The Name I Call Myself

by Beth Moran

  I didn’t tell him about York. If I called in Friday morning before we left, and again Monday night, he didn’t need to know. Nor did I tell April, sure her solidarity lay with Sam. And when Dylan asked me after choir practice if I was doing anything nice at the weekend, I shrugged, mumbled, and changed the subject.

  The Friday and Saturday in York were fine. Better than fine, once I’d managed to untangle the knots in my back and begin to appreciate the beautiful cobbled streets and shopfronts dripping with history. We toured a couple of museums, visited the stunning Minster, called in at various tea shops, and dined in the hotel’s fancy restaurant.

  Perry was, as ever, good company. Affable, amusing, and thoughtful. He let me set the pace, and the conversation. He smiled ruefully and said nothing when I bid him goodnight.

  Sunday morning, while we were eating breakfast, Perry’s nose in the papers, Sam called.

  No hello.

  “He’s here.”

  “What?”

  “I saw him. Out walking with April this morning. He’s here, Faith. He’s found me. Oh, man. He’s going to kill me.”

  “Wait. Take a couple of deep breaths,” I said. Perry looked up from his paper as I got up and moved into the hotel foyer.

  “You have to come round,” Sam said. “Now. I need you. I don’t know what to do. I can’t handle this by myself. What if he comes today?”

  “Let’s take this slowly and work through it. Okay?”

  All I heard for a while was his ragged breathing. “Okay.”

  “Are you absolutely sure it was him?”

  “What? Of course I’m sure. Well… I was sure. He’s a lot older. His hair looked different. Longer. And he’d put on weight.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No. I don’t know. I don’t think so. He could have.”

  “Did you see where the man went?”

  “He got into a car and drove off. Why are you saying ‘the man’, like you don’t believe me? You don’t think it was him?”

  “We need to phone Gwynne. Tell her you may have seen him in Houghton.”

  “Not in Houghton. We were in Brooksby. April wanted to show me where you sing.”

  “You went to Brooksby?”

  Sam hadn’t been there since I had come back from London, when we sold the House of Hideous Memories and bought his flat.

  “April wanted to go.”

  I spoke very carefully. “Sam, do you think, bearing in mind where you were, your subconscious could have affected you? That there’s a chance you made a mistake?”

  Your subconscious, plus years of mind-bending, brain-cell frying substance abuse?

  “I don’t know.” I could hear him crying now. “I thought it was him, Faith. I really did.”

  “I spoke to Gwynne a couple of weeks ago. She said he’d been making all his meetings. She’s going to tell us if he stops.”

  More sobs. “Please come over. I can’t cope with this without you.”

  We both knew what that meant. What Sam did when he couldn’t cope.

  “I’m in York with Perry.”

  “What?” When Sam fell off the cliff he never considered anyone else maybe having a life not involving him. “You’re coming, though?”

  I looked up and saw Perry standing in the doorway. His expression impassive, he took a sip from a cup of coffee.

  “Where’s April?”

  “She had to go to work. She started at the garden centre this week. When will you be here?”

  I always came. If Sam needed me, I came. How could I leave my brother on the brink this time, while I lived it up on a mini-break with my millionaire fiancé?

  Nobody would do that!

  Perry took another sip of coffee.

  “Give me a couple of minutes. I’ll call you back.”

  “What? Faith? No! What if he comes?” I could barely understand him now.

  “Sit tight, you’ll be fine for a couple of minutes. I will call you back.”

  I hung up, my guts rolling over.

  “Sam.”

  Perry nodded his head, one sharp movement.

  “I’m going to call April, see when she can get back.” I paused, made an effort to slow down. “I’m sorry. It won’t take more than a few minutes.”

  April didn’t pick up. I wanted to call Gwynne, but with Perry standing there glowering I didn’t think now was the time to reveal that particular secret.

  I called Sam back and asked him for the number he’d been given for the psychiatric crisis team. He refused to give it to me, adamant he would be fine if I came. His problem was Kane, not his mental health.

