‘No problem,’ he says, already pulling me up from the chair as if he’s heard all he needs to. ‘And thank you, Doctor. You’ve been most helpful.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Louisa
Then
‘You’re fucking mental, you know that, don’t you?’ Carl Morris throws me off him, a red handprint tattooed across his cheek where I have just whacked him one.
‘Louisa, please.’ Sandy turns her head from where she is busy cooking by the stove and rolls her eyes.
‘Tell him to give me my magazine back then.’
‘Here, you freak,’ he shouts, launching the rolled-up Just 17 magazine across the kitchen like a paper plane. ‘Don’t know why you buy them anyway, you can’t even read.’
He gives his cheek a quick rub before turning his attention back to the plate of sausage and peas in front of him, chomping loudly on a pork sausage until the juice slides down his chin.
‘You’re gross,’ I mutter. ‘You knock me ill.’
‘You want one or two sausages, Louisa?’ Sandy looks over her shoulder at me as she speaks, pointing a spatula towards the pan where more fatty sausages crackle and spit. Last week at school, Kayley Smith told me she watched a documentary where the manufacturers put snouts and testicles in cheap meat to bulk it out. It made me feel sick and I became a vegetarian but it only lasted until Thursday because Stacey had robbed a tenner from her youth worker and offered to buy me a Big Mac Meal.
‘I’m a vegetarian remember,’ I remind Sandy, who shakes her head and continues to roll the sausages around in the pan. An embroidered gingerbread man pokes his head out of the pouch on her apron, a place where she keeps a hair bobble, a spare pen and a panic alarm. She pretends she enjoys being here, that she loves us… but I can see in her eyes that she’s desperate for nine o’clock when another member of staff takes over and she can go home to her husband and son, her growing bump, which strains against the apron, a permanent reminder that she doesn’t, and never will, belong to us.
I’m now thirteen and it’s been nine years since I threw a pan of boiling water over my first foster carer. Esther still writes to me occasionally and Sandy assures me her letters are friendly and she has forgiven me for permanently disfiguring her. But I tear up the letters without reading them. I don’t deserve her forgiveness.
Bill and Bernie stopped being my foster carers three years ago. Bernie became ill with cervical cancer and it was decided I should be moved temporarily while she underwent treatment. At first I visited her but she changed so much that I had panic attacks before and after each visit. Gone was her beautiful blonde hair and permanent smile, and in its place sickly yellow skin and hollowed-out cheeks. Bernie decided that my visits were ‘doing me more harm than good’, and promised to contact me the moment she was ‘back on her feet’.
I lived with a single lady called Maureen during that period whose house stank of mince and onions. She cared more about her little shit of a dog, Buddy, than she ever did about me. One morning she called me down into the lounge where my social worker, whose name I’ve forgotten, casually broke the news to me that Bernie had died the previous day. That night, I slashed both my wrists and, well, Maureen didn’t much want me after that. I was quickly moved here, to Chatsworth Children’s Home, where I’ve been imprisoned ever since.
‘Just give me the beans and a piece of bread,’ I say to Sandy while looking at Carl, whose incessant chomping is managing to simultaneously spark every nerve in my body. ‘Will you give it a rest?’ I shout at him, only to be greeted by a tongue full of pulverised meat. ‘You’re a proper minger, you know that?’
‘Shut it, ginger minge,’ he laughs, showering me with pork-infused spittle. ‘You know you’d love a bit of meat up your rusty fanny flaps.’ He proceeds to fornicate against the wooden table.
‘Carl, no.’ Sandy speaks softly, as if telling off a toddler. ‘Remember how we speak to people.’
Billy suddenly appears at the kitchen door, the earphones of his Walkman stuffed into his ear holes. It’s a CD one which his auntie bought him for his twelfth birthday last week. He’s really proud of it and tells everybody about his cool, rich auntie who loves him and buys him ‘proper mint’ stuff. I want to tell him she doesn’t love him that much or she wouldn’t be leaving him to rot in this shit tip but I don’t because I like Billy.
‘There’s somebody new starting tomorrow,’ Sandy says while dishing up two sausages onto a plate. ‘You know I leave next month for maternity and so he’ll be taking over on the full-time shifts. He’ll be shadowing me for a few weeks.’
