‘Oh, OK.’ I sense that he nods, although obviously I can’t look at him, so I can’t be sure.
Simply sitting here and not running away feels like riding a rodeo. It’s taking a major effort. My hands are twisting themselves up in knots. I have an aching desire to grab my T-shirt and start shredding it to bits, only I have vowed to Dr Sarah that I will stop shredding my clothes. So I will not shred my top. Even though it would make me feel a ton better; even though my fingers are dying to find a place of safety.
‘They should teach us this stuff in biology lessons,’ says Linus. ‘This is way more interesting than the life cycle of the amoeba. Can I sit down?’ he adds awkwardly.
‘Sure.’
He perches on the edge of the sofa and – I can’t help it – I edge away.
‘Is this to do with everything that . . . happened?’
‘A bit.’ I nod. ‘So you know about that.’
‘I just heard stuff. You know. Everyone was talking about it.’
A sick feeling rises up inside me. How many times has Dr Sarah said to me, ‘Audrey, everyone is not talking about you’? Well, she’s wrong.
‘Freya Hill’s gone to my cousin’s school,’ he continues. ‘I don’t know what happened to Izzy Lawton or Tasha Collins.’
I recoil at the names. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘Oh. OK. Fair enough.’ He hesitates, then says, ‘So, you wear dark glasses a lot.’
‘Yeah.’
There’s a silence which I can sense he’s waiting for me to fill.
And actually, why not tell him? If I don’t, Frank probably will.
‘I find eye contact hard,’ I admit. ‘Even with my family. It’s too . . . I dunno. Too much.’
‘OK.’ He digests this for a moment. ‘Can you do anything contact? Do you email?’
‘No.’ I swallow down a wince. ‘I don’t do email at the moment.’
‘But you write notes.’
‘Yes. I write notes.’
There’s quiet for a moment, then a piece of paper arrives by my side, on the sofa. On it is written one word:
Hi.
I smile at it, and reach for a pen.
Hi.
I pass it back along the sofa. The next minute it appears again, and we’re into a backwards and forwards conversation, all on paper.
Is this easier than talking?
A bit.
Sorry I mentioned your dark glasses. Sore point.
That’s OK.
I remember your eyes from before.
Before?
I came round once to see Frank.
I noticed your eyes then.
They’re blue, right?
I can’t believe he registered the colour of my eyes.
Yes. Well remembered.
I’m sorry you have to go through all this.
Me too.
It won’t be for ever. You’ll be in the dark for as long as it takes and then you’ll come out.
I stare at what he’s written, a bit taken aback. He sounds so confident.
You think?
My aunt grows special rhubarb in dark sheds. They keep it dark and warm all winter and harvest it by candlelight, and it’s the best stuff. She sells it for a fortune, btw.
So, what, I’m rhubarb?
Why not? If rhubarb needs time in the dark, maybe you do too.
I’m RHUBARB?!
There’s a long pause. Then the paper arrives back under my nose. He’s done a drawing of a rhubarb stalk with dark glasses on. I can’t help a snort of laughter.
‘So, I’d better go.’ He gets to his feet.
‘OK. Nice to . . . you know. Chat.’
‘Same. Well, bye then. See you soon.’
I lift a hand, my face twisted resolutely away, desperately wishing that I could turn towards him, telling myself to turn – but not turning.
They talk about ‘body language’, as if we all speak it the same. But everyone has their own dialect. For me right now, for example, swivelling my body right away and staring rigidly at the corner means ‘I like you.’ Because I didn’t run away and shut myself in the bathroom.
I just hope he realizes that.
At my next appointment with Dr Sarah, she watches my documentary so far, while making notes.
Mum has come to the appointment, as she does every now and then, and she keeps up a running commentary – ‘I don’t know WHAT I was wearing that day . . . Dr Sarah, please don’t think our kitchen is usually that untidy . . . Audrey, why did you film the compost heap, for goodness’ sake’ – until Dr Sarah politely tells her to shut up. At the end she sits back in her chair and smiles at me.
‘I enjoyed that. You’ve been a good fly-on-the-wall, Audrey. Now I want that fly to buzz around the room a bit. Interview your family. Maybe some outsiders too. Push yourself a little.’
At the word outsiders I clench up.
‘What kind of outsiders?’
‘Anyone. The milkman. Or one of your old school friends?’ She says this casually, as though she doesn’t know that my ‘old school friends’ are a sore point. For a start, what ‘old school friends’? There weren’t that many to begin with and I haven’t seen any of them since leaving Stokeland.
Natalie was my best friend. She wrote me a letter after I left school and her mum sent flowers and I know they call Mum every so often. I just can’t reply. I can’t see her. I can’t face her. And it doesn’t help that Mum kind of blames Natalie for what happened. Or at least, she thinks Natalie was ‘culpable’ for ‘not acting sooner’. Which is so unfair. None of it was Natalie’s fault.
I mean, yes, Natalie could have said something. The teachers might have believed me sooner then. But you know what? Natalie was paralysed by stress. And I get that now. I really do.
‘So you’ll do that, Audrey?’ Dr Sarah has this way of pressing you until you agree to do something, and she writes it down like homework and you can’t pretend it doesn’t exist.
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good! You need to start widening your horizons. When we suffer prolonged anxiety, we have a tendency to become self-obsessed. I don’t mean that in a pejorative way,’ she adds. ‘It’s simply a fact. You believe the whole world is thinking about you constantly. You believe the world is judging you and talking about you.’
‘They are all talking about me.’ I seize the opportunity to prove her wrong. ‘Linus told me they were. So.’
Dr Sarah looks up from her notes and gives me that pleasant, level look of hers. ‘Who’s Linus?’
‘A boy. A friend of my brother.’
Dr Sarah is looking back at her notes. ‘It was Linus who visited before? When you found things difficult?’
‘Yes. I mean, he’s OK, actually. We’ve talked.’
A pink tinge is creeping over my face. If Dr Sarah notices it, she doesn’t say anything.
‘He’s a computer-game addict, like Frank,’ says Mum. ‘Dr Sarah, what am I going to do about my son? I mean, should I bring him to see you? What’s normal?’
‘I suggest we concentrate on Audrey today,’ says Dr Sarah. ‘Feel free to consult me at a different time about Frank if you feel it would be helpful. Let’s return to your concern, Audrey.’ She smiles at me, effectively dismissing Mum.
I can see Mum bristle, and I know she’ll slag off Dr Sarah a little in the car on the way home. Mum and Dr Sarah have a weird relationship. Mum adores Dr Sarah, like we all do, but I think she resents her too. I think she’s secretly poised for the moment when Dr Sarah says, Well, Audrey, of course it’s all the fault of your parents.