by Jane Corry
The humming is back. A warning aura. That’s what they told me. Not everyone gets it. Sometimes it passes. Please. A small white dog goes by, sniffing curiously. Animals often have a sixth sense.
I reach into my pocket for the lavender oil again. I massage it into my pulse points fast before clutching the promenade railing with its chipped green paint for support. There’s a yapping noise behind me. I look back. Next to the dog and its owner is a pretty young woman, wrapped up against the cold. For a moment, my eyes lock with hers. Don’t I know her from somewhere? But then she turns round and walks off.
Now I can smell burning. This isn’t good. Experience has taught me that I have a few seconds left, if that.
‘Are you all right?’
A woman’s voice comes at me from a distance. Soft. Concerned. Kind. I need to get under something. Fast. Away from the railing, or I might fall through to the beach below. A car is going past. Avoid the road.
The bench. The one to my right. For Marjorie – Who Loved This Place. I’ve seen the inscription before, along with all the others along the promenade. Each has a story behind it. But I’m in no fit state to read them now.
I’m vaguely aware of being on all fours.
‘Are you all right?’ repeats the voice.
I can feel something wet against my face. The dog?
And then nothing.
4
Scarlet
‘MUM! MUM!’
Scarlet kept screaming all the way from the park to the police station. Hammering the car window with her fists and then with her head. Her throat was sore and her hands hurt. A big blue bruise had already started to come up on her knuckles. Rain was dribbling down, and the glass was misting up, so she couldn’t see out. It made her scream even more in case Mum was out there waving and she couldn’t see her.
‘Stop that awful noise right now,’ said the woman cop. ‘Bloody hell, she’s scratched me again.’
‘Little wildcat.’ This was the other cop in the back of the car. She had a thinner face. Meaner. ‘Like mother, like daughter.’
‘I WANT MY MUM!’
‘You’ll see her if you behave yourself. Got it?’
Scarlet couldn’t cry any more. The tears had emptied from her. Her throat was so rough that it was hard to swallow, and she felt sick. But worst of all was that empty pit of fear inside her. ‘I’m scared I might never see my mum again,’ she whispered.
That was when she saw it. The look.
Scarlet was good at working out what looks meant. She’d had practice. There was the look Mum gave her before the game, which said, ‘Be a good girl.’ The look purple-haired Auntie Julie had given her in the shop which said, ‘Pretend you know me.’ And the look that the uncles gave her, which said, ‘Get lost – I want time on my own with your mother.’
But this one, between the two cops, was different. It said, ‘Don’t let on.’
‘You’ll see her. I promise,’ said the nicer one.
‘You’re lying!’ screamed Scarlet. And then she started banging her head against the car window all over again until they had to hold her arms. Even then she wouldn’t stop. Not even when they got to the big black building in the high street. (The nick. That’s what one of the uncles had called it when they’d zoomed past it once on his black motorbike.)
‘What we got here, then?’ said the man at the desk. He had a shiny head with patches of hair in between. There were lines all over his face too, which reminded her of the atlas in geography. Her teacher had said they showed you how far the land was above the sea. Scarlet had never seen the sea but she hadn’t liked to say, in case the other kids laughed at her.
‘WHERE IS MY MUM?’ Scarlet kicked the desk so hard that her toes hurt through her trainers. It’s what Mum had done when the lady at the council had said their rent was going up. But it hadn’t worked, because they’d told her to behave or else she’d lose all her Benny fits.
‘You’ll see her when we say so,’ said Atlas Man. ‘In the meantime, you’d better behave, miss.’
Then he jerked his head towards a door. It had a black and gold sign on it. Scarlet mouthed the letters. C–H–I–L–D C–A–R–E. ‘Through there.’
The mean-faced cop took both her arms. ‘If someone tries to get you,’ Mum always said, ‘buckle your knees. It’s more difficult for them to carry you then.’