  I hung up, sinking into a yellow flowery sofa near to the reception desk, my head in my hands.

  Perry sat down beside me, leaning his elbows on his knees.

  “What’s happened?”

  “He thinks he saw someone from his past. Someone who threatened to hurt him.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “No. But it’s possible. And doesn’t really matter. If he thinks he saw him, that could be enough to tip him over the edge.”

  “Over what edge? If you stay here for one more day, what’s the worst that could happen?”

  He takes a drink, and then a thousand more? He finds a dealer, and scores?

  I straightened up. “Sam has tried to kill himself twice. That I know of.”

  “You’re saying that if you don’t go home, right now, Sam will attempt suicide?”

  “I don’t know. Would you take that risk?” I pulled my phone out again. “Hang on a minute.”

  Taking a few steps away, I called one more number.

  “Hello?”

  “Dylan? It’s Faith. I need your help.”

  Thirty minutes later, while I was fidgeting and fretting in my hotel room, Dylan called back to say he was with Sam. He didn’t fudge the truth: my brother was in serious distress. But if he’d really seen Kane, who could blame him?

  Perry knocked on my hotel room door a few minutes later.

  “Sam all sorted?”

  I gaped at him. “Are you joking?”

  He shrugged. “You know what I mean. The vicar’s going to stay with him until April gets home?”

  “Yes.” I stood back so he could enter the room.

  He leaned against the desk, gripping the engraved edge on either side. “So we can take the river cruise. Nothing terrible’s going to happen if you’re not there for the next twenty-four hours. We can head home first thing tomorrow, and at least you’ll have had a good rest.”

  I looked at my suitcase, propped up in the corner.

  “For goodness’ sake, Faith. You are not responsible for your brother!”

  “Well, who is then?”

  “You’ve done more than is reasonable, considering the circumstances. When are you going to stop letting him dictate your every move?”

  I shook my head. “That is not what’s happening. He needs help!”

  Perry stood up, taking a couple of steps towards me. “And you’ve got him help. Is you being there really going to make that much difference? He seems equally miserable either way.”

  I looked up at him. “So you don’t think I’m any help?”

  “Honestly? I think half the time you running round after him probably only makes him worse.”

  The silence stretched out between us like a canyon in the wooden floor.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he said, his body completely still.

  “I’d like to go home, please.”

  Perry closed his eyes. “There’s no point staying here if you’re worrying about him, anyway.”

  I waited until he opened them again before replying. “Thank you.”

  “Please think about whether there’s a better way of doing this. If it’s the best way to help Sam. Maybe you need to speak to someone, try to find some balance. You can’t keep living like this.”

  I started putting my things into my bag, my body wound so tight I could feel it humming. I
would forgive Perry, not least because he didn’t know the truth of the situation.

  Was it so terrible that part of the reason I finally agreed to marry him was for his money, if the money wasn’t for me?

  It certainly felt terrible.

  Perry dropped me straight round to Sam’s. He made a half-hearted offer to come in with me, but I said no. I couldn’t be straight with Sam if Perry was there. I found him on the sofa watching Band of Brothers with Dylan.

  “You didn’t have to come.” Dylan clicked off the television.

  I pulled a face. “Well, yeah. I kind of did.” I shrugged off my coat. “I need a cup of tea. Anyone else?”

  “No, we just had one, thanks.” Dylan followed me into the kitchen, which was the whole point.

  “How is he?”

  “He told me everything, talked about it until the panic subsided. I phoned the police, who are going to keep an eye out but can’t do much else. I don’t know how bad he is usually so it’s hard to tell. He did eat some toast.”

  I let out some of the breath I’d been holding since the call. “Thanks for coming over. I hope you weren’t doing anything important.”

  He smiled, briefly. “It’s fine. I’m glad you called me. I’m sorry you had to cut your break short.”

