by Finn Bell
“And which one of those four things do you think relates to learning and changing then?” she asks.
“I’ve got to go with fixing it or accepting there,” I say, and now that I think about it, it’s simple enough to see.
“Why?” Betty asks.
“Because the other two, escaping or killing yourself, they’re just different ways of running from the pain and that way you can’t learn from it,” I say, following Betty’s logic.
“Now, if you think of your own life the last few years, which ones have you done?” she asks.
“Escape,” I say.
“And when you bought that gun?” Betty asks.
“Killing myself,” I answer.
“Right. And you didn’t need someone to prescribe you anti-depressants, Finn. Because like so many people you found ways to self-medicate. To avoid the pain in your own way. Yours was drinking and buying a gun, eventually. For some it’s overeating, or sex or religion or money, or whatever foolishness fits. But the shape of it, the function, is always the same. It’s something you do again and again to take away the pain, and as long as you do it you stay the same, you don’t learn, you never solve the thing causing the pain in the first place.
“But none of this is surprising. We all know people like that. People doing the wrong things to get away from feeling bad and the more they do it, the worse things get, and the more they do, the more they have to do. Some of us even know it about ourselves. So why are we talking about this?” Betty asks.
And for once in all this counselling stuff I feel as if I’m caught up to things and know where we are going. I don’t know if it’s just time spent or if I’m getting better at this stuff, but I think I’m getting it.
“Because this is also about the bees. Because knowing stuff doesn’t change anything. The things we tell ourselves. The things I tell myself is sometimes just bullshit. And I know it; the bees knew it. I’ve done it so often I don’t really believe myself anymore. I’ve lied to everyone and myself. I’ve done it so often I no longer really believe the things I decide. What I tell myself I’m doing and what’s actually happening isn’t the same,” I say as I think back now with the panging clarity of sobriety on those last alcohol-filled months with Anna.
God what a bastard I’d been to her; what a complete, fucking coward.
“The things you decide. Decide is the right word,” Betty says, nodding slowly, “because what people do with pain. Those four things. They are, before anything else, basically just decisions. We make a choice, we choose a path. And from the outside, from everyone else’s perspective, it’s easy to see which one we chose. Because it always shows in what we do, in our behaviour. It’s not hard to tell the people who have made good decisions from the ones who have made bad decisions. You just have to wait and see if they get better or get worse. Eventually, time always tells.”
“But here’s the bit people don’t get,” Betty says as she leans over and takes the pills from my hands.
“See, there’s some of us. Quite a few, actually, who literally don’t know our own minds. And people like that usually get into trouble. See, the person making those decisions . . . well, sometimes we make them consciously and sometimes not. Sometimes we tell ourselves we’re doing one thing when we are actually doing another. Sometimes we make decisions we don’t know we are making. Sometimes we even make decisions that are the exact opposite of the decisions we think we’re making. Like when you believe you are fixing things when really you’re just running from the pain. Or when you think you’ve accepted something when you’re actually just working your way up to killing yourself. But we make them nonetheless, all the time.”
CHAPTER 31
April 5, TWO MONTHS AGO . . .
It’s 3:00 a.m.
And when it’s this kind of 3:00 a.m., it feels like it’s always been 3:00 a.m.
Everything in between is just foreplay for these empty moments when I am sure I’m the only wrong thing in the whole world.
I’ve been back in the cottage now for almost a week, and since my return, the insomnia has hit me every night with depressing punctuality.
So without alternative, I’ve sat and thought and pondered and niggled and worn away at the things in my life, with solutions just out of reach, until finally all my thoughts have grown stale.
And of course, nothing has happened.
I think a part of me wanted something to happen.
Something with the Zoyls or with Patricia or the twins from Benin or with myself after all those unhappy truths Betty keeps coming out with, but something.
Because I’m not sure what comes next.
And that still covers pretty much my entire life.
It’s a case of no one thing being able to progress because it’s waiting on every other thing to progress first.
I don’t know what to do but wait and see if anything else comes of the Zoyl business. Since my return to the cottage, everything’s been quiet. The gun is now never far out of reach, and I’ve got an alarm system with cameras installed so I feel safer. But in our last conversation, both Pruitt and I had to admit we have no bright ideas for what we’re supposed to do next. Nobody new to talk to, no more threads to pull.
And this whole thing with Betty and the therapy is interesting but also, thus far, tantalisingly useless.
Okay, so she’s been able to help me understand exactly what’s wrong with me and that’s been really something, but how does that help me change it?
Because even now that I know the why of things, I’m still here—at 3:00 a.m., aching for a drink.
The only difference is now I know what a complete foolish bastard I’ve been and still probably am—which actually makes me want to drink more, and probably isn’t helping with the sleeping, either.
And while the Zoyl business and my brain remain matters unresolved, everything else is waiting on it.
No job, no plans, no love, no happy.
No living.
And at some point, you come to the obvious question.
