when_things_explode

when things explode

c l brown

Š c l brown 2011

This is a first draft novel written for National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo.org). This annual worldwide challenge runs from 1–30 November, during which time participants aim to write at least 50,000 words.

When things explode began life in the last two weeks of October and is based on an early morning conversation with my wife Jane, who told me about a documentary she had watched concerning a girl who had been diagnosed with schizophrenia at a very young age. Her imaginary friends included animals and numbers, and I thought they might make interesting characters.

When I began writing on the first day of November I had nothing beyond a short list of characters. A little bit of research pointed me in a certain direction, but there was no overall plot. That presented itself as I wrote. In fact, as usually happens with my writing, the story simply tells itself. When things explode went its own way early on and I merely followed.

When it was all over and my novel was validated by the word count widget on the NaNoWrimo website, I had a story consisting of 51,705 words.

This story‌

for Jane who planted the seed and encouraged it to grow

Crazy thoughts are not the problem. Everyone has crazy thoughts.

Hallucinations and delusions tend to catch the attention but aren’t the problem. The problem is that the world becomes discontinuous. We can’t attend to the world and take care of ourselves. So others try to take care of us and they do an imperfect job of it.

There is no substitute for being well.

Mark Vonnegut

notes

(This is the first time I ever tried to keep a diary. Seems unnatural, a bit like I’m some sort of circus sideshow. Bit like Facebook, I suppose. Perhaps everything will be okay.)

This is a kind of technical note, I suppose. As we’re in the twentyfirst century they’ve given me a digital diary, which I will be trying to fill in on my old Apple PowerBook G4. My mum got it for me off a friend of hers who does something with multimedia for a London design company. And I can make music on it too with GarageBand, which makes Chaz quite jealous as he’s always writing songs. Mostly during lessons at college.

Another note. This would probably count as an author’s note, since it’s about what I’m actually writing. I study English at college, so we learn all about language structure, about grammar and punctuation and about how to draw the reader into the story.

But unlike India, my friend and fellow English student, I don’t want to be a journalist. Or a writer. I only opted for English because it looked easy. Anyway, what I set out to say is that for this diary I intend to be a one-shot typist. After the letters appear in the cursor’s slipstream I’ll be abandoning them to their fate while I move on. That’s a purple prose way of saying that I’m not going to edit what I’ve typed in. You get what you get.

01 Entry 001/01 November 2008 They said it would be good for me to write stuff down so that I might understand things a little better. So that they could understand me better, too. To be honest, they said a lot of things, but when you’re only fifteen you don’t listen much. Certain words kind of stuck to me like glue. I couldn’t shake them. Big, terrifying words. And little ones. Like why? And me. Why me?

Schizophrenia is a big word. A scary word. When I was in the doctor’s office I remember I felt completely numb, like my whole life was suddenly outside of me. Right then I was not terrified, that came later, and I remember quite clearly looking at mum on one side of me and dad on the other and they both looked like they were about to get run over by a bus.

‘Mr and Mrs Maguire, the test results have come back and I’m afraid that Finn is…’

SCHIZOPHRENIC. There. There it is. I’ve written it big, all on its own. In ALL CAPS, which is considered very rude if you’re doing a forum post, or a blog entry and stuff like that.

Oh. I forgot to add the other word: PARANOID. Paranoid schizophrenia, the most popular diagnosis on the planet. Sorry, should have said common instead of popular. Popular makes it sound like 7

everybody likes it, or that it gives you a warm feeling like Popular Mechanics magazine. Incidentally, my mate Chaz, who’s a bit Gothy, says he’s got a song called Paranoid on his iPod playlist, and everytime it comes around on random shuffle he thinks of me.

Aah, isn’t that just what friends are for?

Funny, when you’re sitting there just tick! tick! ticking away on the form you never think it actually means a damn. Those few pen marks were where it all began. What if I’d never ticked? I should’ve laughed and ripped the paper into a million pieces. Is that where my life is now? A million pieces?

Sometimes I can’t think clearly. Sometimes my pieces don’t join up.

I was going to make myself an e-mail address called schizo@15.

Did mum talk me out of it? Can’t remember, but I never set it up. Still haven’t, four years later.

See? Already. Pieces not joining. I was going to say about the form I tick tick ticked, but I somehow get onto e-mails and mums and it’s all just crazy. That’s what I’m supposed to do with this diary; I’m supposed to put into words how I feel. Right now I feel confused and angry and, and, well I could just go through the dictionary and pick out all the really negative words. What if I ran them all together, to make one incredibly, stupidly long word?

How do you feel, Finn? Well, how about (insert word with 3562 characters)! But that’s now. Tomorrow I might want to string together all the mellow words; the next day I’ll have one megaword that links happy-clappy words.

Here’s where it all began: (all the response choices are the same for each question, so I’m only going to type them once – I can’t be bothered to cut and paste as it’s too tedious and makes me really annoyed.)

1. I feel that others control what I think and feel.

Not at all 8

Just a little Somewhat Moderately Quite a lot All the time 2. I hear or see things that others do not hear or see.

3. I feel it is very difficult for me to express myself in words that others can understand.

4. I feel I share absolutely nothing in common with others, including my friends and family.

5. I believe in more than one thing about reality and the world around me that nobody else seems to believe in.

6. Others don’t believe me when I tell them the things I see or hear.

7. I can’t trust what I’m thinking because I don’t know if it’s real or not.

8. I have magical powers that nobody else has or can explain.

9. Others are plotting to get me.

10. I find it difficult to get a hold of my thoughts.

11. I am treated unfairly because others are jealous of my special abilities.

12. I talk to another person or other people inside my head that nobody else can hear.

You don’t need to know what I ticked. Truth is, I don’t even 9

know what I ticked. But they followed up with tests run by Dr X Psychiatrist and Dr Y Psychiatrist; with dials and vials and CAT scans and PET scans. The brain looks like a cabbage cut in half.

No, wait, a walnut. That’s it. I remember when I first saw the inside of my head on the monitor in the Psych Dept. Just like half a bloody walnut! I used to love those things at Christmas, each one a fiendish challenge for my nutcracker skills. Now, I’m not so keen. Reminds me of cannibalism, or weird little tribes that eat the brains of their enemies so they become more powerful.

Dr Z Psychiatrist looked at the monitor too, cupping his chin in his hand. I distracted myself by comparing the crisp white minimalism of his lab coat with the swirling psychedelic lightshow coming from my walnut head on the monitor. After a silent eternity he moused over to the toolbar and clicked the x to return the screen to some sort of generic hospital menu. A quick glance in my direction, a half-smile and then gone. Bye. See ya. Self-satisified smug bastard! That’s not your walnut on screen with the trippy visuals, is it? Dr Z never came back. Instead, some lower order flunky came and attended to me in the manner of a corporate customer service operative. Almost expected her to put her hand out for a tip.

It all seems so long ago now. Funny what you remember. I was going to start this diary from now, but instead I’ve gone backwards to somewhere nearer the beginning of it all. I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s therapeutic in some way, perhaps some deep part of me really needs to try and understand something. What that might be I have no idea. This is why I get so frustrated. There is a limit to my understanding of myself. My pieces don’t join up and I can’t complete the puzzle of who I have become.

Fifteen and schizophrenic. What a great way to start a life.

