If I’d thought I could get away with it, without appearing even crazier, I would have worn my sunglasses throughout the day, even in therapy. Especially in therapy. That would have solved the eye contact problem for good.
I was mulling over these thoughts when the dark-haired girl reached over and tapped me on the shoulder.
She smiled, then mouthed something.
I shrugged and pointed to my earphones.
She gestured for me to take them out.
What choice did I have?
‘What are you listening to?’ she asked.
My iPod was on shuffle. I wasn’t up to making complicated decisions about what music I wanted to hear. Especially since it didn’t matter; it was just a shield.
‘I’m listening to “Airwave” by Rank 1,’ I told her.
The girl shook her head. ‘Don’t know it. Any good?’
‘It’s sublime,’ I answered automatically.
‘Happy or sad?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Is it happy music or sad music?’
I had to think about this for several moments. I wasn’t sure if the question even made sense. Could all music be placed into one of these two boxes? Or was that an insane way of thinking about music? It didn’t seem insane to me, but that told me nothing.
‘It’s both,’ I decided, eventually. ‘Or it’s neither; I’m not sure. It’s the kind of music that moulds itself to your mood.’
The girl nodded, looking unconvinced. She didn’t get it, I could tell. Not that it mattered. I’d be leaving in a moment. My cigarette was almost down to the filter. I took one more drag, then crushed it out.
‘I’m Melody,’ the girl said.
‘Right. How appropriate.’
Melody kept looking at me but didn’t say anything.
‘It’s a very pretty name,’ I added.
I had already slipped my iPod back in my pocket. If I didn’t introduce myself, I was under no obligation to stay and talk. But then Melody did something that stopped me in my tracks – pretty much the only thing that could have stopped me. She took out her cigarettes and extended the pack towards me. There were two left.
I looked at them for a few moments, then looked back at Melody. She smiled and gave a small shrug.
I decided at that point that Melody was an idiot. I wouldn’t have given away my penultimate cigarette for anything less than immediate freedom. Not when their supply was so uncertain. But if she was offering, there was no way I was going to refuse. I allowed my poised leg muscles to relax.
‘I’m Abby,’ I said.
‘Hello, Abby,’ she replied. ‘You’re new here?’
‘Sort of. I was on Nile for a couple of weeks.’
‘Oh, right. Nile.’ Melody gave a small, knowing nod. ‘Did you try to kill yourself?’ I looked at her. She lit her cigarette, then shrugged without apology. ‘I was on Nile for a bit. Took a load of pills – about thirty. But I didn’t die, obviously. I puked and passed out. Nile was where I woke up.’
‘I don’t want to kill myself,’ I lied.
Melody nodded effusively. ‘No, of course not. Me neither. Not any more. I’m having ECT three times a week. That seems to have sorted me out. What about you?’
‘Lithium,’ I told her. ‘I don’t think I’m allowed ECT. It might send me nuts again.’
‘You went nuts?’
‘Yes. Pretty much.’
‘What happened?’
‘I stopped sleeping. Put myself in some stupid, risky situations. Went on a shopping spree.’
Melody snorted some smoke out from her nose. ‘I’ve been on plenty of those. Nothing crazy about shopping.’
I shrugged. ‘It depends how you go about it. I spent the best part of sixteen hundred pounds in a day – on a hotel room, a dress and a tit tattoo.’
‘Jesus.’
There was a little silence as we both smoked.
‘Can I see it?’
‘See what?’
‘The tit tattoo.’
‘No. You can’t.’
This wasn’t modesty. What’s the point of modesty on the mental ward, with no locks on the bathroom doors? But, still, I had to think of appearances. There was a CCTV camera in one corner of the courtyard, and a chance, at least, that someone was watching. Sharing a conversation with another service user would be seen as a positive step towards recovery; showing her my tits would not. Nevertheless, Melody looked weirdly hurt at my refusal. ‘I have one on my ankle, too,’ I told her. ‘You can see that instead.’
My right leg was crossed over my left, so I only had to reach down and raise the bottom of my jeans a little. Melody looked for a few seconds, took it in, then said, ‘You have a scar as well – on your right hand. Looks like a burn.’
Usually, I would have been impressed. People didn’t notice my scar, or didn’t recognize it for what it was. But Melody had an eye for things like that, which came as no great surprise. And she knew scar tissue when she saw it.
‘Cigarette burn,’ I said. With the conversation progressing as it was, I saw no reason not to tell her. What harm could it do? ‘I was drunk. My boyfriend and I were having this stupid fight. I can’t even remember what it was about now – that’s how stupid it was.’ I paused and tapped some ash into the ashtray. It wasn’t for dramatic effect. I was deciding whether it was worth ending the story, since Melody could guess the rest. She knew what you’d have to do to get a scar like that. ‘I put it out in my hand,’ I told her. ‘Next thing I knew I was in a taxi on my way to A&E.’
‘Wow.’ Melody nodded appreciatively. She was, as I’d already surmised, in the very small fraction of the population who wouldn’t respond to a story like this by asking why I’d decided to burn myself. She understood that there were various possible reasons. ‘How did it feel?’ she asked instead.
‘Exquisite, for a second or so. After that, it hurt like hell. The pain was so bad I threw up in the taxi. The worst pain you can imagine.’
I could tell from Melody’s face that she was imagining it, which probably wasn’t healthy for her. But I figured a question that honest deserved an honest answer.
‘So.’ Melody let a pillar of ash fall and scatter on the breeze. ‘Have they given you a diagnosis yet?’
‘Yes. Not here, though. I was diagnosed a few years back. Type two bipolar. You?’
‘Acute unipolar depression, and maybe some sort of personality disorder as well. They’re still deciding. You know what doctors’re like.’
I shrugged. ‘They like to find the right box for us.’
We smoked the rest of our cigarettes without saying much. There wasn’t much more to say.
18
A SECOND LETTER: THE MOST ASTONISHING THING IN THE TATE MODERN
Dear Abby,
So here I am again: another letter that you might never read. But Barbara said I should go ahead and write it anyway. She thinks it might do me some good. I’ve no idea if that’s true, but it’s not as if I have a lot of other options right now. And I suppose it’s liberating, in a way – writing a letter that will probably end up in the bin in a few hours’ time. At least I don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing. I figure I can just tell you exactly what’s been going through my mind over the past week, good and bad. And if, by some small chance, you are reading this – if you’re well enough to read it – then perhaps this is still the best way to go about things. There’s no point writing something dishonest, right?
Last night was a bad one for me. I was up until God knows when thinking about us, trying to work out where and when everything went wrong. Because things have gone wrong. That’s the conclusion I’ve been forced to draw. You won’t see me, you won’t talk to me. If you don’t want me around now, of all times, then what exactly does that say about our relationship? The truth is, I’m not sure how much longer I can go on like this. I don’t want to leave you, I really don’t, but more and more, it feels like the choice is out of my hands. You’ve already left.