by A J Waines
Would I have done anything differently? Terry said, in the frantic bid to save his own life, he’d knocked down a little girl. I’d like to think – wouldn’t we all? – that I would have stopped to help, but in the terror of the moment, would I really? I took a sip of my drink, letting the fizz sizzle on my tongue.
Terry, like Jane, had been involved in the fire on the Underground I’d read about, but it must have been much worse than I’d thought, at the time.
It was always sensible to know what patients had gone through, so I pulled my laptop from my briefcase and set it up on a small table on the edge of the outdoor café area.
Before long, I had all the details from several news sources in front of me. The fire had started in an office below ground on the Central line at Liverpool Street on May 28th, causing huge amounts of smoke and loss of visibility. There was something odd, however. All the reports shared one important factor; there’d been no fatalities and only around ten casualties, with minor scrapes and bruises.
That wasn’t the way Jane and Terry had described the incident at all. I must have got things mixed up.
I took another sup of gin, hoping the alcohol would take the sting out of my confusion. I wasn’t ready to head straight home for the weekend. Not yet. I couldn’t face dealing with Miranda, for a start. I was trained to spot emotional imbalance and there was definitely something troubling her. Getting to the truth, however, would take more energy and cunning coercion than I had to hand right now.
Besides, the idea of her unfettered autonomy, of my sister’s life having the potential to overlap with mine was too huge for me to absorb straight away. I wanted to leave the notion of her being back in my life on a shelf somewhere and return to it bit by bit, when I wasn’t so drained and could consider the impact it would have.
I put my laptop away and thought of Aaqil Jabour. He hadn’t booked in for his session so far, but I wanted to live with the hope that he was still alive. A list of fatalities went up daily on our staff website, but after what had happened to Holly, I couldn’t bring myself to look.
More survivors from the Tube fire would presumably come through to me shortly. I’d have to brace myself.
Chapter 7
I woke with a start on Monday. Panting. I’d been dreaming about my sister. For one panicky moment I thought Miranda was there in the room, sitting on the end of the bed. Then I remembered she’d gone. Her new Camden friends were helping her move into her new place later that day.
I sat upright, dragging myself back into reality. A jabbing pain cut into my shoulder, as if I’d been running all night with a heavy bag around my neck. Wisps of disturbing dreams flitted around inside my head – something to do with trying to find Miranda. Racing through endless, dark tunnels on the Underground looking everywhere for her. Calling for her until my throat was burning. Her face was her own one minute, then it became Holly’s. It took me a moment to remember that the little girl had died.
I got out of bed and made a strong coffee, trying to take stock of the day ahead. A full diary of appointments, supporting patients reliving their traumas. I laid out my outfit for the day on the bed, then flopped back down beside it. What I wanted more than anything was just one more hour in bed; pure dreamless sleep to cleanse away the tormenting nocturnal images. Instead, I made my way in a fuggy daze to the bathroom and set the day in motion.
As soon as I swung open the door to my office, I managed to snap into professional mode. The morning started with three fairly straightforward sessions, then before lunch, Jake Stowe came in. That was the point when everything started to tip slowly sideways.
‘I get these terrible flashbacks about climbing up the steps,’ he said.
It was Jake’s first session and we were thirty minutes in to the hour. He was twenty-five, a respectable-looking guy, in a navy suit that was a little too tight around the chest and an inch or so too short in the leg. His eyelids were raw from crying and teardrops were pooling on his patent leather shoes.
‘One minute I’m talking to a client about his expense allowance and the next, I freeze. All I can see are people crashing into me, everyone pushing, screaming,’ he sniffled. ‘There was this massive suck of wind and a flash, then this fireball comes from nowhere. The tiles were burning through the soles of my shoes, there was black smoke like an engine in flames, a stink of scorched oil. People were on fire all around me in the ticket hall. Their coats, their arms.’
People on fire? If this was the incident at Liverpool Street Tube, hadn’t there been only minor injuries – a few cuts and bruises?
