by Sarah Bourne
The thought of Jeff made his chest feel tight. Grief, he’d been told, could do things like that to a person. Fucking cancer. How many years had it been – three? He forced himself to relax, to lay his hands gently in his lap, to think of other things. He hadn’t seen Jeff’s kids for ages. He wondered what Elspeth was doing these days and why Russell wasn’t married. Lawrence had thought Lucy was the one for him and suddenly it was all over.
He looked around. He was on his own again. Well, not exactly on his own, there were other people in the carriage, but they nodded to each other when they got on and didn’t look at each other again for the duration of the journey. He could have been travelling to and from Euston with a serial killer for years and he wouldn’t have been able to identify him – or her – in a line-up. Terrible admission really, for a barrister.
He picked up his paper again, opened it to the crossword and reached into his breast pocket for his pen. Another stab of loss hit him as he pulled out the Bic. He hadn’t had a chance to replace his Montblanc and hadn’t dared admit to his wife he’d lost it. She’d given it to him for their wedding anniversary a few years ago. It was likely an important one – silver or something. He’d probably asked his secretary to order the usual flowers and book a restaurant.
Feeling discombobulated, he stared at the first clue.
1A Very sad unfinished story about rising smoke (8)
He read it and read it again. He did the cryptic crossword every day and usually managed to finish it in under ten minutes. Today, however, it was as if his brain was frozen. The individual words all made sense but he couldn’t pick them apart and delve into the meaning of the clue. He just kept imagining a ruined house with smoke rising from the rubble. After a few minutes he threw the paper onto the seat next to him in disgust and sat with his fists clenched in his lap.
He wanted a coffee. His throat felt parched. He wondered if the trolley girl would come through with the train stopped, or was there some protocol stating that no drinks be served in the event of a suicide? He looked at his watch and wondered where they were and how long it would take to get to Euston. He considered going to find the guard to ask him, and get himself a coffee at the same time but decided not to bother. It wouldn’t make any difference.
His phone rang. Deidra. A wave of exhaustion passed over him. He didn’t want to talk to his wife. She was probably just calling to remind him about the meeting with Liam and what to say and what not to say, as if he couldn’t decide on his own. As if he had to be coached to say the appropriate words when his whole working life was about choosing the right words because someone’s future might depend on him being precise and accurate. He knew she’d wanted to come to the meeting. She hated being ‘out of the loop’, as she called it in an awful American TV way. Truth be told, he wished she could take care of the whole thing too, but she’d broken her neck in a riding accident a couple of weeks ago and was still in a lot of pain. It was pure chance she hadn’t ended up a paraplegic – the fracture to her vertebra was displaced and could have severed the nerve. He had rushed to the hospital dreading what he would find, wondering how he would cope if she was an invalid for the rest of her life. She was younger than him by a few years, he was already thirty when they’d married and she in her mid-twenties. She was the one who looked after people, not him. She’d been a stay-at-home mother to their children, she organised their social life, engaged gardeners and painters as necessary, cooked the meals and made sure all the household duties were seen to. Everything would fall apart if she were a vegetable.
He pressed ‘decline’ and the phone stopped ringing. Sitting with his head resting against the back of the seat he let himself drift off to thoughts of that boat and the places he’d go.
He’d nodded off by the time the train dragged itself from its inactivity and slowly worked up to its mechanical canter. He rubbed his eyes, dry from the train’s air conditioning, hoped he hadn’t snored, and once more looked at his paper. It was a matter of principle to finish the crossword. It was like a private competition between him and the compiler every day and he would not be outdone just because of some bloody fool throwing themselves in front of the train.
1A Very sad unfinished story about rising smoke.