Now what?
Because if I now know all the wrong things I do, and I commit myself to stop doing them, then what?
So I decide to stop drinking and I decide to stop lying to myself and the people around me, and I decide to stop trying to escape from all the pain of things in my past.
Now what?
Because stopping doing the wrong things doesn’t mean you automatically start doing the right things.
And while I know what the wrong things are, I honestly have no clue what the right things are.
So here’s me, trying not to do anything wrong, because I don’t want to go down there again, but also not doing anything right, because I still don’t know what they are.
I’m the pent-up, clueless gap in between actually living.
So I follow the same, well-worn lines of thought I have countless times before.
Doing the wrong things makes you feel bad. Check.
Doing the right things makes you feel happy. Check.
So stop doing the wrong things. Check.
And start doing the right things. Erm.
Aside from Murderball, for me, what are they, exactly?
As a problem it’s actually pretty simple, but simply doesn’t mean easy.
And while I’m waiting, living off willpower and hope, every night of sleeplessness feels longer and darker than the one before.
And what if this is what happens to people?
What if lots of people make it to this point but no further?
What if you eventually just go back to doing the wrong things because at least that deadens the pain otherwise it just finally hurts too much waiting here for the answers that never come?
At some point I must have slipped back into sleep because I wake up cold and stiff, with aches in my back and neck from falling asleep in the wheelchair. The soft, creamy light of dawn gives everything a warm, yellowy-pink tinge, but it all feels like grating black-and-white to me.
Why, when I can’t sleep, do I still wake up at dawn?
Right, I think, I need a long shower.
It’s when I’m in there, lulling in the mindless warmth, finally feeling my grumpiness slowly dissolve, that a stray thought rings a tiny chime in my brain.
Where does the secret passage behind my bookcase go?
Why hadn’t I thought about this before? I’ve been back here for days.
Where does it go? And what if there are others?
You’d just have to know, wouldn’t you?
So, after sitting in the shower till the warm water runs out—an allowance that all ex-addict, cripple insomniacs deserve—I get dressed in some old clothes. Armed with a flashlight and the itch of curiosity, I roll up to the bookcase in the hallway.
“Okay, Alice,” I say out loud to myself, “let’s go down the rabbit hole.”
Even though I know where to look and push, it still takes a while before I hit the right spot and press hard enough for the bookcase to creak open.
In the light of day, the space looks much narrower. I don’t quite know how I made myself fit before. It’s probably only wide enough to reasonably accommodate a man standing up. Nobody with a weight problem, either.
And they would have to make their way down the passage moving sideways.
This is not a wheelchair-friendly space.
But as my mind’s made up, I get myself down and out of the wheelchair to the floor with vague nostalgia.
Getting in and out of the wheelchair from the floor on your own is one of the big milestones in rehabilitation. Not everyone gets there. If you can do that, you can live on your own and—more importantly—do all kinds of ill-advised things without responsible people finding out when they come to pick you up and put you in your chair again with their lectures.
Down at floor level I can make out the scuff marks and torn cobwebs of the last time I was in here.
It’s been an interesting time down here in Riverton, I think to myself.
Depending on how all of this turns out, I will either have been really lucky or really unlucky a whole bunch of times.
Pulling myself in head-first becomes a tricky business quite soon, as there’s a beam obstructing the passage about a pace inside the space. It must have been what I was leaning back against when I pulled the bookcase shut before. It’s a squeeze to get past.
When I finally have my head and shoulders around this, I see that the passage turns a corner just up ahead and I’m beginning to understand the layout, I think.
It’s following the line of my bedroom and the bathroom, basically a really narrow third room running along between them and the hallway.
The further in I get, the worse the dust and cobwebs get, but nothing moves in here. Nothing seems alive. It’s just dust and time.
And now that I’m in, I realise I’ll have to keep going.
It’s pretty tight in here, and as anybody in this position will soon tell you, you can’t reverse without working legs, and there’s not enough room to turn around.
Maybe I should have thought this through more.
Now I really hope this is in fact a passage and not just a cavity, because I don’t want it to become a tomb.
But as I finally reach the corner and play my flashlight around it, I see that thankfully there’s a broken rectangle of faint light up ahead.
By now I’m absolutely covered in dirt and I can feel things twinge in my back as I force different parts of me around the corner in separate instalments.
This side of the passage is, when I’m finally through, a lot longer and, also—happy days—slightly wider.
As is fitting, my heart jumps as my phone rings loudly in my pocket.
“Hello,” I say, doing a pretty good impersonation of a normal-person-doing-normal-things voice.
“Hey, bro. What you doing?” Tai asks.
“Nothing, just sitting,” I say, and small lies to cover the dumb things you get up to alone don’t count, Betty, I add to myself.
“So you still coming by here or do you just want to meet there? The girls are getting restless,” Tai says.
I remember that I was supposed to go with Tai and his family to the Wild Food Festival in Bluff.