I took my eyes swiftly down to my notes. There didn’t appear to be a record of Jake suffering any burns.
‘You said there were people on fire right beside you.’ I said gently. ‘You didn’t get burnt yourself?’
He squeezed his temples. ‘No. I don’t know how I managed it, but I got moving. I had to tread on people to get out, but eventually I was running and I could see a light in the distance.’ He dropped his head. ‘I made it, but people died. I heard them. Felt them.’
His gaze raced around the room, unable to settle on any one spot. ‘There was this one woman with a bundle of shopping bags lying on the floor. She grabbed my leg and pleaded with me to get a message to her son.’ He straightened his cuff. ‘You know what I did?’ He looked up, giving me an imploring stare through streaming eyes. ‘I kicked her hand away to get past.’ His body sank. ‘Can you believe that? Good people don’t do that kind of thing, do they?’
I saw Jake Stowe again, by accident, later that day. He was walking towards me, his head down, using his mobile and we nearly collided in the corridor. He’d come for a check-up. Several weeks ago he’d torn his left ear in a car accident. He hesitated after our awkward greeting and I could see he wanted to say more.
‘I can give you a minute,’ I said. I followed as he backed into an alcove away from the earshot of passers-by.
‘Since our session things’ve got worse,’ he said, ‘I can’t get those images out of my head.’ He leant against the wall, half his shirt hanging out, taking heavy breaths. Add to that the effort he was making just to get his eyelids to part and I could see he was suffering from an acute lack of sleep.
‘That’s common, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘People with Post-Traumatic Stress often find that certain images just won’t go away. But they will – with time and special techniques – we’ve only had one session.’
‘I thought it might help if I drew what I could remember.’ He started pulling crumpled sheets out of his pockets. ‘You know – get it out of my head onto paper.’
‘That’s a really good idea.’
He handed me a bundle of pencil sketches. Some were crude line drawings of distorted bodies, others showed the layout of the Tube station, detailed sections of maps with escalators, corridors and exits marked.
‘I was trying to work out exactly what happened.’ He slapped his palm into his forehead. ‘I can’t remember it properly.’
‘This is good, Jake – but don’t force it. Our brains try to protect us by blocking things out, but sometimes they wipe out more than they need to.’ I looked down at the pile of pages he’d given me. ‘Can I keep one?’
‘Sure. I’ve got loads of them.’
I took a sheet showing the layout of the ticket hall, with escalators and lifts.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ I said, as he drifted towards the seating area.
I’m not sure why I asked for the drawing. I just had a weird feeling.
Something, somewhere didn’t add up.
On the way home, I stopped off at a chemist’s for some over-the-counter sleeping tablets. I couldn’t cope with another night like the last one. Since starting my new role, my sleep had got incrementally worse. It wasn’t just the hard-hitting nature of the job. I was still giddy after hooking up with Con, plus Miranda’s unexpected appearance had knocked me sideways.
As I wheeled my bike the last few hundred yards from the shops, a black cab pull
ed up at the kerb beside me and a woman in a long velvet gown got out and leant through the open window to pay the driver. It transported me straight back to the day Con and I first met.
It was after the final curtain of a West-End play when my friend, Hannah, insisted we loiter at the stage door. I picked him out straight away. He’d played the ‘rugged villain’ and had been formidable on stage, but appeared even more so, out of character. His hair was a metallic black and untamed, and he stood like a warrior. He was good-looking in such an obvious way, I wondered why there wasn’t a harem of women drooling over him.
To my astonishment, he caught my eye and beckoned us over. I glanced behind me, certain there must be a staggeringly beautiful woman by my shoulder, but there wasn’t. He invited us both backstage for drinks and swilled the red wine around in the glass, as if to check it was up to scratch, before handing it to me. It was embarrassingly obvious which one of us he was most interested in.