Tragical. Of course. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it first time. He frowned at the idea that perhaps he’d been blind to it because the word somehow seemed to encapsulate what he expected from his day, and then carried on with the crossword. He finished it in nine-and-a-half minutes. But the word tragical stuck in his head. Was it even a word? Surely it was tragic. Was it an American corruption? He hated the way they abused and changed the language. He pulled his phone out and looked it up before he worked himself into a lather about it. The definitions were all for tragic, but there were quotes from Shakespeare and Henry Fielding that used tragical. So it was old, falling out of use but proper English at least. That established, he slipped his phone back into his pocket.
By the time they pulled in to Euston he had read the paper, written himself a few notes for the meeting he had to attend and given some serious thought to what to do about Liam. There was nothing like a train journey to concentrate the mind.
When he got to the hospital Lawrence followed a Chinese woman into the room he’d been directed to for Liam’s case conference. He stood while she took a seat and then made his way to the only chair left in the small, airless room that had certainly seen better days. He forced himself not to think about how the stains on the seat had been caused. Crossing his legs, he tried to look more relaxed than he felt. He was used to being in court, to standing in front of people and presenting a case or tearing the opposition’s apart. This, however, was altogether new – a mental hospital and a meeting to talk about how his twenty-three-year-old son had gone mad.
‘Right. Sorry I’m late, but now we’re all here, shall we get started?’ said the Chinese woman, looking around at everyone. ‘I’m Mei-Ling, a social worker and Liam’s case manager,’ she said to Lawrence before turning to the others again. ‘Why don’t we all quickly go round and introduce ourselves.’
Lawrence realised this was for him. He sighed, turned his head. Surely he didn’t really need to know who they all were? He would have preferred to talk directly to the doctor, the man in charge, but when he’d suggested it on the phone they’d invited him along to the case conference instead.
‘It’s how we do things here, as long as Liam doesn’t mind you being there, that is,’ the bumptious woman on the other end had said. Lawrence had bristled at the idea of his son having a say in anything but held his tongue. He’d be there whether Liam wanted him or not.
‘I’m Sue, nurse in charge of the inpatient unit,’ said a comely woman with full lips and clear eyes.
‘I’m Diana, one of the OTs in the day hospital.’
Lawrence looked at the anorexic woman who had just spoken. ‘OT?’
‘Occupational therapist,’ she said, blushing.
‘Faiz Noor, senior registrar,’ said a man of Middle-Eastern appearance with a neatly clipped beard. ‘I’ve been looking after Liam since his admission.’
‘And the consultant psychiatrist, will he be here?’
‘No, Sunita – Dr Sachdeva – is busy. She’s presenting at a conference today.’
Lawrence huffed. How very convenient, he thought.
‘And I’m Liam,’ said Lawrence’s son. He was sitting in a deep chair he’d pulled back slightly out of the circle. Half-hidden behind the door, Lawrence hadn’t noticed him.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Lawrence.
Liam shrugged. ‘Funny, I could ask you the same question. I’m here because it’s about me, and the staff thought I might like to make a contribution. But you? I don’t know why you bothered.’
The young black girl sitting next to him took Liam’s hand and squeezed it and turned back to the rest of the group.
Lawrence had been looking at his son, thinking he needed a good haircut and a shave, not t
o mention a kick up the arse and a lesson in manners.
‘I’m Felice, Liam’s girlfriend.’
Lawrence’s narrowed eyes bolted themselves onto her. Girlfriend? He knew of no girlfriend. And a black one into the bargain. He wondered if Deidra knew.
He already felt the meeting slipping away from him. He had come to organise, to order, not to be palmed off with underling doctors and have his son being rude to him in front of all these people. Ungrateful little sod that he was.
‘Well, let’s get started, shall we?’ said Mei-Ling. ‘Thanks for coming, everyone. As you know, Liam’s been an inpatient for three weeks. He was brought here by the police having been found on Kensington High Street shouting obscenities at passers-by and threatening to conjure the devil.’ She turned to Liam, who looked as if he was trying to disappear into the chair. ‘You still have no recall of the events leading to your admission?’
