  Fletcher’s face lights up. I can see he is nowhere near cured. He’s pouring himself into me like the Niagara Falls. He’s totally delighted I’m starting to recover. Like it’s his personal triumph. He’s forgotten that it’s not.

  Suddenly I am all important. Reality has shifted its focus from him over to me. And I can see he prefers it.

  ‘Tell me all about it,’ he says.

  And I can’t resist. The taste of that bread still lingers somewhere in visceral memories at the back of my throat. Big creamy buttery feelings.

  I start to tell him.

  He looks so happy.

  I don’t stop.

  I tell him about it – every bite, every crumb, every swallow. And by the time I’ve finished, he’s smiling so widely; we could almost believe we were sitting somewhere else, at a different and better point in our futures, when we’ve recovered, when we’re together, living in that cheap bedsit, in some kind of Happy At Last future bubble.

  ‘Can we try again?’ he says. ‘If you carry on eating, I promise I’ll try hard. I’ll go to meetings. I can find out where they’re held. I’ll find a sponsor. It’s not too late. If you’ll eat, I can do anything.’

  And what should I say now?

  Should I tell him that he should be overjoyed at the thought of his own recovery, not because I ate a roll and a plate of pasta? But somehow it doesn’t matter how you get there. It’s just important that you do.

  So I say, ‘Yes, let’s try again.’

  ‘We need to swear it on something this time,’ he says.

  ‘If I tell you something, do you promise you’ll still stay on track?’

  ‘There is nothing you can tell me – as long as we’re doing this together – that could change anything,’ he says.

  So I tell him about the third person.

  Instantly Fletcher is all Sherlock Holmes.

  He sits on the edge of the bench. His lovely, punch-throwing shoulders don’t slouch any more. There’s a light in his eyes that is awe-inspiring.

  ‘We need a lead,’ he says.

  My heart flutters, my blood pounds and my cheeks ache from smiling.

  ‘But there may not be any records of a third person,’ I say.

  Fletcher thinks about that. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘There probably won’t be.’ A tree crashes down in some distant rainforest. ‘I’ll bet he got away with it, didn’t he? He locked you and your mum up. He used and abused you. You starved. Your mum died. And he got away with it.’

  The forest floor shakes. The smell of honeysuckle is overpowering. I hold my breath.

  ‘And you’ve been paying for it ever since,’ says Fletcher.

  He’s angry.

  ‘He really messed you up.’ Two high spots of colour have appeared on Fletcher’s cheeks. He clenches and unclenches his fists. ‘To the point where you’ve almost starved yourself to death. You can’t let – can’t let him – ever get away with it.’

  More trees are falling. They’re heading for the timber yard.

  ‘We need to find out who he is,’ says Fletcher. ‘We’ll nail the bastard.’

  I shake my head.

  Fletcher leans forward, stretches out a hand, taps me on the forehead. He says, ‘And we need to get him out of there.’

  I nod.

  ‘So you need to remember.’

  It’s déjà vu.

  Nothing’s changed.

  My hands break into a sweat. Fletcher will take over. My throat dries up. I do not want to remember.

  ‘What if we go back to the room?’ says Fletcher. ‘What if we go there and do one of those Judith hypnotic things? We might find out who he is.’

  He glances up at my face.

  He understands.

  ‘Or do you want him to get away with it?’ he says. More trees crash. An earthquake opens up a crack, right under the Atlantic. ‘He did that to your mum! He did that to you! Do you really want to let him get away with it?’

  A fresh tsunami forms. A hurricane blows.

  ‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘We’ve worked so hard to get to this point. We found out where the room is; we found out what happened to you; we discovered it wasn’t your mum’s fault. And it’s helped. You ate. You goddamn ate lunch, Dani! We can do this. I want to do this. I want to do this for you. I want to be there for you, like we promised. OK?’

  I can’t tell him. He’s so much more fragile than me.

  ‘Let me do this,’ he says. ‘I’ll go there. I’ll find out everything. Then you can come and we’ll catch the bastard and we’ll get closure. I’ll wait until you’re fully strong enough to leave rehab, till you’re recovered, until you’ve graduated from this programme. I can wait. I’d like to wait. I’ll be OK if I know what I’m waiting for. I’ll have something to wait for. I can do it.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘It’ll be like old times. It will work. It’ll really help me too,’ he says.

  But it won’t help him. Will it?

  It will just be another reason for Fletcher not to work on himself. I would just be helping him to have no boundaries, all over again.

  And it won’t help me. Because I’ve got to face my own demons.