I know she’s speaking to me even though Billy and Carl are both present. She knows I hate change, the boys not giving two craps either way. Stacey lives here too but she goes out with her support worker on a Wednesday night to McDonald’s or Wimpy, the lucky cow. ‘He’s called Aiden,’ continues Sandy. ‘And he’s very nice and very experienced.’
‘I saw him when he came for his interview and he’s a faggot.’ Carl positions a bean on the end of his fork and flicks it at Billy’s head.
Ignoring him, Billy sits down at the table, pulling his earphones out from his ears. Billy’s hair is so blond it’s practically white, and his waif-like stature and effeminate mannerisms mean he’s a target for losers like Carl. Sandy places the plate of food down in front of Billy, taking out another raw sausage, presumably for me, despite my protests, and dumping it into the pan. I watch Billy as he toys with his food, the prongs of his fork stabbing at the sausage.
‘Here, let me listen to this.’ Carl reaches over and grabs Billy’s Walkman, his dark-brown eyes lighting up when he sees the distress on Billy’s face.
‘Stop being tight, Carl,’ I say, my scalp tingling. ‘He’s just a kid.’
‘Shut it, Tango fanny. What’s it to you? You wanna shag him or something? You fucking paedo!’
‘Carl!’ Sandy manages to raise her voice beyond a whisper, causing a rash to break out on her neck. ‘We are family. Nobody is a paedophile.’
I watch through wide eyes as Billy looks up at her, his lips twitching, his eyes clouding over. I know what’s coming before it even happens. ‘My dad was family,’ he says, seemingly in another place, in another moment in time. ‘That didn’t stop him abusing my sister, did it?’
Carl’s face creases into a grin, his teeth crooked and far too big for his mouth. I silently urge him to close his mouth but of course I know he won’t. ‘She was probably asking for it, the dirty bitch!’
There is a split second of silence where nothing happens. Then, everything happens at once. Sandy drops the spatula on the floor, sending hot oil flying up the back of my legs. Billy’s plate smashes into pieces against the tiled wall and Carl screams so loudly I fear my eardrum will burst.
It takes me a moment to realise that the prongs of Billy’s fork are wedged into Carl’s eye.
As Carl continues to scream, and Sandy’s panic alarm bounces off all four walls, and Billy howls on the kitchen floor, I can do nothing but stare at the wall, the bean juice sliding down the tiles… like blood-red tears.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Louisa
Now
‘I’m not taking antidepressants, James, so you can think again.’ I step out of the doctor’s surgery and gingerly push the pram back down the narrow ramp, the snow underfoot trampled down to hard ice like the inside of a freezer. The frosted handrail bites into my palm as I clutch hold of it tightly, my breath an extra layer of mist in the already clogged-up air. ‘She can shove her prescription up her arse, the backstabbing cow.’ I am furious and I can’t even begin to hide it. Tears stream down my face, the cold instantly drying them against my already chapped skin.
James follows behind me. ‘Don’t talk stupid,’ he says, his voice expressionless, as if distracted by the laborious task of walking.
Opposite the surgery, the pharmacy’s luminous green cross breaks up the white sky. The main road in front of us is deserted bar a single car which creeps along
the central reservation line carrying several inches of snow on its roof. ‘I’m not being stupid, James. There’s nothing at all wrong with me!’
‘Stop being ridiculous. You heard what the doctor said, you need help.’ James pushes past me as we reach the bottom of the ramp, his words ringing in my ears.
‘Slow down, what’s got into you?’
‘You, Louisa.’ He turns around and glares at me. ‘You and your constant denial of the truth!’ He strides across the car park, head bowed and back bent like a bull ready to fight. I stop walking, look on as he slowly starts to disappear into the fog, knowing that soon he’ll be invisible, his giant footprints the only proof he was ever here.
I catch up with him at the zebra crossing, the flashing green man giving us permission to cross. ‘Hardly any point pressing that, was there?’ I say, unable to help myself from fuelling the fire further. ‘Place is deserted. And it’s you who can’t handle the truth.’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m not arguing with you, Lou. You’re taking the tablets, end of.’ He takes off again, leaving me to battle with the pram, its wheels sliding across the road like an ice-puck.