‘No,’ he said so quietly that Mei-Ling repeated his denial for everyone to hear.
‘No. Okay.’
Lawrence hadn’t known the details of his son’s madness before, just that drugs were involved. If he’d been told more, and he probably had by Deidra on several occasions, he had let it skim over him. Now he wanted to slap his son for being so stupid.
‘How’s it been on the ward, Liam?’ asked the woman whose name Lawrence had already forgotten.
‘Fine,’ said Liam.
Lawrence curled his hand into a fist. He hadn’t sent his son to one of the most expensive schools in the country so he could speak in monosyllables. His left foot started jiggling involuntarily.
‘That’s great,’ said the Chinese woman. ‘Do you mind if I ask the others how they think you’ve been doing?’
Isn’t that what we’re fucking here for? thought Lawrence. Jesus Christ, the boy was a psychiatric patient and they were treating him like he was the king of England. Was this where political correctness had got them, a room full of professionals deferring to the lunatic?
Liam shrugged his bony shoulders again.
‘Thank you. So, Sue, how’s Liam been on the ward?’
‘Well,’ said Sue, addressing Liam, ‘you’ve kept yourself to yourself pretty much, haven’t you? But you have been taking your medication, and you’re happy to engage with the staff. How do you feel about your time on the ward?’
‘Okay,’ said Liam.
‘Great. How about in the day hospital?’ The Chinese woman turned to Lawrence to explain. ‘Liam has been attending groups in the day hospital for the past two weeks, ever since his acute symptoms subsided.’ She turned back to the anorexic OT. ‘What groups has he been attending?’
Diana cleared her throat. ‘He’s been in the daily community meeting, a small psychotherapy group, art therapy, assertiveness training and cooking and budgeting.’
Lawrence’s eyebrows hit his hairline. What was this, a holiday camp? A bit of painting, a bleeding hearts group and cooking? Jesus Fucking H Christ.
Dr Noor nodded and turned to Liam. ‘And how are you finding the groups?’
His son had always been facetious so Lawrence expected him to say, ‘I go to the day hospital and there they are,’ but he didn’t. Once again, he just said, ‘Okay.’
Lawrence’s foot jiggled harder.
‘Find it easy to join in?’ asked Dr Noor.
‘I suppose so.’
‘And do you feel able to contribute in the groups?’
‘A bit.’
Lawrence was in danger of losing his shoe, his leg was so busy. He interlocked his fingers round his knee in an attempt to still it, then uncrossed his legs and planted his feet firmly on the floor. He wanted to shout. This was a complete farce. Why were all these people talking to his son as if it mattered what he said or did? The little prick had been taking drugs for God’s sake. He clearly didn’t know how he felt or what he wanted. If they cared to ask Lawrence, he’d tell them exactly what he thought they should do with him.
The doctor droned on.
‘…and reduce the dose over the next few weeks, but we can monitor that at the day hospital. I think discharge on Thursday with a couple of evening passes before that to see how you go. How does that sound, Liam?’
‘Great.’
Lawrence cleared his throat. ‘I’ll tell your mother to get your room ready. She’ll be pleased to see you.’
The Chinese woman held up a hand. ‘Actually, Liam is going to stay with Felice, right?’ She turned to the black girl who smiled, showing straight white teeth.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ She looked at Liam. ‘I’m so looking forward to you coming home.’
Liam, for the first time in the meeting, smiled.
Lawrence clamped his lips together; this really was too much. He looked at his son, the boy who had shown so much promise. He was bright, had played rugby in the school’s First XV, captained the cricket First XI, was popular, outgoing, motivated. And now, here he was, sitting in a dingy room in a public hospital with a psychiatric label which may as well have been tattooed on his forehead, holding a black girl’s hand and smiling like he had it all. Actually looking happy! Lawrence’s jaw was clenched so tight he thought his teeth might shatter. When had his son started going off the rails? And why? It was probably because Deidra had always mollycoddled him and then he went off to university and got in with the wrong crowd. That must have been it. He’d come home less and less, much to Deidra’s dismay, although she had gone to see him fairly regularly.