That’s a qualification you don’t get in school. Maguire, Finn, Schizophrenia A star star! Woohoo! Then the advanced level: Paranoid Schizophrenia A star star. I must be a freakin’ wacko genius! Mum and dad were absolutely distraught. I remember we drove home from the hospital in silence. They had no idea what 10

to say to me. I could see dad glancing at me in the rear view mirror every half mile or so. I couldn’t decipher his look. Could have been pity. Could’ve been ‘Oh shit!’ I could see mum’s shoulders moving in a way that suggested she was quietly weeping.

Was it the end of her world as well as the end of my own? How do you tell people your son’s a fruity loop, a barking loon, a nut (walnut?)? Despair is a cloak made of heavy cloth, and the longer you wear it the more it weighs you down. I remember feeling sorry for mum. Still do. Dad? Not sure. He’s never been a great communicator. I’ve always felt that since diagnosis day four years ago he’s been distant, as though if he tries to get too close to me he’ll catch what I’ve got. Mum’s different. I’m glad she’s not an accountant like dad. She’s more interested in people than numbers. Young people especially, who she really tries to understand and help through her part-time work at ‘Dreamland’, a local Youth Centre. Sometimes I think she even comes close to understanding me. Not bad for an ordinary woman in her midfifties who is nowhere near as highly paid as Drs X, Y and Z. In the weeks following my diagnosis everyone struggled with everything. It was like walking on the seabed. We moved in slow motion through the water of our daily lives, crushed by the enormous weight of all that ocean above us. As time went by dad spent more time at work, hunched over a calculator in his office, too distracted by the world of double entry book-keeping to come home. Mum tried, bless her. She really did. But I shut her out. I shut everyone out. I got a big thick Stabilo permanent marker and scrawled FUCK OFF in huge letters on my bedroom door. I didn’t want there to be any mistake about people trying to come into my new world. I needed to be alone. I needed space. To adapt, to adjust, to come to terms with. To try on my new self.

Yes, self. Not selves, that’s just an urban myth. I’m no more a ‘split personality’ than you are.

After three long, punching-holes-in-the-walls, screaming-fit, temperamental outburst months, I emerged from my room as the ‘new me’. The first thing I did was get a cloth and the strongest cleaner I could find in our utility room and scrub off the FUCK 11

OFF notice on my bedroom door. I felt that in doing that I was announcing my reconnection to the world. I was open for business as usual.

Or, more appropriately, business as unusual.

Four years ago, the things that were just little peripheral impressions, like lights, almost familiar images, incoherent sounds, halfgrasped thoughts, have now lost their amorphous nature. I find that, instead of them joining my world, I have joined theirs. I am crushed by the crazy carnival cavalcade as every brightly coloured swirling thing dances infectiously with its opposite: the dull, lethargic, ebony-carved carnivorous worms of chaos.

A multitude is gathered around me. I know them all.

And they know me.

12

02 a partial disappearance My name is Beth. Finn is my only child. Dr Belzaku, one of the consultant psychiatrists at Brackendale Hospital recommended that I keep a diary to record my feelings about his condition, and how that condition changes over time. It may help to provide an early intervention programme if needed.

I know Finn is keeping a diary. He’s got his on his laptop. We have a computer set up downstairs in a corner of the lounge, but I’m not going to keep anything on it just in case Finn finds it. I’m going to write mine out by hand in this notebook. I was going to use a desk diary so I wouldn’t have to write the dates out all the time, but what if there wasn’t enough space to write everything down? I didn’t want to be sticking pieces of paper in, which might later drop out and might be found by Finn. Writing dates is a small price to pay for peace of mind. I’m going to keep it in a box behind all my shoes in the wardrobe in my bedroom. Finn would never look there.

Why so secretive? I don’t want Finn to know I’m only keeping a diary because of him. I think if he knew it would add to his stress levels, which exacerbates his condition. I so much want to be part of the solution, not part of the problem. I just know that, if he knew what I was doing, he’d start to see me as the “enemy” 13

straight away. I couldn’t bear it if that were to happen. I love him so much, and I really want to keep as much of the “real Finn” as I can. So much has been lost already, but I can’t agree with my husband, Martin, when he constantly says “four years ago we lost a son and gained a stranger”.

Four years ago. Tragedy often has a way of imprinting exact dates on the memory. And so it is with the date of Finn’s diagnosis. It was a Wednesday. Wednesday 13th August 2004. I even remember the weather: cloudy and overcast with outbursts of rain. On the way to the hospital we saw a double rainbow, and I thought all would be well. I thought it was a good omen. Sometimes I can get things so wrong.

The doctor’s name was Mulligan, and we saw him in room 114 on the second floor of the hospital. I even remember that we waited forty-five minutes to see him. That’s quick, considering how badly the appointment times are usually messed up. Myself, Martin and Finn sat patiently (no pun intended!) in the waiting area. The chairs were not welcoming, the magazines were not recent and all the toys for toddlers appeared to be noisy ones. We fidgeted nervously, just like everyone else. We watched people bustling and shuffling and snuffling and wheezing. We watched the hospital staff scurrying to and fro with patient records envelopes. We watched an elderly orderly with a peculiar locomotion steering a wheeled cart full of packets and boxes down the corridor, calling into each office with a delivery for the doctor or registrar. And periodically we would look up at the widescreen monitor attached to the wall to see how much of a delay we could expect before seeing our doctor. It’s a step in the right direction as far as patient communication goes, but it’s about as dynamic as the old BBC test cards. Which is a shame, given the size of the monitor.

To be honest, it was a bit of a squeeze when we eventually got into Dr Mulligan’s office. Myself and Martin flanked Finn as we occupied the trio of plastic chairs in front of his desk. Three wise 14

monkeys! Or contestants on a poor man’s panel show. Three minutes in and our world ended. We had listened with growing dread, Martin and I exchanging concerned glances, until that moment when we heard “paranoid schizophrenic”. I asked Martin some weeks later what he’d heard after that. “Nothing,” he said. Me too. Words, I mean. I didn’t hear anything else that Dr Mulligan said (thank heavens for the information pack we took away with us). Everything was drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in my ears and the staccato beat of my heart as it hammered my chest like an African tribal drum ensemble.

However, for some strange reason I was acutely aware that Finn made no movement at all. His body did not react in any way, either voluntarily or involuntarily. He appeared calm, as though he had been told nothing at all. Appearances, like omens, can be deceptive, and we were to discover that Finn’s calmness was only a very thin veneer.

In the weeks that followed, the son that I had brought into this world slowly began to spend more time in his own world. We watched bits of him disappear. Martin found it almost impossible to cope, and could only deal with the stresses and strains of our predicament by spending longer and longer at work. His bosses were so “understanding” that they gave him his own key to the building. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, I’m not, I love Martin and appreciate that his efforts add to our financial stability.

However, there are times when I just need a little more support than I’m getting. Sometimes there’s such a huge weight crushing down on me that I can hardly breathe. Which is probably as well, because if you can’t breathe you can’t scream!

I work with kids all the time. Teenagers, both with and without problems. But having to go home to my own problem teenager was physically and mentally exhausting. As days turned into weeks the atmosphere in the house grew more and more tense and depressing. I was frightened to be in my own home. I don’t mean I was scared of Finn, scared that he might be violent towards me, that never entered my head. What I mean is I was 15

frightened that I might do the wrong thing, that I might suddenly ignite a situation because I misread the signs; that I might fail to empathize, or make the correct response to something. Or I might neglect to give him some space in which to work things out, in a way in which he wants to work them out.

