‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s how I feel.’
Melody shrugged and flicked me a cigarette. ‘Listen, you gotta hear this. Lara was just telling me about the time she stole a horse . . .’
It was hard to respond to this, but I think I managed a wan smile.
After that, the conversation continued to be entirely inconsequential, but I still found it difficult to keep my composure, to nod in the right places – even to concentrate on what was being said. Something of this must have come across, despite my best efforts, because after Lara had left, Melody immediately asked me if I was okay.
‘No, not really,’ I told her.
She pouted with concern and rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘You see: this is another reason you should stay with me once we’re out of here. We can be like a mini support group for each other.’
‘Melody . . .’
‘What?’
She looked at me expectantly.
‘Nothing. I’ll think about it. Later.’
‘What’s to think about?’
‘I have to go now. I don’t think I’m well enough to be up.’
I didn’t wait for a response. I crushed out my second, half-smoked cigarette, then went back inside.
It had been a fairly awful experience, but just standing with Melody for those few moments had clarified one thing: I had to speak to Dr Barbara. And if it hadn’t been a Sunday, I might have called her as soon as I got back to my room. But I couldn’t bear the thought of disrupting her weekend yet again.
So I gave myself one night, which seemed entirely justifiable. In the meantime, I planned to get as much rest as I could, even if this meant getting down on my knees to beg the nurses for some more diazepam. I’d feel better again after I’d slept, and then I’d be in the right frame of mind to call Dr Barbara’s office first thing.
This wasn’t stalling, I told myself. It was just a very short delay so that I could do things properly. What difference could a few hours make?
I phoned Dr Barbara’s office at 9.03, by which time she was already with a patient.
‘Is it urgent?’ her receptionist asked. But I wasn’t sure how to gauge this.
‘It’s quite urgent,’ I replied after a brief hesitation. ‘I’d really appreciate it if she could call me back as soon as she’s free.’
I figured this would be around ten; even if Dr Barbara had back-to-back appointments, she’d probably find five minutes to call. But having to wait even another hour seemed like a very big ask. I’d been awake since four that morning, and I felt tired and restless all at once. So I did the obvious thing: I went out for a cigarette.
I thought it would be reasonably safe at this time of the morning, as Melody was not an early riser. She’d often fall back asleep after she’d been woken for breakfast, and then complain loudly, to anyone who would listen, after the nurses returned to wake her a second time. The only exception was when she had ECT – and if this were the case, she’d still be safely elsewhere. As long as I didn’t linger outside more than half an hour or so, I was unlikely to see her. I was unlikely to see anyone, I thought. Nevertheless, I still felt nervous as I walked out to the smoking area that morning – but this wasn’t anything more than the usual anxiety that had characterized the past twenty-four hours.
Weirdly, some of this anxiety faded when I saw her. I don’t know why, but I suppose there was some initial sense of relief. It didn’t last long, but for a few moments, I felt a little calmer, as if the worst had now happened.
She knew, of course. That was never in doubt. Her mere presence indicated that something was wrong, and the way she was holding herself told me the rest. She was sitting with her back to the door, shoulders hunched and face lowered, with one hand clasped to her forehead.
She didn’t realize I was there; there was no way she could have realized. I could have turned and left, had I wanted to. But there wasn’t any point now.
‘Melody,’ I said, trying to make my voice as gentle as possible.
She jumped slightly when I spoke, then turned, the plastic leg of her chair scraping the ground with an abrasive screech. Her hair was tousled just above where her hand had rested, and her eyes were red raw. It looked as if she might have been crying for hours.
‘Melody,’ I said again, but she immediately looked away. She took a cigarette from the pack on the table and fumbled with her lighter, sparking it three or four times before she got a flame.
‘I Googled you,’ she told me. ‘Wanted to see what else you’d written so I could tell my mum.’
‘Melody, I didn’t know.’ I realized how self-contradictory this statement was the second I’d said it. ‘What I mean is I only just found out. Yesterday.’
She didn’t seem to register this, or if she did, then it didn’t mean anything to her.
‘You knew,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s just a huge fucked-up coincidence, that’s all.’
A few weeks ago, I might have said something more. I might have told her that my article wasn’t even about her father, not really. It was about something else: modernity, the anonymity of the city, urban alienation. I might have told her that I was on the verge of going nuts at the time, and couldn’t really be held accountable for what I’d said or done. But now I had no intention of trying to justify my actions. All I wanted was for her to stop hurting. And I knew there was nothing I could say to make this happen.
We stayed as we were for an agonizing stretch of time, me standing like a statue, her smoking, with her eyes fixed on the ground.
‘I thought you were my friend,’ she said eventually.
‘I am your friend,’ I told her.
She let out a small wounded sound, somewhere between a sniff and a whimper.
I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. There was still nothing I could say. I kept wishing that she’d just look at me, so that I might be able to communicate with her on some other level. But when she did look at me, I almost wished that she hadn’t. There was something in her gaze that immediately frightened me. It wasn’t anger; anger I could have dealt with. It was something much worse – something cold and unbending, but otherwise impossible to describe.
She stared at me for a few more empty moments, then raised her half-finished cigarette in her right hand, holding it between her thumb and index finger like a dart. I could see what was about to happen, and I was powerless to stop it.
‘Melody, please . . .’
Slowly, almost casually, and never breaking eye contact, she crushed the rest of her cigarette into the centre of her left palm.
Then she started screaming.
22
OUT
Melody screamed and screamed.
It’s a rare thing to be able to say you know the exact quality of someone else’s pain, but in this case, of course, I did. I could remember precisely how that moment felt. It was a pain that obliterated every other sensation and thought, as if a dozen white-hot needles were being fed into your nerves. The only difference between my case and Melody’s was that I’d been drunk when I crushed the cigarette into my flesh. Melody lacked even this token anaesthetic, so, if anything, her pain must have been worse.
I had my arm around her shoulder in seconds and managed to propel her towards the doorway. She didn’t offer up any resistance, but neither did she do anything to help. I’m not sure how far she was even aware of my presence. It was like trying to steer a shopping trolley with a broken wheel.
Inside, two nurses were already converging on us, and I could see that some of the other patients had also come out into the corridor to find out what was happening. Melody’s screams had diminished to a series of ragged yelps, but her initial outburst had been loud enough to be heard through the nearest walls and windows. Apparently, I had started yelling too, and as the nurses approached, I managed to convey that Melody had burned her hand and we needed to get it under cold water. I was able to help manoeuvre her to the closest bathroom, but after that some sort of official protocol kicked in and I was ushered out by another nurse.