  Like him.

  ‘We will recover,’ I say, ‘but not like that. I’ve got to be strong enough on my own. You’ve got to be strong enough too – and not just strong for me, Fletch. You’ve got to be strong for yourself. Because you believe in yourself. Because you can stand alone. Even if you are alone and have
to be alone for ever.’

  There’s this stricken, empty look on his face, like a dog that has been locked out.

  ‘I’m not going to die,’ I whisper, ‘but I have to face this in my own way.’

  I leave the unspoken. Now Fletcher must go back. Back to the streets, without any mission. Back to face his own demons right there, where they live.

  ‘You won’t be alone,’ I whisper. ‘Not any more. But you have to face things that are yours. Just as I have to.’

  ‘Like we all have to.’

  I can’t ask him to do that and not do it myself.

  So I make a decision.

  The hurricane dies off.

  The tsunami subsides.

  I will face my demons too.

  By myself.

  I will do this for me.

  And I won’t give myself time to change my mind.

  Tomorrow I will go to the empty room.

  Before I go to sleep, my phone vibrates.

  Fletcher.

  I can’t stop thinking about you, Dani. About how we’re trying again. It’s bad and it’s good. It’s so good I’m scared and that’s bad. I know. I know. J would say that’s No Boundaries, and it’s black-and-white thinking when reality is actually all shades of grey. OK, don’t let me get on to shades of grey, or I will start thinking about you like that.

  Another text.

  Q: would you be cross if I did?

  I’m so tempted to escape into ‘True Love’s Kiss’.

  I turn my phone off.

  I must focus on myself.

  And tomorrow.

  Step Eleven

  The Power to Carry That Out

  57

  It is tomorrow.

  I am here. I left the rehab centre straight after breakfast. I ate two slices of toast and they’re still inside me. I sat on the bus and found it soothing.

  I hope Daisy Bank will take me back. It’s dangerous to eat too much too suddenly. Tony warned me of eating after starvation. But even if they don’t take me back, this has to be my next step.

  Step Thirteen. The hardest step of all.

  Tony told me of deadly potassium levels.

  But today I still ate.

  Because today I am facing all my demons.

  Today I will face the worst one. Where he lives.

  In the empty room.

  I have a promise to keep.

  To Fletcher.

  And myself.

  And my mother.

  Then we can heal.

  With truth and love.

  Then I will be strong enough for myself.

  And for him.

  And for all the Alices of this world.

  I think I have the right street but it’s hard to tell.

  It’s mid-morning. I sit down on a low wall. I pull out the notepad.

  I look at all of Fletcher’s entries: timber yards. The addresses of all the timber yards. Houses likely to have bars on windows. Edwardian? Victorian? Lorries. Roads large enough to admit lorries. Smell? The smell of death? Abattoir? Hospital? Wind direction? South-westerly during the months of November to December. Somewhere near the woodyard. Near honeysuckle.

  I’ll miss Circle Time.

  I must find Arches Timber Ltd, Phoenix Wharf, Mordly Hill Street, Lewisham, London, SE4 9QQ.

  But I don’t really need Fletcher’s notes. Now I’m near, there’s a part of me that knows these streets. They’re etched on me like scars from cuttings so long ago. Their lorries and air currents flow through my veins. The windy corner by the bus stop. I don’t want to be here. I can feel her hand in mine. I can tell by the paving slabs, the cracks, the kerb, the way the drain cover doesn’t quite fit.

  I know this street. I know all these streets.

  They’re mine.

  I walk them hand in hand with my mother. I must have been so small. Maybe the trees have grown, the walls shrunk. Another person inside me knows the way. My feet are making decisions for me.

  That’s where there used to be a corner shop. A sweet shop. A symphony of sugar. And my mother came here with me, her face brimming with light. Here there were Lovehearts. My mum used to read them to me. A feeling lifts me. I rise skywards, soaring into sunshine.

  My mother was here with me.

  Reading Lovehearts.

  Once in another world.

  I feel the memory like a zephyr in my chest. Quivering. Straining. Here on these very paving stones, I remember her putting a pale-lemon-coloured Loveheart on my tongue. It read: You Are Cute.

  It tasted so sweet.

  She told me it was true.

  My eyes fill with tears. I want to fall on my knees and lay my cheek on the paving stones.

  My mother stood here and she loved me. And I was cute. And we ate Lovehearts.

  And on the opposite side of the road, there was a duck pond in an open bit of park. There’s no park now. A new block of towers. That used to be a park though? Not a proper park, just a stretch of green with a pond on it. And sometimes there were ducks.