I could feel myself shrinking, while Finn’s condition grew. I stopped sleeping well. I didn’t eat well. I didn’t communicate well with Martin. Martin didn’t understand me as much as I didn’t understand Finn. It was an awful, awful situation. I’m sure we would all have been consumed by the blackness had I not sought professional help. I had resisted for so long because I saw it as a mark of failure as a parent, and maybe as a human being. I didn’t want to admit that there was something bigger than me; something I could not fight on my own. Stupid pride! Stupid thinking!

I wasn’t helping myself, and I certainly wasn’t helping Finn.

My local GP, Dr Harper turned out to be my angel. Straight away, when I told him that Finn had been diagnosed a paranoid schizophrenic, he said “Been there, seen that, got the t-shirt.” It seems that the illness was part of his family too. His brother had been diagnosed with the same condition when he was only eleven years old. Dr Harper told me about some of his trials and tribulations growing up with a brother who had a mental illness, and the effects it had on family life. I broke down in tears, right there in his office, at the relief of it all; at the sheer sense of release of all my pent up frustrations and doubts and fears. Here was someone who understood about suffering, and who, over the years, had developed certain strategies for coping.

Over the next couple of years I saw many consultants, both on my own and with Martin (although he did not share my enthusiasm, and eventually stopped coming with me). There were numerous therapy sessions, and while these were helpful, the thing that helped the most was education. Just simply keeping up to date with the latest scientific thinking about the illness. And learning new strategies and methods for dealing with whatever the illness may throw at us. A few months ago, Dr Harper contacted me at home and told me that he thought I should go and see Dr Belzaku 16

at Brackendale as he had recently introduced diary keeping to his patients as a kind of diagnostic tool. More than that, he’d just started to involve the family of patients in the process too, and results so far were very promising, with a high percentage claiming that it helped doctors involved provide more specific solutions to problems they were experiencing.

I could see why Dr Harper had referred me to Dr Belzaku, for he too had a unique perspective on the illness. His daughter developed schizophrenia two years before Finn. We seemed to bond immediately as people with a shared experience often do. Three weeks later I took Finn with me to meet Dr Belzaku. It was the most lucid I had seen him for some time, and I was so happy. It was like getting my life back seeing him talking and listening like that. Like he was back in my world. But the most surprising thing for me was his readiness to sign up to the digital diary programme.

I was so happy, I remember we stopped off at McDonald’s on the way home and indulged in everything that was supposed to be bad for us. One week after that meeting I telephoned Dr Belzaku and told him that I too would like to begin a diary.

I feel like I’m starting out on a new adventure; that I have the capacity to discover something, even though the journey may be fraught with dangers. It’s an unknown path we’re travelling, one which may take us close to the brink. We don’t know when even a slight breeze might be enough to sweep us into the abyss, so we take each day as it comes. And we hope. Yes, we always hope.

17

03 ghost people Beth’s diary 04 November 2008 Finn didn’t go to college today. I phoned his English tutor and explained the situation. I’ve spoken to Mrs Wagstaff before and she’s understanding of Finn’s problems and does everything she can to make sure he stays on the course.

She knows enough not to be alarmed when I tell her it’s the ghost people again. Or imaginary friends as Martin calls them.

Which they are, I suppose. Everybody thinks that only very young children have such things, that they are a way for children to explore their world and push boundaries. These imaginary friends, once they’ve served their purpose, are consigned to history. How many young adults do you know who still have imaginary friends?

Finn’s ghost people started appearing around two years ago. I say “appear” even though nobody but Finn can see them. I expect my initial reactions were the same as any other parent. I remember walking past his bedroom, probably with an armful of clothes for the airing cupboard, and hearing him talking to someone. As I stacked the clothes away I could still hear him chatting, sounding as though he was deep in conversation. I couldn’t resist just popping my head around his door, and was surprised when there 18

was no-one there but Finn, sitting cross-legged on his bed, his iPod in his lap.

I asked him who he’d been talking to, thinking perhaps that I’d been mistaken about another person in his room; that maybe I’d heard voices on a radio or something.

‘Mum,’ he said, in that resigned, superior kind of way that many teens have, ‘it’s Mr Mixie.’

I just looked at him. With a completely blank look that most teens could be proud of.

‘There, mum! There!’ he yelled, pointing to his Spider-Man beanbag on the floor to my right. ‘Stand up, Mr Mixie, introduce yourself to my mum; you should probably shake her hand or something.’

I looked. There was no-one there. No-one. I panicked. I suddenly couldn’t think. I could feel the heat rising inside me, like a warm river of terror. What else could I do? I had no experience.

I was aware that I could get it completely and utterly wrong and destroy everything. So I gambled.

‘Hello, Mr Mixie’, I smiled, looking at the empty space that I supposed Mr Mixie was occupying. I extended my hand and moved it up and down in the air about waist height.

‘Mum,’ said Finn, rocking backwards with laughter, ‘you’ve poked him in the eye! Mr Mixie isn’t that tall!’

I was embarrassed and flustered, like a child caught in a lie by a teacher or parent. What could I say? I’d dug a hole for myself and fallen headlong into it.

‘Why didn’t you just say you can’t see him, mum?’ Finn said, suddenly serious.

‘I don’t know, Finn,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’ And I truly didn’t know.

‘It’s okay. Mr Mixie told me you wouldn’t be able to see him.

It’s a special gift I have. Mr Mixie calls it an “ability”, and it lets me see ghosts and talk to ghosts that are on my frequency. Mr Mixie is a bit of an expert on these things.’

‘Okay, Finn,’ I said, and left his room. Everything was spinning through my head like catherine wheels on bonfire night, all those little sparks crackling and cascading, ricocheting off surfaces.

19

Since that day we have been cursed with many more ghost people. And animals. And numbers. Finn sees them and talks to them and interacts with them. To him they are real, even though he acknowledges to me that he knows they are not real. That’s the paradox of the whole thing. I don’t fully understand how he can perceive them as real and unreal at the same time. I probably need a psychiatrist to explain it to me in the most simple terms. Martin keeps telling me to Google everything I don’t understand, but I admit to being more than a little reluctant to accept internet definitions. Even the kids at Dreamland (where I’m a part-time youth worker) have a little sign up by the computer that reads, in a suitably “futuristic” font, “Disinformation Superhighway”.

1.15pm. Just been upstairs to see if Finn wants lunch. ‘Fuck off!’ isn’t on the menu but that’s what he ordered. Whenever he’s been like this before, when he’s withdrawn from the world, it’s always ended badly. Maybe I should consider calling Dr Harper about Finn’s medication. Perhaps the dosage is wrong, or maybe there’s something else that might work better for him. They did put him on Chlorpromazine to start with, but it wasn’t long before they changed it to Amisulpride, which had the same sedative, calming effect but without the dangerous muscle spasms associated with Chlorpromazine. I’m probably going to phone this afternoon and hopefully get some advice from Dr Harper.

20

04 a visit from Flower Hi, Finn.

Hi, Finn. Finn? FINN! Why dontcha talk to me, Finn? Like, we’re still friends aren’t we? I mean, like, I didn’t sing too loud did I? You can say if I did, it’ll be okay. I can just, like, sing quieter next time if it really bugs you. Finn? Is that what you want?

‘What I want is for you to fuck off!’

So you want to be alone. To get in touch with your inner self.