  “It hardly matters, in the scheme of things.”

  “Do you think there’s any chance he did see this guy? Would he really come after you?”

  I took my time answering. “Yes. Yes, he absolutely would. And it’s not the only thing that’s happened.”

  I told Dylan about the man asking for the redhead. Only noticed my trembling hands when he handed me some tea.

  “Wow.” He ran fingers through his messy hair, face pale. “Have you told the police?”

  “They’re doing all they can.”

  “Which isn’t a lot.”

  I shook my head.

  “Maybe you should think about not living on your own for a while?” He cleared his throat. “You could stay with Perry.”

  Except Perry knows nothing about this whole situation.

  Sam had fallen asleep by the time we returned to the living room. I told Dylan we’d be fine if he left, but the closing of the flat door jolted Sam awake.

  “It’s fine, Sam. Just Dylan leaving.”

  He lay back down. “Oh. He’s not bad for a priest.”

  “He’s not a priest.”

  It was only then that it hit me. Dylan was a minister. Of a church. Churches met on Sunday mornings. I knew Grace Chapel met ten-thirty every Sunday morning because a great big sign outside the main door announced it every time I walked past.

  Grace Church boasted about sixty members. They only had one minister.

  Dylan had missed the church service to come and sit with Sam, a man he’d never met. Because I’d asked him to.

  Perry had wanted me to go on a river cruise.

  What a good job I had a heart of toughened leather. Otherwise, it wouldn’t stand a chance.

  I came back to Nottinghamshire after three years in London. My first ten months in the big city were, to put it bluntly, horrific. Working in a just-about-legal bar and living in a decidedly non-legal bedsit taught me how to woman up. Inside I was still a beaten-down, stomped-on, scar-marked nothing. But I learned how to stand tall, watch my back (and my backside), and fight my corner.

  I worked all the shifts I could get, smiled at men who made me sick in order to boost my tips, lived on little more than bar snacks, and counted every single penny. Eventually, I got a new job in a bar that required its staff to wear shirts and trousers over their underwear, and threw out the men who pawed our bodies, instead of giving them a prime position in front of the stage. Like incy wincy spider, I began my slow, slippery, determined climb back up. After a few more months, I scrimped enough deposit together to move into a one-room apartment. On the eleventh floor of a rundown, syringe-strewn, rat-infested block of flats. But. I had my own toilet. I had a shower, a kitchen area with four cupboards, and a two-ring hob. I had something resembling a sanctuary and glorious privacy. A tiny smidge of security behind my locks and bolts and window bars.

  I also had no friends, no self-worth, and no peace. What about Sam? What did he have? Where was he? In prison? Dead? Sober?

  I thought about him every night as I lay on my wilting blow-up bed, staring at the stains on the ceiling and listening to the gangs of boys laughing and brawling on the concrete beneath my window. Did he think about me?

  After another four months, I plucked up the courage to call Grandma’s house. Bile rising in my throat, fingers barely able to hit the right keys.

  “Hello?”

  “Sam.” I reeled back, slumping onto my bed with relief.

  “Faith? Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’m in London. How are you?”

  “Um. Yeah. I’m good.” He took a moment to recover. “I’m an artist now. I paint.”

  “Wow. That’s great.”

  “Yeah. I’m doing all right. Not enough to make me rich, but it’s a living.”

  “So, is it just you, in the house?”

  A short pause. “Snake’s dead.”

  I nearly dropped the phone.

  “When? What happened?”

  “He got shot. Last year.”

  “I can’t believe it.” My head struggled to take this in. What it might mean. “So, what about you? Are you taking care of yourself?”

  Are you sober, without him? Did the addict Sam die with Snake?

  “Yeah. I said, I’m good. I got some proper help this time. Better medication.”

  We chatted for a couple more minutes. Sam wanted to know when I was coming home. I said it felt like an if, not a when, and wouldn’t be any time soon.