I’d always been enthralled by actors, but had never known any personally. They fascinated me; their ability to take on another persona, to walk, talk and breathe like a different person. I could never do it. I could hide my true self, but I could never stand up under scrutiny and transform myself into a monarch, a lawyer, a murderer.
Our first few dates were magical – a drink, another West-End play, the cinema. After that first film, he taught me popcorn-racing. Apparently, it was one of his son’s favourite games, but not in the way we played it. We started out – just the two of us – blowing the puffed-up little pieces along the kitchen table with a straw.
We raced them across the carpet, tried to flip them into shoes, then Con got me to lie flat on my back. He tugged my blouse out of my jeans and unbuttoned it, then rolled a piece down my chest aiming for my belly-button. Then he placed his lips around the popcorn and ate it.
We stripped off and took it in turns to explore the ridges and hollows in each other’s bare skin using no hands, eating each piece of popcorn wherever it came to a halt. Since then, if anyone mentions popcorn, Con and I exchange knowing glances.
Con was funny and intelligent. Being with him was like stepping inside a labyrinth; there were so many places to go, so many sides to him, so many mysteries. I was hungry to find all the hidden selves and most of all – to find the real man behind all the masks. I was in a dreamy state most of that time, walking on cushioned air, waiting for those enchanting moments spent with him. We sent raunchy text messages to each other and he left saucy voicemails that made my toes curl.
I couldn’t work out how I’d been so lucky.
I stopped the memory right there, not wanting to sour it with recent concerns that had come to light in our relationship, and climbed the stairs to my flat. I needed a quick shower, a light meal, then I was off to the theatre. I’d nearly squealed with joy when Con had finally rung me at lunchtime to say he’d got free tickets for a play at the Haymarket that evening. I just had to make sure I got there on time, looked effortlessly sexy and stayed awake. No mean feat.
As I approached the front door, I could see a figure lurking outside. I quickened my step, then slowed down as I recognised the jacket.
‘Miranda?’
‘I’m back. I’ve got a place in a hostel, but it’s not ready. They’re going to ring me...’
‘Right,’ I said, unlocking the door.
‘I thought you still had a key,’ I said.
‘I think I lost it. Sorry.’
Miranda stood, immobile, with her fingers touching her lips, her suitcase leaning against her bare leg as if tied by string. She looked like a refugee left behind at a railway station.
‘The rest of my stuff is being sent on to the hostel,’ she said. I glanced down at the large case. ‘It’s only for one night. Two at the most. Then I’ll be out of your hair.’
We stepped inside. I noticed her tremble as she dragged her belongings into the hall. ‘I’ll try not to be a bother,’ she said plaintively.
Yeah. I’d heard that one before.
‘Listen – I’m going out tonight – so you’ll have some peace,’ I said. I couldn’t help wondering what kind of state I’d return to, but there was no way I was changing my plans.
Miranda came through into the kitchen and presented me with the flowers. ‘These are for you,’ she said.
I forced a smile. I’d never liked chrysanthemums. I couldn’t expect Miranda to remember. They looked like they’d been out of water for a long time, their heads already drooping and the foliage in a sorry state. Nevertheless, she’d made an effort and I didn’t want to spoil any chance of getting our relationship onto a better footing.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ I said. ‘Thank you. I’ll get a vase.’
‘You look wrecked,’ said Miranda.
I turned away. ‘I’m fine.’ I took a breath. ‘We must go out for dinner some time. Sit down together without any distractions and catch up properly.’
‘But you’re going out.’ She took the vase and filled it noisily.
‘I don’t mean tonight. I’m sorry. I’m going to see a play,’ I said. ‘There is a pie in the freezer – are you able to manage that sort of thing?’
‘I do cook for myself, you know,’ she said in a flash of hostility.
‘Fine. Or there’s a fish and chip shop on the corner.’
‘I’ll have soup,’ she said, still holding the vase of sad flowers. We stood at opposite ends of the kitchen. Prim and gloomy, like two people at a wake who’d only just met.