But it didn’t work, because the man from behind the desk was dragging her too. Between them, her legs slid across the floor towards the sign and into a room with chairs and a table. There was a plate of biscuits on top. Chocolate. Her favourite.
‘Scarlet?’
For a minute, she thought it was Auntie Julie. This woman had the same sort of messy purple hair (‘shaggy fringe’, her mum had called it) and black make-up smudges under her eyes. But it couldn’t really be her because there wasn’t a gold stud in her nose. This one was silver.
‘Scarlet is your name, isn’t it?’
‘What’s it to you?’
That’s what Mum had always told her to say if someone asked her a question she wasn’t sure she should answer.
‘It was on your passport, love.’
Passports had to be kept safe in secret places so the cops couldn’t find them. Mum always moved theirs around. The back of the oven. The loose dirty-brown carpet tile in the kitchen. Behind the cracked washbasin, which leaked, because the bloody council still hadn’t fixed it.
‘How did you find it?’ Scarlet folded her arms the way Mum did when someone was being bloody difficult.
‘Your mum had it on her, love.’
‘I WANT TO SEE HER!’ Scarlet kicked the chair so hard that it fell over.
‘Pick that up now and sit on it,’ roared the thin-faced cop.
But Shaggy-Fringe shook her head. ‘Let her stand if she wants.’
Then she crouched down beside her so they were almost the same height. Her eyes were on her. They were kind. ‘My name’s Camilla and I’m a social worker. I know this is a shock, love. And I know you want your mum. But – and you’ve got to trust me on this – you can’t see her right now. Not for a bit, until we’ve got a few things sorted.’
‘What kind of things?’ whimpered Scarlet.
‘Grown-up stuff.’
She knew what that meant. Go to bed. Leave Mum and the uncles to it. Don’t say anything when Mum slips a tin of supermarket beans into her bag without paying.
‘Scarlet, love, listen to me.’ Her voice sang like a bird with a squeaky voice. ‘Do you have a dad or a nan or a gran or an auntie or someone who we can call?’
Scarlet hesitated, twisting one of the red beads in her hair. Should she mention the uncles? Maybe not. Mum always said she didn’t trust any of them. ‘It’s just Mum and me. We don’t need anyone else.’
‘Just what the mother said,’ grunted the mean-faced cop.
‘But I can stay on my own! I’ve done it before when Mum has to go out.’
‘Really?’ Camilla with the shaggy fringe began to write on the big piece of paper in front of her. It didn’t have any lines, but her sentences were still very straight. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s not allowed. You’re too young.’
Scarlet began to panic. ‘But I’m safe at home with my mum! She doesn’t always go out at night. Anyway, it’s not dark yet, and I’m late for school.’ Scarlet’s eyes began to fill with tears again. ‘It’s my best day. We get to choose our own books and do News Story Hour.’
‘What’s that?’ asked the cop.
‘It’s when children describe what they’ve been doing with their families,’ said Shaggy-Fringe slowly.
‘Interesting …’
‘Mum said I could go in to school later, after the game …’
‘What game?’ The cop’s voice was quick. Hard.
Scarlet bit her lip. ‘I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.’
‘You know what, Scarlet?’ said the cop. ‘It might help your mum if you told us. You want to do that, don’t you?’
She
nodded.
‘If you don’t, Mum could be in even more trouble than she is already.’
‘I don’t think you should say that,’ butted in Shaggy-Fringe. The cop shrugged as if she didn’t agree and then poured her out some blackcurrant juice. Scarlet gulped it down along with the biscuits. Yummy.
‘Tell you what, Scarlet. We were talking about news stories just now, weren’t we? I like them too. So here’s a pencil. Why don’t you pull up your chair? That’s right. Now tell us about the game. It sounds really fun.’
Don’t tell anyone anything, she’d always been told. But if it helped her mother, that was different, wasn’t it?
‘Promise I’ll see Mum after that?’
‘Promise.’
It took a long time.
‘Just put what you can remember.’