‘Well,’ said the Chinese woman, ‘that all sounds good. You’ll keep coming to the day hospital for a while and see Faiz for follow-up, okay?’
‘Sure,’ said Liam. ‘If we’re done, I’d like to show Felice something on the ward.’ He rose and pulled his girlfriend to her feet. ‘Come on,’ he said, and they practically ran out.
‘Hold on, Liam – we need to talk,’ said Lawrence.
Liam didn’t stop.
Lawrence realised that at no time during the meeting, apart from the barbed comment at the beginning, had Liam acknowledged him. Little sod.
Faiz Noor got up to go.
‘A word, doctor?’ said Lawrence. He had, after all, come to get answers and had been given none as yet.
‘Certainly,’ said Faiz, looking at his watch.
Lawrence got straight to the point. ‘My wife wants him home where she can keep an eye on him and make sure this doesn’t happen again.’
The doctor looked the older man in the eye. ‘Your son is over eighteen and can therefore go where he likes. He and Felice have a strong, stable relationship and she is very supportive. She’s been in to see him every day.’
Lawrence felt the rebuke in the words. Before her accident Deidra had been to see her son, begging him to let them transfer him to a private hospital closer to home, but Liam had refused. Lawrence, in spite of working in London every day, hadn’t been to see him once. He wished he had the doctor in the witness stand. He would tear him to shreds. Instead, he took a deep breath, counted to ten and changed tack.
‘What is his actual diagnosis and do you expect there will be a recurrence?’
Dr Noor answered the question with one of his own.
‘Is there any history of mental illness in the family?’
Lawrence stiffened. ‘Of course not.’
‘Hmm. Your wife mentioned there may have been an aunt with schizophrenia?’
Lawrence felt a shot of ice rip through his body. Surely this man wasn’t implying that Liam was going to end up like Aunt Marjory, in and out of hospital as fast as she was in and out of reality. She’d died in an asylum, convinced the Invaders were coming, and making phone calls to politicians on her matchbox to warn them of the imminent danger.
‘No, she must have been mistaken,’ he said, as if in denying it he could protect his son from the same fate.
Dr Noor looked at him for a moment. ‘Can you tell me anything about the family dynamics – how would you say you all get on?’
Lawrence puffed out his chest.
He was a big man and knew how to use his size to intimidate. The doctor, however, remained relaxed, waiting for an answer.
‘We all get on fine when we’re all sane. And I fail to see what bearing this has on Liam’s mental health,’ Lawrence sneered.
Dr Noor nodded, doing his thoughtful look again.
‘What’s my son been saying?’
‘Well, I obviously can’t break confidentiality, but let’s just say he doesn’t quite agree with your perception of the family.’
He’d heard enough of this mumbo-jumbo. It was bad enough Liam was there at all but how dare they infer it was caused by an issue within the family? His son was a disappointment, a drug addict, no doubt. He needed stern words and a strict regime, not all this namby-pamby, touchy-feely stuff.
‘Just answer my original question, if you’d be so kind,’ said Lawrence from between clenched teeth.
‘We’re keeping our fingers crossed this was a one-off but, of course, no one can say for sure.’
‘So what you’re saying is, if he takes drugs in the future, he could go mad again?’
Faiz looked at him thoughtfully. ‘We don’t use the word “mad” anymore, but he may have another psychotic episode, yes.’
What an arrogant little prick the doctor was. ‘Right. Thank you. I need to speak to my son. Where’s the ward?’
Faiz pointed to the right. ‘Just down that way.’
As Lawrence approached the ward he saw Liam and Felice hugging in the corridor.
‘See you later, babe,’ said the girl as they pulled apart.
Liam smiled at her. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you more.’ She blew him a kiss and walked off towards the main door.