Do you have a mantra? I could write one.

‘Get lost, Flower!’

You seem a little down today, Finn. I can see you have a blue aura about you, which usually says that, like, you’ve got something blocking your positivity; the rays can’t radiate, y’know?

Perhaps I should make you a dreamcatcher. Finn? Like, shall I make a dreamcatcher for you? I have everything here.

‘FUCK OFF!’ 21

Finn, you’re so angry today. There’s so much, like, tension around you, like an electrical storm. I really think a dreamcatcher might help.

‘It’s the dreamcatchers that make me angry!’

Oh no, Finn. They don’t radiate anger; they are circular so they are perfectly balanced, a perfect form without beginning or end. Like a cosmic wheel they radiate spiritual wellbeing from the centre.

‘E says that dreamcatchers are transmitters. And receivers.

They’re the weapons of the Spy-Bots who gather information about us all. E says they’re storing all this information in huge pods in the Mojave Desert, and when they’ve got enough they’ll erase it all.

And then we’ll be erased too. And the Spy-Bots will rule the world.’

E? Do I know E? ‘E for Enigma, you airhead. You met him at my eighteenth last year.’

Really? Like, you know, I meet so many people…

‘Mid-thirties. Goatee. Etnies beanie. Tall as me. Drank vodka martinis all night and spilt more than one down your shirt.’

That’s E? Really? Wow. The guy sure knew how to ruin a cheesecloth shirt that must’ve taken me about six hours to tie-dye. That was my “abstract rainbow” shirt. It made me sad to throw it away.

‘Fuckin’ airhead. You smoke so much green you don’t know which planet you’re on. Abstract rainbow! You do my head in.

Do me a favour Flower, piss off and wilt somewhere.’

Okay, Finn. See ya! Bye! It’s been, like, cool to talk to you.

Catch you later, dude. I have to go and write a song for someone.

22

05 Entry 002/06 November 2008 I messed up with my antipsychotics. Missed a couple of hits of Amisulpride. Still trying to get myself back together. Think I got really mad at mum. Didn’t mean to, because I know she cares about me. I tried to explain to her that it wasn’t my fault but I think I didn’t have myself together enough so I messed that up too. I came back to my room so I wouldn’t upset or annoy her any more.

What I said about it not being my fault: the blame falls fairly and squarely on 81/2. He got me so turned about that I just got as confused as he was about everything. About 81/2: some of the people who know about him ask me what he looks like, because he’s a number of course. Well, he’s got kind of a fat upper body and a fat lower body, cinched together in the middle with an old weightlifter’s belt, so he does actually look exactly like the number eight. Nah! Just kidding! What do you think I am, nuts?

Who the hell looks like the number eight?

81/2 is an ordinary person. He’s twenty something with straight shoulder length brown hair. He wears t-shirts without any graphics on them, just plain bright colours. Skinny-fit jeans and a pair of blue Vans. And he smokes too much. Roll-ups, which give him yellow fingers. And a really odd smoker’s cough that makes him sound as though he’s trying to evict his lungs from his body. I call him Stinky fag boy when he’s had a smoke. I make him smoke outside, ‘cause I don’t want to die of cancer in a room with a brown ceiling.

23

Oh, and he’s called 81/2 because apparently, when he was at school, he went through an entire year in maths giving the answer “81/2” to whatever question he was asked. I can’t remember how many times he told me he’d been sent to the Headmaster’s office for it, but I do remember that it didn’t stop him. He must’ve been legendary in his maths department.

I don’t think he means to do it, but 81/2 finds it really easy to confuse people. He’s so clever, and he knows tons of stuff. I said he should go on University Challenge as a team of one, he’s so clever. That got a scowl and a raspberry noise. He hates any kind of game show because, he says, he gets confused a lot. I think I know what he means, because sometimes when you ask him more than one question he listens really hard and then gives an answer.

But often it’s the same answer he gave to an earlier question.

Sometimes he says it in such a way that you don’t even know it’s an answer he’s already given. It seems to make perfect sense when he says it, even though you don’t understand it.

You see, it’s happening again. I can’t explain what I mean, because just thinking about what 81/2 is like has got me all upside down and backwards.

That’s how he messed up my Ami dosage. I didn’t know what time it was. Even what day it was. We got involved in some bloody stupid conversation about time and time travel and international date lines and then he started waffling about The Island of the Day Before by Umberto Eco (a book my English tutor has mentioned and got all gushy over.) And before you can say “Greenwich Mean Time” I don’t know if time is running backwards, forwards or even up or down. 81/2 is very persuasive in his arguments, even though everything is a question; everything is uncertain, without resolution. I think he could market his particular skill at confusing the mind as some kind of pseudo-science. His arguments abandon logic for fantasy and yet we are swept along, like logs in a pyroclastic flow until we crumble to ash and our innermost core is exposed, accepting anything it can cling to.

See? He’s even got me spouting off crap like some linguistic crackhead! It’s time to click “Shut Down” and put an end to all of this.

Later…

24

06 number three tells a story Hello, Finn. Good to see you. Is it okay if I come in? If you’re not too busy, of course.

‘Hey, 3, you know I never mind you dropping by. I’m only doing a bit of college work, which needs to be in on Thursday but it’s sooo difficult sometimes to find the right way to say something.’

Need help, then? I’m pretty good with English. I could read what you’ve written already; I’m sure it’s very good.

‘That’s what I like about you, 3, you’re always so positive. And you’ve done something different with your hair today. It looks good.’

Why, thankyou Finn. You’re being very positive yourself today. I had it done yesterday at Top Cuts. The stylist looked like she was just a bit older than me, around twenty, twenty two or so, but she was very thorough and very professional. Yes, I’d recommend Claire to my friends, for sure. I did mention to the manager on my way out that I thought he should consider giving Claire a pay rise, but he just smiled sweetly in the way that managers do, so I’m not hopeful. Perhaps I should give her a tip next time.

‘Last time I went to the barber’s it was just a regular chop job. I 25

think his name’s Brian but he’s a bit old and you have to be careful to really explain what you want otherwise you’re in danger of coming out looking like everybody else. Barbershop clones, as Emily calls them.’

Oh yes. Emily. She’s a lovely girl. I haven’t seen her for a while.

Is she okay? Still studying hard?

‘Yeah, she works really hard. She’s up to her eyes in an assignment right now. Something to do with land art and impermanence, I think.’

That sounds great, Finn. I admire anyone who can be that creative.

‘She’s always creating something. Drawing, painting, poems, stories. So imaginative. She’s been a real help to me with my English coursework.’

Good, Finn. That’s good. It’s so important to have someone that you feel you can trust enough to ask for help.

‘Yeah, I do trust her, yeah. She never has “blonde moments”, although she is very bubbly. Outgoing, I mean, sociable, like you can tell her anything and she’ll just listen. And when she speaks it’s always worth listening to.’

You’re lucky, Finn. So… are you two an item? Is she your girlfriend?

‘Girlfriend? I don’t think so. We’ve been really good, close friends for a long time, since before we went to College, but I don’t think we’re, like, going out or anything. I mean, we’ve been to the cinema and friends’ parties together, and to a bowling alley once, but I don’t think things like that count, do they?’

I don’t know. Ever kissed her?

26

‘Nope.’

Ever want to?

‘3, who are you? My mum? A teenage relationship counsellor?

A matchmaker? Or just some kind of pervert?’