By the time she had finished, her wrists were aching.
‘Good girl.’ Even the mean cop looked pleased with her.
‘Can Mum take me home now?’
Shaggy-Fringe was kneeling next to her again. ‘You’ll need to stay somewhere else tonight. Let’s see what happens after that, shall we?’
Scarlet felt a flash of panic. ‘But I gave you my story. So you have to let me see her, like you promised.’
‘We will, as soon as we find somewhere for you to stay.’
‘Why can’t I just go home?’
‘Because there’s no one there, love. It’s not allowed.’
‘Where’s my mum? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?’
The mean cop was holding her hand, yanking her into the corridor outside.
‘I don’t think that’s necessary …’ began Shaggy-Fringe behind them.
Then she saw her! Mum! Going through another door to the right. (Scarlet was good at her lefts and rights. Left was where you turned for the park game. Right was where you turned for the shops.)
Mum’s voice stabbed her chest. Scarlet wasn’t exactly sure what ‘stabbed’ meant but she did know that it hurt a lot because it happened to the boy who lived two flats down. He was still in hospital.
‘Let me go!’ she could hear Mum screaming. ‘I want to speak to my baby. It’s my fucking right.’
‘Not now.’
Then the door slammed, and Mum went again.
‘Why have you taken her away from me?’ Scarlet flung herself on the floor, sobbing. ‘Why? Why?’
‘Poor little lamb,’ she heard above her.
‘Some mothers don’t deserve to have kids,’ said another.
‘That’s enough. Who’s on the emergency placement list? Let’s see … The Walters. They’ll do.’
‘Listen, Scarlet. I’m going to drive you to see some nice people who will look after you. It will be much easier if you stop kicking and screaming. All right? We’ll sort you out with fresh clothes when we get there and get someone to let your school know what’s happened.’
‘Mum,’ gasped Scarlet. Her breath was running out and it was hard to say the words. ‘I need to tell her where I’m going.’
‘It’s OK, love. She already knows.’
‘When can I see her?’
There was another sigh. ‘We have to wait to see what happens in court. But don’t worry. You’re safe now.’
Myrrh. Uplifts your mood and soothes anger.
Orange. Similar effect. Can also reduce anxiety.
And don’t forget chamomile.
‘Anger aromatherapy,’ my tutor called it.
But sometimes you need something else as well.
I started keeping a diary when we had a psychologist in residence. He said it would help us to write things down – and he was right. It’s an emotional release. I honestly think that letting it all out on paper has stopped me from seriously hurting someone physically.
But others might argue that I’ve done that already.
So if anyone does happen to pick this up and read it (which they shouldn’t), I’d just like it on record that I didn’t start off this way.
Believe it or not, I got into this mess to do some good.
5
Vicki
I can tell from the jolting motion that I’m moving.
A man in white is bending over me. Checking my pulse. Wrapping a band of elastic round my arm and pumping it up. That’s when it sinks in. I’m in an ambulance. It’s not the first time.
‘Vicki? Can you hear me? My name is Adam, and I’m a paramedic.’
His voice is urgent but steady. He is looking at me the way people usually do when this happens. As though I’m a bit odd. Mad. Soft in the head.
If someone has a heart attack or breaks a leg or does something normal, then it’s acceptable. But my stuff – well, it’s different. People can’t always get their heads round it. Not even paramedics. Besides, at this stage, there’s not much they can do apart from the usual checks. Heart rate. Oxygen levels. The basics.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘You were found under a bench.’
Really? It’s possible, I suppose. Your natural instinct when you feel it coming on (and not everyone does) is to find somewhere safe. In the past, I’ve been discovered under a children’s playground slide, a café table and a supermarket checkout desk. The last was by far the most embarrassing when I came round to a queue of faces, an hysterical cashier and wet pants. Incontinence doesn’t always happen. The small saving grace about today is that I feel dry right now.
‘Is there any family we should contact, Vicki?’
