Inheritance

by Thomas Wymark

The next day my doctor prescribed Citalopram.

  ‘They’re anti-depressants,’ he said. ‘They will make you feel better. They block the anxiety from getting through to your brain. And they’re not addictive.’

  ‘I’m not depressed.’

  He smiled.

  ‘And I’m not anxious.’

  ‘These are often prescribed in situations like this,’ he said.

  ‘Situations like what?’

  ‘Like yours.’

  I had always trusted Doctor Jones. But now, I wasn’t so sure. I’d read dozens of stories in the weekly magazines about people addicted to their anti-depressants. I wasn’t sure I wanted that worry.

  But I needed to do something. I had noticed my hands shaking when I lifted my coffee mug (or wine glass), and the furrows on my brow looked like they were in danger of becoming permanent. The kids needed a better mum, and Neil needed a better wife. And I still wanted that to be me. But anti-depressants? I opened my mouth to throw out my next objection, but the doctor saw it coming.

  ‘Do you have internet access at home?’ he said.

  I shut my mouth and nodded.

  ‘There are some websites I’d like you to visit. You might find them helpful.’

  He pulled a pink post-it note from a multicoloured stack and scribbled on it. He stuck the post-it on the table in front of me.

  ‘Moodworkout.com?’ I said. ‘And victimstrength.org?’

  My tone of voice said it all.

  ‘I think you should consider both of them. The Citalopram may take a couple of weeks to kick in and these websites might help you get better quicker.’

  He might as well have written down you’reanangrybitch.com and stopkillingpeoplewithyourstares.org as well.

  ‘I don’t feel like a victim,’ I said, controlling just such a stare. I obviously wasn’t in a position to disagree with the mood thing.

  ‘That’s really great,’ he said. ‘But you have been a “victim” of crime. There is a difference. This website will introduce you to others who have had a similar experience — which you may find helpful.’

  I stopped controlling the stare.

  ‘I don’t want to “share my experience” with other people. I’ve moved on from it. The only reason I came here today was because my father and my husband suggested it.’

  Odd that I put Dad before Neil.

  ‘And I think they were right,’ he said.

  My killer stare obviously wasn’t working. Either that or doctors were becoming stupid.

  ‘It is important to recognise that others have gone through what you are going through. That you’re not in this alone, so-to-speak,’ he said.

  Obviously stupid.

  ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I’ll check them out when I get home.’

  If I had said — “when I get home I’m going to run across the ceiling in flippers” — it would have sounded more believable. We both knew I was talking bollocks. He tried a different tack.

  ‘These dreams you’re getting may well be as a result of post-traumatic stress,’ he said. ‘If they continue or get worse you should consider going to see a counsellor — someone who is trained in helping people overcome these issues. I can recommend someone if you like?’

  I shook my head. I couldn’t speak because I felt dizzy. I knew he’d said “counsellor”, but I’d heard “psychiatrist”.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But I want you to come back to see me in about four weeks time, I can make the appointment for you now.’

  ‘Why will you need to see me again?’

  ‘I need to make sure the Citalopram are working OK, and that you aren’t having any side effects.’

  ‘I though you said they weren’t addictive?’ I said.

  ‘They aren’t. But they have some mild side effects. And a month will be about the right time to make sure your head is healing properly.’

  I was about to punch him, when I realised he was talking about the scars.

  ‘What side effects?’

  ‘You might feel a touch nauseous and you may have increased sweating. There may even be some sleep problems.’

  I didn’t even go there.

  I threw the pink post-it away within five paces of the health centre.

  I took the first tablet as soon as I got home, before reading the notes in the box which said I should take them first thing in the morning. Off to a great start.

  Neil’s face changed when I told him I was now on anti-depressants. He seemed pleased. More relaxed somehow. That wasn’t the Neil I knew. He wouldn’t even take a paracetamol for a headache. He loathed medicines and drugs. Believed in self medication by exercise and positive thought. He was too strong for tablets.

  ‘They aren’t addictive,’ I said, thinking that that would be uppermost in his healthy mind.

  The look on his face told me that the thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

  ‘Do they work straight away?’ he said. ‘Or is there a delay?’

  ‘A few weeks,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go back to the doctor in a month.’

  Neil nodded. His eyes glazed over and he suddenly wasn’t there with me.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I said.

  My question seemed to reach him slowly. Then he was back.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I was just worried about you. I’m pleased you went. I think it was definitely the right thing to do.’

  I winced as a thudding pain jumped inside my thigh. Neil missed it. It thumped again. I kicked myself for not mentioning it to the stupid doctor.

  I had never been in this situation before.

  I don’t mean the situation of having been mugged, or hit with a skateboard or even being on anti-depressants (although I never had been in any of those situations).

  I had never had the feelings that I was now regularly experiencing. Bizarre opposites of absolute power and strength coming from deep wells of anger, surging up from within me, contrasting with utter weakness arising from not knowing how to deal with the feelings, not knowing if the mugger was still after me, and not knowing when my night frights might end.

  All my ‘taking control’ actions hadn’t seemed to help much. Diaries and positive thought had struggled to keep up with my inner movements, over which I seemed to have less and less control.

  Getting back to school seemed only to serve as a reminder that, somewhere within me, I had the ability to attack (and god only knew what else?) a child. A girl. More than one!