  I knew my brother. I recognized the drawl of weed in his voice. And I knew not to trust him. After years of living in a home akin to hell, I had finally got my own place. You would have to drag me back kicking and screaming before I gave that up.

  The day the police called to tell me Sam was in hospital, I didn’t kick. But in my head I did some screaming. I packed my precious few possessions into the old rucksack, stuffing the surplus into a carrier bag. My cherished stash of tips bought the coach ticket to Nottingham, where I caught a free bus to the Queen’s Medical Centre. He lay in the last bed in the bay, with a view out across the car park and to the sparse trees beyond.

  The outline of his skull pressed stark against ghostly green skin. A sharp contrast to his hair, spread out like oil against the pillow.

  I shuffled the plastic chair up as close as possible, leaning forwards and laying my head as gently as I could upon his chest. Wrapping his hand in both of mine, I felt the rise and fall of his lungs, the thump of his heart, still beating despite his violent attempt to destroy it.

  “You came back.”

  “Yes.” My voice was as weak as my brother’s.

  “Will you stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So you bloomin’ well should be. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

  He didn’t answer. For once, my brother didn’t choose the easy lie.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Over the next few days, Sam failed to improve. The mental health nurse visited, and assessed him for risk of self-harm. The results made me want to crawl into the back of my wardrobe and curl into a ball. I stuffed my pride in there instead, and called Perry.

  Sam cried with relief when I asked if he wanted to go back to the private hospital. With a squillion-pound security system designed to keep patients safely inside, it would also keep vengeful murderers safely out. If we’d offered, I think he’d have moved in permanently at that point.

  With Sam readmitted, I suddenly found myself with a lot more time on my hands. The end of February offered little in the way of work, and having missed choir practice, the following Sunday I decided to go along to Grace Chapel to thank Dylan properly for skiving church.

  I wal
ked to Brooksby. The buses ran intermittently on Sundays, and I had done nothing about the absurd red car sitting in front of my house yet. It took longer than I thought, so by the time I ducked into the back row, the singing had already started.

  Hester led from the front, a keyboard player, guitarist, and a teenage girl playing a violin behind her. The style sounded quite folksy – a bit Irish – but it worked, and the congregation sang along with a gusto that more than made up for any lack of musicality. I spotted Rowan with her daughter Callie, to my surprise, and Melody. I knew Janice and Millie would be there, but hadn’t expected to see most of the other choir members. No one had ever invited me to the services, and they weren’t exactly stereotypical Christians – even Hester. I didn’t know churches could include so many mixed-up, non-religious-type people. I had expected to stick out like a sore thumb. Instead, it felt strange I’d never been before.

  After a couple more songs, the band sat down. Hester strode to the back row, and took the chair next to mine. I braced myself for the glower, and the reprimand about missing rehearsal so near to the competition. Instead, I felt her rough hand take mine. She lifted it up and gently kissed it, before letting go again.

  Listening to those songs about forgiveness, and not being ashamed any more, and hope and peace and God’s love never letting go had been bad enough. In the church where my mum had found something worth believing in, this simple gesture was like a tap opening up my tear ducts again. Hester handed me a tissue, and hissed, “Pay attention, Faith. Crack open your heart and mind, and you might be surprised.”

  No might about it. Mags – Mags – spoke for twenty-odd minutes about a kick-butt woman in the Bible called Esther, who although a poor orphan, won the king’s heart to become queen, and then by her beauty and bravery and brains managed to save the whole of the Jewish people from genocide, and got the baddie caught red-handed committing sexual assault.

  It was a fascinating story. I sort of related to some of it. I thought I might like to read the Bible if it was full of stories about incredible women committing daring deeds, rather than a million lists of don’t-you-dares and no-you-can’ts.

  We sang one more song before finishing. Afterwards, when I chatted to the choir women over hot drinks and boring biscuits while trying to spot Dylan across the room without staring at him, random lines of the music kept playing, over and over, in the back of my head.