Some days it seems like all of them! But seriously, I’m just curious.

‘Curiosity killed the cat, everyone knows that. Now let’s have less of me and more about you. What have you been doing since whenever you were last here? You know, if you were on Facebook we wouldn’t have so much catching up to do.’

You know I can’t be on Facebook, Finn. I like the real world too much. That’s where I’ve been since I last saw you, in the real world. There’s so much to do. I really like travelling as you know, and back in March I took myself off to Reykjavik in Iceland. I went to see Annalise, one of my new friends. She was a bit lonely, so I thought I’d go and cheer her up. We took a tour round the city, and actually it wasn’t as cold as I had imagined it would be.

Not bikini weather either, but my blood didn’t freeze in my veins.

Someone told me that the trick to keeping warm is to wear layers of clothing rather than just one thing, and you know what? It really works.

Anyway, one day we went to Iceland’s National Gallery in Frikirkjuvegur 7, because Annalise said she had something to show me. The building is fantastic to look at, and actually has a lot in common with the Tate Modern in London, because it’s a repurposed building too. I found out that it was originally used as a freezer plant when it was built in 1916, and then extended later to house the Gallery, which occupies three floors and has loads of exhibition rooms. Not that we saw them all.

Annalise was like a girl on a mission. Full of purpose. Not looking at any of the art we passed, as we strode through the exhibition spaces. I was worn out by the time we arrived at Room 2. On the 27

walls around us were hung various prints made by the Norwegian artist Edvard Munch. The black and white lithographs were all unknown to me, except for the one that Annalise stopped in front of. In fact, her stopping caught me by surprise and I bumped into her. After that minor embarrassment we both looked at the picture on the wall. Munch’s 1895 lithograph version of his famous painting The Scream. It really is a powerful work.

‘I know. Emily studied the painting. Said it made her feel very peculiar. She said it was like looking in a mirror on your blackest day.’

Wow, that’s deep. Although Annalise said it made her feel as though Munch had managed to express so eloquently what was inside of her. She was drawn to this one work above all others, feeling that it was so personal, that it portrayed her human condition. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d visited the exhibition since it had opened, and the number of hours she’d stood in front of Munch’s picture. She knew every inch of that picture, and felt its powerful resonance reaching out to her. She told me that sometimes it felt like she was being pulled into it, that she was standing beside Munch on that bridge, that they shared a common experience. In the same way that Munch is abandoned by his two freinds, so Annalise was abandoned by her parents. If it had not been for kindly Aunt Eyfura, Annalise would probably have been sent to a state-run home to await adoption.

The Scream seemed to sum up all that had gone wrong with her life. And I suppose it came to embody what your Emily called the “blackest day”. She certainly carried the idea of it with her everywhere, even quoting Munch’s thoughts on it to me: ‘I felt as if all nature were filled with one mighty unending shriek.’

‘Yeah, I remember Emily saying something like that. And that the picture was about the theme of despair. But what did you think? When you were there looking at it, did it make you feel anything? I mean, you’re one of the most cheerful people I know, 28

annoyingly so at times, so how did the picture grab you? Did it make you want to chuck yourself under a bus? Or is it trams?

They got trams in Iceland?’

No trams I’m afraid, Finn. They’ve got trains, buses and taxis for getting around if you don’t drive yourself. As for the other question, it made me feel like I should do something. That I should participate in something positive, not just be a mute witness to the suffering. I wanted to change what I saw, not merely observe it in the manner of a casual bystander. If the picture perhaps represents Munch’s cry for help, then it was also a cry from Annalise. I felt an overwhelming desire to help.

‘And did you? Help, I mean. Change things.’

I tried. I did manage to persuade her not to visit The Scream so obsessively. Things were going really well until another one of her friends turned up unexpectedly. We’d been for a walk in the local park near where Annalise lives. She admitted that she was beginning to feel less drawn to Munch’s picture, that she thought my visit had been good for her because having company meant that the usual negative thoughts didn’t fill up her head. It made me happy. You know me, Little Miss Everything Can Be Made Better! It wasn’t until after we’d been back at her house for around ten minutes or so that Annalise went into the kitchen and discovered that the kettle was hot, and someone had made themselves a coffee. Oh, she said, number 7 must be here.

‘7? You said 7?’

Yes, number 7. He must’ve let himself in while we were at the park.

‘I know 7!’

Really? It’s true what they say then, the world truly is smaller than we think. Sure it’s the same number 7, Finn?

29

‘How many 7s are there, do you think?’

I don’t know. Maybe hundreds. Thousands. I don’t know. What does your 7 look like?

‘About late twenties I guess. About 5’6”, short dark hair and little round glasses. I call them his “HP” specs. Jeans and t-shirt guy mostly. And always up for a laugh.’

Well, it certainly sounds like the same guy to me, Finn. Even down to the round glasses. Why “HP” anyway, what’s that all about?

‘Oh he’s a bit of a film buff like me, so “HP” stands for Harry Potter. Not too original, is it?’

I haven’t heard it before.

‘Ha! I’ll bet. But what about 7? How come he was in Iceland visiting your friend? I don’t know your friend, do I?’ I don’t think so, but we can’t know everyone our friends know, can we?

‘Facebook? Hello? We can “like” the world these days.’

Oh Finn, you and your Facebook! I don’t know how Annalise knew number 7, but she did. And no, I don’t know how your number 7 knew Annalise either! But that’s not important to the events that played out in Iceland in the second week of April this year.

‘Oh crap, it’s going to be bad isn’t it? Because of 7. He gets like that. I don’t think he can help it.’

It was bad, yes. It was because of 7. You’d be advised to stay away from him, Finn, before he messes with you.

30

‘He can’t help it, 3. He didn’t mean for me to end up in hospital.

But that’s another story. What happened in your story?’

It’s a story of failure, Finn. Sometimes believing is not enough.

Hope is not enough. They are dwarfed by a monstrous thought which becomes an unthinkable act. As R.E.M said, “Everybody hurts”. And everybody loses. And sometimes we all end up as the mirror image of Munch’s Scream. I had never experienced that level of despair before; it was as though it was carried round my body in my bloodstream. It became as much a part of me as my hair and my teeth. I felt almost paralysed by it. Certainly I was traumatised. For me it was a world-changing event, and it told me that there is darkness all around us, waiting to suck up the light in which we stand. Since then I have returned almost to my old self.

Almost. I learnt a valuable lesson from the tragedy of that single event; I learnt to strengthen my resolve, to increase my vigilance and to fight for life.

‘Hey, yeah, that’s the spirit, 3, a good old-fashioned bit of fisticuffs! Or a bit of Bruce Lee!’ I hadn’t meant it literally, Finn, but maybe I would be willing to fight someone physically if everything else failed. Sometimes we must fight for what we believe in. And what we hope for.

‘How bad was it? She died, didn’t she?’

Yes, Finn. She died. 7 was stronger, I was weaker, and Annalise died because of it. He’s the perfect conman, Finn. He’s even more upbeat and cheerful than I am. He’s fun to be around, and he’s motivational and inspirational. All the things you might wish to be, that’s what 7 is.

‘Yeah, that’s 7 alright. He told me there was nothing I couldn’t do if I put my mind to it. I could even cure myself. Even that! I really tried. The acid test was leaving off the anti-psych drugs.

31

That was the only way to know if I’d done it. It wasn’t 7’s fault though, I screwed up somewhere along the way, must’ve missed out one of the stages or something.’