We’d agreed before I left their house and I just forgot it was today; this morning, in fact. You forget a lot of stuff when you don’t sleep. As I check my watch, I see it’s past nine and I was supposed to meet Tai at his place already.
“Argh, sorry, Tai, running a bit late on this side. I’ll meet you guys there, okay?” I say. I just need to get myself out of here first.
“Okay, but no fading out, you’re coming. You’re not hanging around that cottage like a crazy person. You’re gonna come out and eat strange things with us,” Tai finishes, and the phone clicks off.
Okay, time to get going, I think as I pull myself forward.
I’m more focussed on the faint edges of light ahead than what’s around me when I notice the first one next to my head.
It’s old and faded, but you can still make out the colours. It’s a flower drawn in happy pink and yellow and green chalk pastels on the wood right next to me.
Lifting up my flashlight, I see that they are everywhere.
There’s also little bunnies and kittens, but mostly it is flowers and suns.
I see they’re on both sides of the passage, from the floor reaching up about halfway.
It’s clearly the work of child, and when I see the yellow dinosaurs drawn in between, I’m certain who the artist was.
And it makes sense, I think.
Alice was clearly an adventurous child. Into making discoveries and exploring. A secret passage right in your own house would have been hard to resist.
As I trace the colours and lines with my fingers, I can’t help but feel the unfairness of it all. Innocent kids like Alice Cotter get to die in horrors beyond my darkest imaginings and bastards like the Zoyls, and even me, we get a full helping of life to do no good with.
But then, aware that I’m already late, I reluctantly pull myself along. Given the angle of the passage, I’m betting we’re going to end up with an exit somewhere in the bathroom, but I’m not quite sure where.
There are no built-in pieces of furniture in the bathroom, so it has to be one of the wood panels running all around it along the walls, I reckon. Although I’d never noticed anything likely looking in there before.
When I reach the end, it’s easy to spot the same peg and rope arrangement as on the other side, but I soon find that the panel won’t budge. Maybe it’s been painted shut or something.
I have to get through this way as I still can’t reverse, and I don’t want to make the embarrassing call for people to come and remove me from the cottage a second time.
So I keep pushing until I’m banging on the wood so hard there’s a cloud of dust worked up around me. Then, throwing caution to the wind, I use the back of the flashlight, hitting as hard along the edge of light as I can, and luckily, on the first try it pops open.
And I see that yes, as suspected, it’s one of the wall panels along the back wall behind the door. Clever. You’d have to know the actual size of the house and then measure all the rooms to work out that there’s some spaces missing. Smuggler’s Cottage indeed.
It’s when I’m pulling myself out that I feel something cold by my elbow that wasn’t there before.
I’ve been pretty careful in scanning ahead of me with the flashlight, as I didn’t want to drag myself over rusty nails or anything, so I’m certain this wasn’t there before.
It must have been all my banging that dislodged it, because I can see how it would have fallen down from between the joist and beams next to the exit.
A hidey hole in a secret passage; had to be done, really.
It’s a cake tin.
It’s old and scratched and a little dented but without any rust, and when I wipe away the thick dust I’m confronted with the unlikely wording:
“Newdick’s Parachut
ing Santa. The Christmas Cookie Selection. 1951.”
It’s in curly writing along the round edge of the tin and I see that yes, there’s smiling Santa, hanging under his parachute with a big bag of presents. They must have had some trouble with the sleigh that year.
I take the time to drag my dirt-covered self fully out into the light of the bathroom before I gently thumb open the lid, feeling a bit like a treasure hunter must do.
And bizarrely, the first thing I find is gold.
Gold.
I know it is gold because I come from Africa and I’ve seen it in the mines as ore and in the riverbanks as tiny ingots. I know the weight and colour of it immediately.
These are all tiny pieces in odd shapes, most of them unworked, but there are a few polished edges here and there where somebody has tried to make them shine.
Ingots then, I think, panned from a riverbank somewhere.
They are in a little glass bottle with a cork, which crumbles apart as I pull it out. As I tip them out into my hand I know for certain this is gold, about thirty or so tiny pieces, most about the size of grains of rice.
Why Alice had them I have no idea.
And it’s clear that they were Alice’s because on the inside of the cake tin is neatly scratched out the words “Alice’s Treasure Chest” in straight, patient letters.
And in here I also find some marbles, a wooden top, some coloured buttons, and what turns out to be a selection of small rocks and little bones which, given Alice’s interest in finding fossils, is hardly surprising.
And at the bottom of the tin there’s the cards.
Two are birthday cards from her parents, one for her 11th and one or her 12th birthday.
One is a blank Christmas card, and the last one is heart breaking.
It is homemade with a coloured picture of what is clearly this cottage on the front and inside, with words made up of differently coloured letters, is the message:
“To Mum and Dad. Merry Christmas. I found them and they are my best things so you can have them. Happy Wishes, Alice.”