  I knew they were only dreams. It seemed far fetched to consider that I could actually attack and injure a child. But with the anger inside me, coming from nowhere, and the episode with Josie at the barbecue when it seemed like all reality had changed, I had no real idea what I might be capable of at all.

  I could smell the slightest changes on the air. My arms and legs felt more powerful than ever before. And I was left feeling more out of control than ever before.

  After popping the tablet I decided I would do whatever it took to get my life back.

  On a sheet of paper I wrote down everything I wanted to accomplish.

  1. Get control of mind

  2. Show Neil that I’m in control

  3. Get back to school

  4. Put skateboard twat out of my mind

  5. Come off the tablets!

  I didn’t set myself a deadline, because I intended to start immediately.

  1. Get control of my mind.

  I started by trying to analyse what had happened to me when the “dream” at the barbecue had kicked in.

  The trigger had been Josie. But had anything else happened before I saw her? I remembered drinking the wine, I remembered everyone singing “Happy Birthday”, but was there anything else? We had all finished eating, all of the chicken had gone. There were still a few of Neil’s cremated sausages left. The smells. Barbecue smoke, burned food.

  I made a note on the back of the sheet of paper. “Smells”.

  And then Josie. There was something about her that had launched the full-sca
le onslaught of the “dream”, complete with blowing gale and demented trees.

  It was the fact that when I had looked at her — she hadn’t been Josie. She’d looked older and different. Still a child, but an older child. She had looked like someone else.

  I started to wonder if what I was experiencing was some kind of premonition. Not that I believed in any of that stuff. But maybe the trauma to my head from the skateboard and the pavement had caused some sort of lucid area of my brain to open up. Maybe my mind was seeing things that could happen. An overactive imagination of some sort. I wrote “imagination/premonition/lucid brain/future possibilities”.

  I immediately felt a lift in my heart. If all it was was just my imagination on overdrive, that was great. I could deal with that.

  I let this possibility sink in, and instantly all the dreams and visions became less real. I saw them for what they were. A product of stress and trauma and a couple of large bashes on the bonce. They were nothing more than dreams and flashes of imagination — seemingly very real at the time — but with no foundation in reality at all.

  I re-read the few words I had written and turned the sheet back over to my original five goals. I added one more.

  1a. Stop drinking.

  I leaned back against the soft sofa and shut my eyes. For the first time in a while I didn’t hesitate before closing them. My cheeks felt warm and I smiled.

  I’m not sure what happened next. I remember the sweet sickly smell like a punch, and I remember hearing the third stair creak. But I don’t know which of those came first.

  I spun round on the sofa and a whirlwind pulled my hair back from my face. The pain in my thigh screamed.

  A girl stood on the third stair. A shroud of mist enveloped her making her features difficult to comprehend. I stumbled backwards off the sofa, my eyes fixed on her. For a moment she seemed to smile. A second later her head jolted back and I felt the scar on the back of my head throb. A second after that, nothing. She was gone.

  I stayed on the floor, staring at the stairs. I felt damp on my face as though it had been sprayed with a fine mist. I felt relieved that I could feel my heart pounding away in my chest, letting me know it was still there and working — overtime. No smell, no wind, no pain. My mouth was open and I heard a scream I thought could have been mine. And then nothing.

  When I woke up I was lying on my back on the floor. The sheet of paper with my goals lay beside me. The pen underneath me.

  For a few moments I didn’t move at all, apart from the involuntary up and down of my chest with each breath. I was surprised how deep and long my breaths were. Calm, almost.

  Then the dull, constant pulse of pain in my thigh reminded me it was there. My forearms ached but felt tremendously powerful at the same time. It reminded me of the feeling I’d get after helping Dad prune the roses in the garden when I was little. The repetitive snipping of the tough twigs making my arms ache, but wanting to carry on to please Dad (and to watch all the dead-heads tumble to the ground).

  The back of my neck ached too and a snapshot of the girl on the stair with her head thrust backwards zipped in and out of my mind. I lifted my head off the carpet a little. It felt like whiplash. My shoulders felt tender. And then the pain in my thigh shouted at me.

  I reached over and grabbed the sheet of paper and held it up.

  I lay my head back on the floor and looked up at my list of goals and I realised that I probably had more of a problem than I had thought.

  The clock showed 11:30 am. I had been on the floor, either asleep or unconscious, for about 15 minutes.

  It was possible that I had simply fallen asleep when I’d leaned back against the sofa and shut my eyes. Possible that I was so exhausted that I had fallen into unconsciousness in an instant. And then I had dreamt the smell and the creaking stair. I had dreamt the vision of the girl standing there. A dream like that would be sure to make me thrash about a bit. No wonder I had ended up on the floor. And that must have been what woke me, enough to realise I was on the floor and there was no girl and no whirlwind or sweet sickly smell.

  But what if I hadn’t fallen asleep?

  I propped myself up on my elbows and scanned the room. Everything seemed OK. The sofa was between me and the stairs, so I couldn’t see them. I would have to make more of an effort for that. I knew I wouldn’t see anyone on the stairs. But still I hesitated a little before standing up.

  Stairs clear, living room clear, head clear.

  The sheet of paper in my hand felt like just that — a sheet of paper. I realised how insubstantial my attempt to repair that situation had been.

  A few sentences on a single sheet of paper.

  I needed to do more.

  15