Once safely across, I turn in the opposite direction to the pharmacy and start walking, my head held high but my steps uncertain. If I refuse to take the medication, what then? But then if I do start to take them…
‘Lou?’ James’s voice stops me in my tracks.
I turn around, fresh tears burning the backs of my eyes. ‘What?’
‘If you don’t take the tablets, I’ll call the mental health team.’ He swallows hard, his stare fixed on mine. ‘I have Cory to think of,’ he adds quickly, as if desperate to provide a reason.
I look at him for a long time, at his dark, tussled hair dusted with snow, at his solid, six-foot frame which stoops over as if tired of its own weight. ‘I’m not losing my mind,’ I whisper. ‘Why can’t you see that?’
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even blink.
‘Okay,’ I say, the fight inside of me extinguishing until all that remains are flaky embers of truth. ‘I’ll take the tablets. But I’ll never admit to losing my mind. And when all this comes crashing down around us, don’t blame me.’
‘Thank you,’ he says, blowing out a long breath. ‘You know it’s the right thing to do.’
Turning the pram, I follow him over to the open door of the pharmacy, knowing in my heart that things are about to take a turn for the worse. But what choice do I have? I either take the antidepressants or risk being sectioned. Some bloody choice.
‘I’ll wait here with Cory while you go in. No point trying to get the pram up them steps – they look lethal.’ James turns to face me as we near the entrance to the pharmacy, his demeanour much friendlier than it was a moment ago.
I shrug, not wanting to forgive him so easily. ‘Fine, won’t be a second.’
The pharmacy is brightly lit, a vast array of colourful paraphernalia lining its shelves, everything from strawberry-flavoured condoms to Farley’s Rusks. It’s pretty busy for this time in the morning, especially given the weather outside; although I guess December is the time for coughs and colds.
I pass the female hygiene aisle, see a woman with lank hair and ill-fitting Ugg boots debating between Tampax Pearl and Always Ultra. In the far corner, a man, wrapped up in a matching bobble hat and scarf, squats down in front of a multitude of nappies. He has his back to me but I can almost see the confusion on his face as he tries to remember the weight of his child before converting it into kilograms.
‘Ah, Louisa, nice to see you on this fine winter’s day.’ Annette’s husband, Ron, stands behind the counter, the arms of his white tunic skimming his knuckles. He attempts to lean over in order to kiss me on the cheek but can’t quite reach, a shelf of cough sweets and flu meds acting as a buffer. Never before have I been so grateful to Beechams, so much so that I consider writing the manufacturers a personal letter of thanks. ‘James not with you?’ he asks, craning his neck around me in order to seek him out.
Ron loves James, although I have absolutely no idea why. James rarely gives him the time of day, privately referring to him as ‘a ferret up a shit pipe’. To be fair, he has a point; Ron’s constant attention seeking and ‘manly banter’ whenever James is within earshot is embarrassing at best.
‘He’s waiting outside with Cory.’ I realise there is no expression to my voice and that in actual fact I sound pretty rude. I don’t care any more though; what good is being polite when I’m about to be exposed as a drug-taking mental case?
‘What can I do you for?’ Ron holds out his hand for the prescription, which is tightly clutched between my fingers. Heat burns my cheeks as I debate whether or not to hand it to him. I really don’t want Ron knowing my business, especially as he’s bound to blabber to Annette. I consider turning around and legging it out of the door without another word, but the next pharmacy is miles away and Cory’s already beginning to turn blue. Besides, perhaps he can help me… perhaps he can somehow swap the antidepressants for placebos? It’s risky, but surely worth a try?
‘The thing is…’ I look back over my shoulder to where James is stood at the open doorway, idly pushing the pram back and forth.
‘Yes, what is it?’
I falter, James’s earlier words boomeranging back to me. If you don’t take the medication I’ll call the mental health team. ‘I, erm, I wanted to ask you a favour…’ I say, still keeping one eye on James. He suddenly looks up and over at me; fixes a smile onto his face which is a size too small. I turn away from him, my heart pounding. ‘Actually its nothing – doesn’t matter.’ I dump the prescription into Ron’s hand, bristling as he starts to read the doctor’s manic writing.