Annalise was 7’s fault. The man’s evil, a curse on humanity. In the space of two weeks he’d undone all the work I’d done. He’d done it stealthily, and positively. And cheerfully, which looking back was probably the worst thing of all. He’d enjoyed all of it!

He knew about her fascination with Munch. In speaking to her, I’m sure he came out with the very phrases that Annalise herself had used in our conversations in the exhibition room at the National Gallery. He portrayed himself as an Art Historian, and name-dropped several eminent galleries and museums with whom he’d worked. His speciality, of course, was Edvard Munch. He persuaded Annalise that through his unique insight into the life and work of Munch, achieved over a long period of study, he would be able to help her find long-lasting psychological equilibrium. He talked a lot about art as therapy. And he was utterly convincing.

The first thing he did was re-introduce The Scream into Annalise’s daily life. Although she already had a framed postcard of the original lithograph, which she had kept by her bed until I suggested she put it in her wardrobe for a while, number 7 insisted on buying a large framed poster which he carefully installed in her living room. He called it “confronting your demons”, which he saw as the first phase of therapy.

Over the next couple of days or so he managed to deflect my attention by sending me on various errands for items that Annalise would need during therapy. He never made one definitive list, it was lots of bits. Lots of trips out. Lots of absences. I was so stupid! So blind. I’d been sucked up by the darkness, which I mistook for light!

He had me buying paper, for watercolour and gouache. I bought paints and brushes and mixing palettes. A palette knife. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards to the art shop in the centre of Reykjavik, where my lack of Icelandic and the shop 32

assistant’s lack of English resulted in a lot of pointing and embarrassed smiling on my part. I bought pencils covering all bases between 6H and 6B. And canvases in small, medium and large.

And all the time I was separated from Annalise he was working on her. 7 had assumed the role of svengali almost, and she didn’t really talk to me that much while he was there. I often wonder whether he had specifically told her not to talk to me. A couple of times at night, while we were getting ready for bed, she let slip a few things. She told me that she had come to realise that everything that had happened was her fault; that both her parents and even her aunt had suffered as a consequence. But 7 had told her that was okay, that only by accepting responsibility could the healing process begin.

Later, I realised what he’d done. He’d got her hooked on a guilt trip! Guilt is a very powerful emotion, and one that takes a long time to either come to terms with or dispel.

I returned to the flat one day, from an errand to buy food, to find that Annalise had moved on to the next level of “therapy”.

The living room floor was covered with old copies of DV, a popular daily tabloid, and in the middle of this huge typographic carpet was Annalise, who herself was in the middle of a circle of paints, brushes, and pots containing water. She was kneeling, hunched over a canvas, painting feverishly with a thin brush which she kept dipping into a deep red paint. Gouache, judging by its consistency.

‘Wow, that’s spooky. That’s how Emily paints, using the floor.

Usually in the garage though, which is why it’s all splodgy with paint.’

Yes, but does she paint the same thing over and over again?

‘Sometimes. It’s all part of the process of artistic observation, isn’t it? The art of seeing. Monet and his waterlilies, and all that.’

I know what you mean, Finn, but what Annalise was doing was 33

not artistic observation in the way that Monet observed his waterlilies. He was painting the changes he saw in the world outside of himself, in the world of reality. Annalise painted from inside. Inside out. Every painting was of herself. No, wait, what did she tell me? That’s it, every portrait was a detail of herself, an aspect, a sharp sliver of something that needed to be expelled onto canvas or paper. Towards the end, as she became ever more disturbed, she was even painting directly onto the newspapers she was kneeling on.

‘What did she paint, then?’

Her version of The Scream. Over and over. Hour after hour.

Day after day. Once she’d finished painting them they were masking-taped to the walls of the living room. 7 had suggested working from one corner and following the walls round so that Annalise, and anyone else who cared to look, would be able to see not only her starting point, but also the linear progression of her work.

Just before the end came she had completely filled the walls in her living room, pretty much from floor to ceiling. There was no space between each painting, no break between screams. What she had created, with 7’s help and my inability to pull her out of the abyss, was a room that was made from, and contained, “one mighty unending shriek”. Her shriek. When Annalise stood in the middle of the room, all the faces screamed at her.

It was too much. As she looked at them, she saw all the different aspects of herself. And because they were all those aspects that she was “throwing away”, they were obviously all bad things. I think she was overwhelmed by them all. When she looked round the room she must have seen that all these “negative selves” were pointing the finger of guilt, of blame, at her. 7 was leading her through the merry dance, of course, like some art-historical psychologist, referencing everything with everything else. The classic “blind them with science” approach, I suppose. Science and logic. The arch-enemies of faith, or belief.

34

‘How did she die, 3? Was it a clean death? Or a messy one?’

A wet one. Remember, Finn, her entire life had been taken over

by The Scream. It was with her everywhere she went. It was probably even in her dreams. Think of the painting, and where are you?

‘Norway? No, wait. No, I know, the bridge. They’re all on a bridge.’

The bridge. Sometimes, Finn, we’re all on bridges. Sometimes of our own making, sometimes just joining someone on their bridge.

On that day I was on Annalise’s bridge. 7 must have known. He must’ve known what she would do, maybe not the exact manner of it, but he knew she’d do something. And I was the fall guy!

And I didn’t see it coming. I should perhaps have been suspicious when he asked me to take Annalise out on my own; this was the first time he’d made such a suggestion since his arrival with us.

We walked. Talked. About what? I can’t recall. That’s bad isn’t it?

Not to be able to remember the last words of someone?

‘You didn’t know they were her last words though, did you?’

Somehow that is not comforting, Finn. It all happened so suddenly. It was like a noveling moment, when the author tells us something happened “in the blink of an eye.” That’s exactly what it was like. One second we were walking, talking… then bang!

Off and running, full pelt. There was no reaction time. I didn’t get to grasp and miss, I didn’t get to do anything except observe. My breath caught in my throat as I watched her vault the railings like an olympic gymnast and drop out of sight. She hadn’t looked back at me as she jumped. She made no sound, just disappeared in silence. It was all so quiet and serene. Until I punctured the day with an ear-piercing scream. Yes, a scream. The Scream. I had gone from observer to participant. It was my turn on the bridge, mouth open in a hopeless howl, looking out at the world.

35

She must have known exactly where to jump. The bridge was not particularly high, nor the water particularly deep – and anyway, drowning can sometimes be slow enough to be prevented by any witness brave enough to plunge into the water. What the river did have, at exactly the point Annalise went over the railings, was a stretch of barren rocks, sharp as church spires. There was some sort of security fencing around them at ground level, but I guess no-one expected that anybody would jump down onto them. She was all broken up when I looked at her. It was heartbreaking. Everything at odd angles, like when the puppeteer lays his puppet down and the arms and legs stop corresponding to any sort of biologically feasible model.

‘I’ve never seen a dead body. I’d like to, though. It’d be cool.’

Finn! Don’t! That’s a horrible thing to say! She was mangled beyond repair. It’s not right. She was so young.

‘What did 7 do? Afterwards, I mean? Did you tell him?’