‘Just help yourself if you want a hot drink.’
‘I don’t expect you to wait on me.’ She handed me the vase, pushed past me and reached down to her shoulder bag. ‘I’ve got a flask left over from lunch.’
I followed her into the sitting room and moved some books so that I could put her flowers on the side table. One of the volumes fell to the floor. Miranda picked it up.
‘New Directions in Counselling,’ she read. ‘Your chapter on ethical practice in here?’
‘Who told you that?’ I reached out for the book and took it from her.
‘Daddy. We’ve been emailing each other.’
I smiled to myself. I bet Mum didn’t know about that.
‘Didn’t get a publisher for your own book proposal, then?’ she said, twisting her mouth to one side.
So Dad had told her about that too. What else had he said?
‘No – that didn’t work out.’ I was still holding the book. She looked warily at it, as though it was a weapon.
‘Bummer,’ she said.
I shrugged.
‘Mummy doesn’t approve, by the way,’ she went on, giggling like a naughty child. ‘About not having your own book out by now.’ I didn’t respond, didn’t rise to the bait. ‘You know Mummy – careers and advancement at all costs. She thinks you should be making a name for yourself in print, working your way up whatever ladder it is that psychologists climb, instead of writing the odd chapter here and there.’ She pulled on the cuff of her blouse. ‘That’s what Daddy said, anyway.’
‘I’ve got to get ready,’ I said, backing away. I wasn’t sure if Miranda was trying to provoke me or simply reminding me that the parental pressure had been there for both of us growing up. That was the problem with Miranda – I never quite knew what she was thinking. Or what she was going to do next.
I went into the bedroom to find something to wear.
‘It must have been a big step,’ I replied. ‘Leaving Linden Manor for good. It’ll take some getting used to, I should think.’
I had an unwelcome vision of Miranda at twenty, being dragged screaming from the local library, naked, her own faeces in her mouth. That was the first time she’d been sectioned.
The first of many.
‘I haven’t been on Mars, Sam,’ she snapped. ‘I know a little bit about what’s been going on in the real world.’
‘Of course you do,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
Miranda had been diagnosed with schizophrenia shortly after that outburst in
the library, but since becoming a psychologist, I was convinced that was only part of the picture.
I really needed a shower, but I was running out of time. I pulled on my best jeans instead.
‘I just thought it might be harder than it looks,’ I said, my back to the door, fastening my bra. ‘You know…coming back, joining in with everything again…it must be—’
Suddenly she was right behind me. I felt her hot breath on my bare shoulder.
‘Well – I’m back – and now it’s my turn,’ she said, her voice raspy. ‘Everything was easy for you. When I was born, Mum had a clear idea of the sort of child she wanted – and it wasn’t me. I was “a rebellious artist” with a “mind of my own” and I didn’t come up to scratch. She saw me as nothing more than defiant and uncontrollable. That’s why she packed me off to boarding school as soon as she could.’
‘I was sent away to Ryland’s, too,’ I said, twirling the tongs to put some life into my dark flat hair.
She folded her arms. ‘You were okay. You were the academic one who towed the line. You got your PhD, then headed down the psychology route. Dad was sweet, but he was on her side – he wanted us both to be clones of them. Can you see me as a barrister? Or a university professor?’
Miranda had a point.
‘We were both under enormous pressure.’
I turned away from the mirror and Miranda looked me up and down. ‘I thought you were going to the theatre.’
‘I am.’
‘In jeans?’
I looked down at my legs. I wasn’t used to Miranda acting like the older sister. It felt all wrong. Like she was playing a part, trying out the role to see if she could get away with it. I had spent years mothering Miranda, because our actual mum had abdicated all responsibility and Dad had faffed about on the side-lines not knowing what to do.
‘Let me do your hair,’ Miranda said, coming towards me. ‘You’re pretty – but I could make you look gorgeous.’ She reached for the tongs.