  Perhaps not.

  The past is such a strange country.

  Perhaps we fed the ducks?

  I can’t remember.

  We were always in a hurry because of him.

  One tear escapes and rolls down my cheek.

  I must keep going.

  Who was it that we always had to please?

  I turn right on to a smaller lane. I know that at its end it will open up on to a larger thoroughfare – where the timber yard is.

  He was angry. He shouted.

  Suddenly a tornado rises out of nowhere. It tries to push me back. A scrambled noise of voices shout: Don’t go any further. You can’t go there.

  He’ll get you.

  Rehab will kick you out.

  You’ve gone too far already.

  Madness. Madness. Madness.

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

  You’re ugly. You’re bad. You’re not worth anything.

  TURN AROUND. GO BACK.

  HE WILL CATCH YOU.

  I let the thoughts bubble up and pop and disappear.

  Perhaps Fletcher is right. Perhaps I should remember who he was.

  I keep walking down the narrow lane, down to the thoroughfare.

  Find out and nail him. The thought spins me into panic. My knees tremble. I know on my right are the arches. Let the thought go. Focus on recovery. I hear a noise. A train is coming. The noise of trains. I’d forgotten about the noise of trains! The smell of trains. It comes at me so sharply, I must stop and lean against a lamp post. The arches are under a railway – how could I have forgotten that? The shivering in my legs spreads to somewhere deep behind my ribcage. How could I have forgotten about the train going over railway arches?

  I know exactly where the room is.

  But I no longer know what I’m looking for. Am I trying to find out who I am? How I ended up in that room? Why all this happened? Or to find out about the man who did such terrifying things?

  Am I looking for my mother?

  All I know is that I can’t recover until I’ve stood in that room and listened to whatever it has to tell me.

  The strange thing is, I don’t even stop to wonder if there still is a room. Or if it’s now part of somebody’s flat, or whether it’s locked. A force greater than reality pulls me on.

  It is as if everything has always been leading to this point. The door will stand open; the room is waiting. We’re linked together in some inescapable way.

  And all my life I’ve been running from it.

  58

  I turn and walk along the arches under the railway. The room was never a room in a house. Fletcher was quite wrong about that. The room was a space under a railway arch. It was where he mended the cars.

  I pause. Where did that memory come from?

  Who was he?

  And what cars did he mend?

  I see him bending over an engine, the open bonnet vast and dark above him, like a monstrous bat�
��s wing.

  Something in my mind begins to wobble, like a heat haze rising off the road, fracturing the distance. A mirage forms in my mind. Who was he? What cars did he mend under these arches? Why did we know him?

  And I walk.

  My heart pumps. My breathing has gone irregular. My legs feel as if I’ve walked half a mile at top speed, and I’m now wading through setting concrete; a twitching starts in my calves. The bones in my knees have melted. I can barely stagger on, past the lane, past the arches. They’re still being used as garage workshops.

  He might still be here?

  I walk down to the one at the very end, where he used to mend the cars.

  Blackened brick. Uneven cobbles. Ferns growing from loose masonry. A green tinge to the windows. A mechanic inside one of the archways glances in my direction. It’s not him. The mechanic takes in my figure, looks away. I’m not surprised. I remind him of death. In my Thinness he sees his own mortality.

  And I so loved my Thinness.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ my Thinness murmurs.

  I pat my arms, run a loving hand across my collarbone. Feel the hard roundedness beneath, the papery-thin skin above. ‘I’m setting you free,’ I whisper.

  I don’t care about the mechanic. I don’t care if I’m ugly. For once, I really don’t care.

  I pull my jacket close around me. It’s so cold.

  The next two arches are locked up. Panic. At the back of my throat something tightens.

  I hesitate. My resolve fails.

  He might be there, waiting for you – waiting to drag you inside and lock you up all over again.

  ‘DO IT,’ orders Carmen. ‘Believe in it. Complete the task. Don’t chicken out like I did. Face reality. The water lily grows through the shit and the mud and the drowning to reach and flower in the light. Don’t be afraid. Find the light.’

  Oh, Carmen.

  This is the hardest part. The drowning.

  And here it is.

  It’s still painted that same dull racing green. The pourings of a thousand rainstorms have not washed that paint away. My memory is as clear as if time has stood still. Spreading up from the ground are those thin straggly weeds. I can’t believe it. Can they possibly be the same ones? There they are, still reaching towards that wood-panelled door.