When I got back to the flat he was gone. He knew she wouldn’t be coming back. All her pictures were gone from the walls too, almost as though he’d taken them as trophies or something. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d been down there with us on that bridge, hidden out of sight with a video camera running. A grubby little voyeur, watching the final scene of the film he had crafted. The Unending Shriek of Annalise. The approach. The sudden, unthinkable act. The helpless reaction. The plunge. The scream. The End. All recorded in high definition. A work of art destined for private viewing only, displayed as an infinite video loop so the experience can be relived again and again.

‘Do you think that’s what he did?’

No, I think he took Annalise’s pictures and headed for the nearest airport the minute we left the flat. He’d finished playing his 36

game. He knew what the outcome would be, and that’s how he derived his satisfaction; the thrill of the chase, followed by the inevitability of the kill. He was cruel and calculating, a terrifying conman and a manipulating sociopath.

‘Christ, 3, what would he be if you didn’t like him?’

This is not a laughing matter, Finn! The man is dangerous. He gets inside your head and controls you. And you say you know him? For God’s sake, Finn, have nothing more to do with this man. Let what happened to Annalise be a warning to you. Do you like me, Finn?

‘You, 3? Yeah, course I do. You cheer me up when I’m a bit grouchy.’

If you really liked me, if you really wanted to spare me a repeat of my Icelandic tragedy, you would promise me that you’ll have nothing further to do with number 7.

‘Oh, I haven’t seen him for a few months, 3. He might not even come to see me again.’

Promise, Finn.

‘Nothing to do with him? Not even a cup of tea or a smoke?’

Promise.

‘I want to, y’know, but it’s just that… well, I…’ Alright, Finn, I’m not going to force you to promise. So promise me this instead, that you’ll call me immediately if 7 shows up here. Just call me, any time of day or night. And I’ll come. Okay? I don’t want to lose you too. So, new promise?

‘I promise to call you if he shows up.’

37

07 Entry 003/09 November 2008 Drugs have kicked back in now. Returned to College today. Great to see Chaz and Emily. Not so great when I got in a fight in the canteen at lunchtime. Chaz and Em had gone into town for books and to see what bargains they had in HMV, but I was really starving and couldn’t be bothered to walk anywhere. I had my iPod for company, and if I got bored listening to music, which was unlikely since I had enough songs to last several lifetimes if played continuously, I could listen to audiobooks. I started one a few weeks back called Breakfast of Champions by someone called Kurt Vonnegut, who used to be German. I mean, that’s where the name comes from, but he’s American really. My English tutor says I should try to finish it because it’s a really good book. I like any book where the author draws an asshole as part of the story.

Yeah, really! Oh, and it’s about this wacky guy, a writer guy, called Kilgore Trout who discovers he’s the only guy in the entire world who’s got free will. Everyone else is a freakin’ robot whose lives are already mapped out for them.

I’m tired. When I get tired I lose the plot a bit. It takes so much effort to focus. I started to say something about lunchtime. About fighting, which is a thing I rarely do. There’s a kid I’ve seen around a few times, I think he does something like Business Studies. I dunno, anyway, we don’t know each other or anything, so we’re in the canteen and he’s just behind me in the queue. I’m just 38

checking I’ve got enough money for two burgers when I spot E coming towards me, carrying a tray littered with the debris of lunch. A chicken carcass, I think, and a stodge of rice, which looks like a colony of maggots. Do maggots even have colonies?

So, when he drew level with me he tells me that the kid standing behind me has been talking to the Principal about me. About what? I asked him. About what meds you take, E said.

I didn’t know what to think. I left the queue and pulled E over to an empty table where I made him sit down. I don’t even know the kid, I whispered to him. How the fuck does he know about me? He’s a hacker, E told me. My security’s been compromised, my PC has been infiltrated and the kid has accessed all my data.

I’m a trail and he’s followed me. Information, said E, is no good until you use it. The kid was using it in the Principal’s office.

I put my head down on the table and felt some food residue squish on my forehead. Suddenly I didn’t feel so hungry any more. I felt sick. It’s not a pleasant feeling to find out you’ve been under surveillance. When I looked up E was gone. I couldn’t see him anywhere, but I could just hear his voice. If you cut off the head, Finn, the body dies. That’s what he said.

Well, I couldn’t literally cut off his head right there in the canteen, could I? But I could make him realise that I knew who he was and that I wasn’t going to be messed with. I went and got a tray off the pile of dirty ones on the trolley by the far wall, and I went straight to my old place in the queue and pushed myself right into the kid’s face. You’ve got no right, I shouted at him. I know who you are, and I want all my data erased! He tried to look shocked, like he didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about. He was just about to start denying everything when I smashed him with the tray. Bloody tough kid, though. I thought he’d go down for sure, but he just came right back at me instead.

Before I knew it, I was on the floor, blood pouring out of my lip. I was so scared I scurried away on all fours, looking like one of those warrior gorillas in the remake of Planet of the Apes. Everyone was laughing at me. Did they all know my data had been stolen? They all seemed to be on the kid’s side.

39

I knew at that moment I’d never eat in the canteen again. Not that it would matter if they kicked me out of College because of my meds. I didn’t think they were allowed to do that? Some institutions are very powerful though, so I’m sure they could get away with it.

I went into the toilets on the ground floor and dabbed at my lip with a paper towel. I cleaned off the worst of the blood and noticed that my upper lip was all swollen. It looked like it feels after you’ve had an anaesthetic injection at the dentist’s. It hurt like hell and it looked like hell. Everyone would be looking at me.

There was no way to disguise it – I couldn’t grow a bushy walrusmoustache in ten minutes, could I? I stayed in the toilets for about an hour, ducking into a cubicle every time someone came in. Then I swiped my ID card through the exit barrier in the main reception area and came on home.

Took me a while because I walked. No way I was being the laughing stock of the bus.

7.00pm.

The Principal’s secretary phoned Mum half an hour ago. I was upstairs in my room locked inside my headphones with the Deftones rocking out. I was blissfully ignorant of everything until Mum appeared in the doorway and mouthed “turn that music down, we need to talk”. That’s when I found out about the phone call. Mum was upset, but quite reasonable. She didn’t shout.

Mum’s good like that, I think because she works with teenagers so she knows what we’re like.

She asked me to explain myself, and I told her what E had said about the kid telling the Principal about my meds. She looked a bit confused, and said the secretary had only mentioned “an incident”, which is really just corporate-speak for “don’t tell them anything they can use against us”.

Anyway, Mum says we both have to go to the Principal’s office tomorrow morning at nine-thirty.

It’s going to be shit.

40

08 exclusion zone Beth’s diary 10 November 2008 This morning Finn and I had a meeting with Mr Bramhall, Principal of Tilley-Swanson College, where Finn is studying English. I got a phone call from his secretary, Mrs Knight, last evening. I knew that an invitation received in such a way would not be a cause for happiness. It seems “an incident” had occurred yesterday lunchtime involving Finn and another boy. Why are they always so vague about things? It almost sounds like a defence mechanism.

Finn did not have lessons, or rather, he was not required to go to lessons first thing. Instead, at 9.30am exactly Mrs Knight ushered us into the newly refurbished Principal’s office. Mr Bramhall, a short stocky man with unfeasibly long sideburns, reminiscent of many a BBC costume drama, stood up behind the wide expanse of his executive desk and offered a hand in welcome. I shook it briefly. It was warm and slightly moist, which I wondered about.

Nervous, perhaps? What was he going to say?

Mr Bramhall shuffled a stack of papers in front of him, composing himself.