‘I’ll just get this for you then,’ he says, his chalky-white complexion pinking ever so slightly.
‘I’ll get it, Mr Green, it’s no problem.’ A young woman, early twenties or thereabouts, strides out of a back room and proceeds to lean over the counter, handing a small paper bag to an elderly man who I think may be the cougher from the waiting room. He thanks her and wishes her a pleasant Christmas.
‘No, Dawn,’ says Ron, as if slightly flustered, ‘I’ll get it, I don’t mind.’ He smiles up at her, his small stature made more obvious by her near six-foot height. He attempts to sidestep her, his clumsiness reminding me of Rowan Atkinson in Mr Bean. It’s obvious he fancies her, and I vaguely wonder if he even bothered to check out her credentials before hiring her.
‘Actually, Ron…’ I hover over my next words. ‘There is something I want your advice on.’
‘That sorts it then,’ says the six-foot blonde, sliding the prescription out of Ron’s hand before he has a chance to object.
‘What is it?’ he asks, flicking his eyes up to the clock, which is positioned on the side wall, as if suddenly bored by my presence.
‘The medication, how strong is it?’
‘Is she pestering you, Ronny boy?’ James’s voice makes me jump. ‘Bloody hell, Lou, you’re a nervous wreck,’ he says, leaning over the counter to shake Ron’s hand.
‘James, always a pleasure!’ Ron’s voice is suddenly so high-pitched it could splinter ice. ‘How are you doing, my old mucker?’
‘Wonderful, how are you? Looking forward to having you and your lovely wife over on Christmas Day.’
‘Us too, ecstatic to be invited.’
‘The pleasure is all ours.’
Ron pulls a face which would be suited better to the bedroom. I shudder at the thought.
‘Annette’s just nipped out, actually, to get some pickled eggs for Christmas Eve,’ he says to James. ‘Actually…’ He turns his attention to me, a glint in his eye. ‘I could bring them Christmas Day if you like? What do you say, Louisa? You fancy having a nibble on my pickled eggs?’ He laughs so loudly I’m certain he’s going to choke. ‘Here, put it here, put it here,’ he snorts, holding his hand up to James, ready to receive a high five.
‘Good one, Ron, good one.’ James feigns a laugh but stuffs
his hands into his jeans pockets.
‘Anyway…’ Ron scratches his bald head with the offending hand, as if that’s what was always intended. ‘What did you want to ask me, Louisa?’
I flick my eyes over to James, not particularly comfortable asking the question in front of him. He raises his eyebrows, a flicker of annoyance visible just behind his pupils. ‘I want to know how strong this medication is,’ I say, deciding that Cory’s wellbeing has to come before James’s feelings. If I’m going to be forced into taking antidepressants, then surely I have a right to know more about them? ‘It’s just that I’m not comfortable taking the antidepressants if they’re going to turn me into a zombie.’
Ron drops his gaze, as if uncomfortable discussing my sanity, or lack thereof, with James present. ‘Well, Fluoxetene isn’t so bad. It’s a common sort of antidepressant.’ His voice catches in his throat. ‘You should be fine.’
‘Here you go.’ The young blonde appears back at Ron’s side and hands me a small white bag which I quickly stuff into the bottom of my bag. ‘Do you want to just pop over to the till while I ring it through?’ she continues, already sashaying over to the other end of the counter.
‘She could wring me though any day,’ whispers Ron when she’s safely out of earshot, his words directed at James, who forces out a laugh.
‘Oh shit, talking of ringing.’ James pats down both coat pockets simultaneously. ‘I’ve only gone and left my phone in the waiting room. I’ll just go and get it, won’t be a tick. Meet you outside the doctor’s,’ he says to me. He hurries back down the centre aisle, presumably leaving me to deal with the small task of getting the pram back down the icy steps. I sigh. Why did he even bother to come inside in the first place? Hadn’t he been the one to say the steps were too slippery for the pram?
I look up at the time, annoyed that it’s now 10 a.m. and we’re still faffing around in what can only be described as a blizzard. At this rate we won’t even make it home in time for Christmas Day, and will probably have to resort to cannibalism like in the film Alive. At least then I wouldn’t be subjected to Ron’s pickled eggs, which is a silver lining of sorts.
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