"That sounds awful”, said Jessica. “Where did you see them?"
"Everywhere. In the street. In the doorway to my bedroom. I had a - I have a thing about doorways too, I can't bear them to be half open, they have to be open or shut, not half way...." I trailed off. It sounded so stupid said aloud.
"Did you hear voices too?" she asked.
I grimaced. "Not really. Sort of. It was more sort of thoughts, bad thoughts." I was silent for a moment. "I mean, it’s still to do with Cornwall and the stones and everything but... it sort of... coalesced. It all began to – weigh on me."
"It sounds awful."
"It was. I – I was struggling – I kept seeing these figures and I thought... I had these irrational thoughts, horrible thoughts that everyone, well, hated me. Was after me.”
I stopped, unable to continue for a moment. Jessica’s eyes were wide.
“Everyone hated you?”
I heaved a sigh. “Well, no they didn’t. I mean, the figures weren't real, they were just things my brain was making up out of - of memories and shadows and things. Obviously. But – oh, it was so silly but so real to me then – I got badly paranoid, I thought people were keeping things from me and then I thought they were out to – to harm me. My mental state was – bad, it was really bad.”
“No shit.”
“At the worst time, the very worst, I thought – I thought they were going to kill me.”
Jessica looked at me in silence. We drank quickly, filling the gaps in conversation with nervous gulps.
“What did your dad do?” said Jessica, eventually.
“Do?”
“Yes,” she said. “Did he realise? I mean, were you living at home?”
"I wasn’t to start with, when it started happening," I said. “I was working at this really boring office job. I got fired. I mean, I was getting worse by the day. I was – acting irrationally.”
“So, what happened?”
“I did go home. After a while. I was getting too scared of London, all I could think about were these figures, these people, following me. I didn’t know where to go, I didn’t know where was safe.”
“God, Maudie,” said Jessica. “Even hearing that gives me the shivers. You must have been terrified.”
“Angus didn’t deal with it too well,” I said, after a moment. “At least, I don’t think he really realised how ill I was. Or that’s what I thought until I found out about my mother.”
“Your mother? With the crash?”
“Exactly.”
She blew out her cheeks and sat back in her chair.
"Angus - Angus and Aunt Effie - they couldn't deal with it. I know why now, because of my mother and what happened to her. I guess-” I could my voice breaking, “I guess they thought they were doing the right thing. Or maybe they didn't care, maybe they just couldn't deal with another round of doctors and hospitals and general scandal. I guess they thought everyone would say 'oh look, like mother like daughter, they're all mad in that family, what do you expect?' Angus was always one for appearances." I couldn't stop my face twisting at that. "It was always, like, paper over the cracks, hide what really happened, pretend everything is normal-”
I stopped talking. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, feel it thudding through my forehead.
"Maudie?" said Jessica, after a moment.
I still couldn't speak. I had that feeling, yet again, of having my foot on the edge of a precipice. One false move and I'd be over and falling.
"Maudie?"
I picked up my nearly empty glass - what wine was left sloshed about in my shaky grasp. I drained it.
"I think they were in denial," I said. "They probably couldn’t believe they’d have to go through it all again. They should have had me sectioned, they should have at least taken me to the hospital for assessment..."
I stopped talking, unable to go on. Jessica was turning her glass around and around; the glass chimed dully against the wood of the table. I sighed - it was almost all told. Just one more thing to confess to.
“I took an overdose.” I fought to keep my voice even. I could feel my face trying to smile and fought to keep it level.
“Shit, Maudie.” She sat back in her chair, putting a hand up to her face.“So what happened? I mean, obviously you didn’t – die.”
We were both speaking jerkily, the words coming out in blurts.
“Angus found me on the bathroom floor. I guess they decided that was something they couldn't deal with themselves although God knows they probably considered it. I got carted off to A and E.”
"Shit."
"I was in hospital - I mean a mental hospital, not the A and E - for ages. Six months, maybe. I’m over it now. I’m completely better now.” I clenched my teeth. “I’m fine now, but I still go to therapy. It does help. As I’m sure you know.” I sat back in my chair and stretched my shoulders up to my ears, easing the ache in my neck.
There was another silence between us. I had the sudden, horrible thought that perhaps she thought I was competing with her – a competition as to who had the hardest luck story, who deserved more pity. I opened my mouth to say something and shut it again. Instead I said I’d buy us both another drink.
When I came back, she took it from me without a word of thanks. I don’t think she meant to be rude. She had the inward look on her face of someone whose mind was far from the room. She seemed to be mentally bracing herself.
"You were going to ask me something, weren't you?"
She hesitated. "It doesn't matter," she said. "It can wait."
"No, go on. I'm sick of talking about myself, anyway."
She looked me in the eye. "Alright," she said, eventually. I could see her take a deep breath. “Maudie, how are my parents?”
“You don’t know?” I said slowly.
“No,” she said. “I just haven’t felt up to contacting them. It was just that step too far. I needed to see you first to – to kind of break the ice, if that doesn’t sound too stupid.”
“It doesn’t,” I said. My heart was thumping; I felt hot and cold with dread.
“I’m ready now, though,” she said, and I felt something shrivel up inside me. “I’m ready now.”
“Jessica, I’m sorry but I don’t know how to tell you this.” She was looking at me, her face quite unprepared for what I was about to say. I took a quick, shaky breath, and said it. “Jessica, I’m really sorry but your parents are dead.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off her face. She hadn’t registered what I said, or so I thought. She blinked a few time, her eyelids stuttering. “What?”
I took hold of my legs under the table, to stop my hands from shaking. “Jessica, I’m really, really sorry but your parents are dead.”
Her face began a slow, inner crumpling. “Dead?” she said, in a whisper. “How?”
“I’m afraid your dad had a heart attack.” Like Angus, I added mentally. “I’m really sorry. It was very quick–”
“And my mum?” she said, cutting me off.
I closed my eyes briefly and took another deep breath. “She – she committed suicide.”
My voice had trailed away to a whisper. I tried to say something else, but my voice failed completely.
Quaking, I looked at Jessica. She had her eyes shut. She held herself like a cat does, quivering, before it leaps.
Then she moved. Her hand went flying out, into her full wine glass. The glass flew through the air and struck my breastbone, drenching me with wine. I gasped, more in shock than in pain. She rocketed to her feet, leaning over the table towards me.
“You bitch,” she said, her voice vibrating so much I could barely make out the words. “You knew all this time and you never told me? You never told me my parents were dead?”
I stuttered out something meaningless, something useless. Jessica had both hands on the edge of the table, her hair hanging in a lank swathe on either side of her head, her eyes fixed upon mine.