Dad. If only.
Mum. Long gone.
Patrick. No!
David. Does an ex-husband still count as family?
‘No one,’ I manage to say.
A sympathetic look flashes across the paramedic’s face. Then he speaks again as if he knows me personally. ‘What’s the last thing you remember, Vicki?’
I always struggle with this bit. Think, I tell myself. ‘Putting on my jacket,’ I manage finally. ‘Going out to get some bread before the shop closed. Looking at the sea.’
‘Did you feel odd before that?’
‘My ears began to hum and then I smelled burning rubber. It’s usually a sign; an over-firing of nerves, apparently.’
He nods. ‘So you’re one of the lucky ones that get an aura. At least that gives you some warning.’
I’m impressed. Clearly, contrary to my suspicions, this man knows his stuff. But lucky? I almost laugh. Still, at least I’m alive and allowed to walk freely. Not so very long ago, I might have been locked up. That’s what one consultant told me, as if he was trying to make me feel better. Now we know that 1 in 103 people will be formally diagnosed with epilepsy. About 1 in 26 will experience a seizure. In approximately 60 per cent of cases, the cause of epilepsy is not known. Staggeringly high when you think about it.
Death is by no means inevitable, but you increase the risk if you hit your head or have a seizure when you’re in the bath, pouring out hot liquid, crossing the road or doing – well, quite a lot actually. So I don’t swim, drive or cook on a naked flame. You never know when you go to bed if you are going to wake up or not.
The good news – for some of us – is that it can heighten brain function. There are even toddlers who can recite their two times table.
‘How long did it last for?’ I ask.
‘About a minute.’
Average, then. Most of my observers in the past have reckoned that my fits – which are technically known as seizures – can be anything from twenty seconds to three minutes.
‘How do you feel now?’
‘My head is hurting.’
I’m aware that there’s a cold compress on my forehead. My muscles are aching, and the inside of my right cheek tastes of blood where I must have bitten it.
‘Not surprising. There wasn’t much space under the bench when you were thrashing about.’
A memory surfaces. For Marjorie – Who Loved This Place. I’m barely able to keep my eyes open; it’s an effort to talk, but I have to keep going. My emotions are all over the
place, though I realize this is normal.
‘How do you know what I was doing?’ I’m always intrigued by this bit. It’s weird going into a secret world and then not remembering what you did there. One girl, whom I read about on the net, sent a text to her boss to say she was going to be late when she started fitting but then couldn’t recall anything about it afterwards.
‘Luckily, the woman who saw you was a nurse and realized what was happening.’
That’s not always the case. Often people think you’re drunk, mad or having a heart attack (a Good Samaritan once tried to give me mouth-to-mouth, even though I was still breathing).
‘She rang for an ambulance.’
If she was a nurse, she probably didn’t panic. It’s why I feel relatively calm myself. When people freak out, it’s catching – especially if they’re still doing it when you come round. This makes it harder to compose yourself afterwards.
I’m so sleepy that Adam is now drifting in and out. I could ask how he knows my name, but that’s what my silver medi bracelet is all about with my ID. (Naturally I always remove this when treating clients, to avoid questions.)
‘Did something upset you, Vicki?’ His voice comes at me through a mist. ‘Something that might have brought this on?’
They usually ask this. It’s all part of building up a profile picture. But my eyes are heavy. I can’t think properly.
‘Not sure,’ I murmur. But something is nagging inside me. Something did upset me.
I just can’t remember what.
When I wake again, I’m in a hospital bed. I’m in a green gown. If I twist my neck – ouch – I can see a small wooden table with a jug of water. Blue and white striped curtains are surrounding me, although I can hear muffled sounds coming from the right: ‘Nurse. I need the toilet. Nurse!’
What time is it? It’s not dark. But nor is it very light either. That’s the thing about my ‘condition’. You might think you’ve been out for hours when it’s only been minutes. And vice versa.