‘Mrs Maguire, I’m sorry to have to call you in this morning, but it is on a matter of some gravity and seriousness. I don’t know if 41

you’ve had a chance to talk with Finn about what happened yesterday?’

I said that we had spoken. Well, actually, it was me who did most of the speaking. Finn just listened in that teenagery disinterested way, while trying to burrow further back into his hoody. I told Mr Bramhall that I was able to get most of the story. Finn had taken exception to having his computer hacked by the other boy, whose name Finn didn’t know, and then having personal information spread around the College. It was through this boy that you found out about Finn’s prescribed medication, and Finn is convinced that you’ll kick him off the course. That’s why he hit him, Mr Bramhall, I said. Then I pointed at Finn’s upper lip, which was still a bit swollen and all bruised up and remarked how it looked like Finn had come off worst anyway.

Mr Bramhall looked at me. Then he looked at Finn. Then he looked at the papers in his hand. Sometimes, Mrs Maguire, he said, speaking to me but looking directly at Finn, participants in an event can be the most unreliable witnesses.

That, I thought, seemed to be corporate-speak for “your kid’s a liar, Mrs Maguire”. Even rhymes, look. If we were in a movie he would be named Liar Maguire, and he’d be the highschool bad boy. Mr Bramhall seemed keen to portray him as the bad boy right there in real life.

‘The other boy’s name is Harry Carver, a nice lad. He’s a first year student on a Business & Tourism course. I’ve spoken with him at length, and with his father, whom I managed to dissuade from pressing assault charges against Finn and involving the College in unnecessary bad publicity. I assured him that the matter could be dealt with satisfactorily by the College.’

Whatever the outcome was going to be, it was not going to be good. I thought of a poster that one of the young people had pinned on one of the message boards at Dreamland: Smile, it could get worse. So I did smile, and it did get worse.

Funny thing though, I wasn’t smiling in Mr Bramhall’s office but it still got worse.

Mr Bramhall indicated the papers he’d been shuffling in front of 42

him. I could sense he was going in for the kill.

‘These are witness statements taken yesterday afternoon, from the people who were closest to young Carver in the restaurant.

Most students didn’t know either Harry or Finn, which makes their testimony unbiased at the very least. In fact, Harry Carver doesn’t even know Finn. They’ve passed in corridors and in the reception area, he said, but never spoken to each other.’

He looked at Finn. He told him that what he had in his hands was just one side of the story. He was a fair man, and thought it necessary in the interests of fairness to hear Finn’s recollection of events. A statement should have been taken from Finn yesterday, Mr Bramhall said, but Finn could not be located in his class or anywhere else. Later investigation revealed that Finn had signed out of College early, around two o’clock.

This was news to me. Finn hadn’t mentioned anything about coming home early. What else didn’t I know about?

Quite a bit, as it turned out.

The lowest point for me was being told that Finn had attacked Harry Carver with a lunch tray. A lunch tray, for heaven’s sake!

Not just a bit of pushing and shoving, the odd fist flung out, no, Finn had armed himself with a weapon and used it!

I glanced across at Finn, who just sat there the whole time looking down, picking at the cuffs of his hoody. He didn’t look like a psychopath. Not to me, anyway. I think I’d know. Wouldn’t I? It was beginning to look very bad for Finn. If Harry Carver hadn’t given Finn a split lip and sent him packing, God only knows where we’d be now? Even to me, my son was starting to look like the villain of the piece.

Mr Bramhall was at a bit of a loss to understand it as well.

Finn had attacked, and hurt, Harry Carver. The young man had a severely bruised forehead and had been checked over in A&E for a possible concussion. Finn had hit him so hard that the maker’s mark on the bottom of the tray had been imprinted on Harry’s skin! Finn had attacked and hurt someone he didn’t even know. Until that moment in the restaurant their orbits had not intersected.

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Finn had made accusations. Everybody had heard him. “I want all of my data erased”, or words to that effect, was what everyone remembered.

‘What did you mean, Finn?’ asked Mr Bramhall.

Finn suddenly looked up and stared straight at Mr Bramhall.

His voice was low and venomous and took me by surprise. I think it had the same effect on the Principal.

‘You’re in it too,’ Finn said. ‘You’re one of the people using the information harvested by that hacker kid. You know about me, and that makes you dangerous.’

The Principal looked at Finn and sighed. Sighed quite audibly, like he was doing it for some sort of dramatic effect.

‘Yes, I know about you, Finn, but it certainly doesn’t make me dangerous. If I was dangerous the local authority wouldn’t keep me in this job, would they? I’m here for you, Finn, to help you and every other student who comes through these doors with the challenges of College life. It’s my job to help you all achieve your potential in life.’

‘Woohoo,’ said Finn. ‘That kid hacked me, stole from me, gave you private data – and you’re going to let him get away with it.’

The Principal gave me a resigned look. As far as the College is concerned, Finn made an allegation against a fellow pupil that upon investigation was proven to be baseless. He made an unprovoked attack on that pupil, resulting in injury that required a visit to the local A&E department. He said he understood about Finn’s “condition” and, whilst I had his utmost sympathy, the only course of action open to him was to exclude Finn for a fixed period of three days. Effective immediately.

I remember feeling sad and angry and dejected and helpless, like I was the plaything of unseen forces. Which I suppose I am in a way. Finn’s schizophrenia is all hidden away inside him, a sea of chemicals and neurotransmitters and broken connections. Unseen forces. I don’t know from one day to the next what’s going to happen – all I can do is react, and hope that’s enough.

44

Mr Bramhall told me that the College is obliged to send home coursework for completion when a student is excluded, so they don’t fall behind in their studies. His secretary will arrange for Finn’s work to be delivered to the house tomorrow morning.

We drove home from the College in silence. I didn’t want to say anything too soon in case I let emotion get in the way and I became angry or tearful, neither of which would have helped the situation. Sometimes I find, especially with teenagers, it’s best to leave a gap between the event and talking about it. Everyone seems more reasonable after a short amount of time has passed, and much more able to discuss things sensibly without feeling like your blood’s going to boil over every few seconds. At least that’s how I’ve managed to talk to Finn in the past. Will it work now?

He seems so different sometimes, so distant. I must do more, as a mother and just as a human being, to bring him closer.

He’s upstairs in his room now. I can hear the bass from his iPod speakers thumping on the floor. I wonder if that’s the rhythm of alone? I don’t want to get all morose. Perhaps we both need cheering up. That’s why they invented tea and biscuits. Chocolate biscuits, of course.

45

09 Entry 004/15 November 2008 Final day of exclusion. It seems so long because the weekend got in the way. I’ve been trying really hard to get myself sorted out. I know Mum’s been trying to help me. I think she’s okay about everything. We’ve spoken in little pieces about last week’s thing at College. That’s the way Mum works. Little pieces. Then she joins them up into a big piece, and then she has the whole story.

I’m not sure whether she believes me about being hacked. She went quiet when I told her about E and his part in all of it. Not that I was blaming E in any way. He was just passing on information like he always does. He’s always in tune with everything, and if anyone can dig around and find something out, it’s E. Mum did say one very curious thing. She was talking about E. ‘Do you trust him?’ she said.

Sometimes I don’t get Mum’s questions. I don’t understand her as much as she says she doesn’t understand me.

E is always reliable. What about the College thing, you’re thinking? Listen, you and I both know that large organisations know how to keep their secrets. They were able to catch me out in their little game with the hacker kid. They got me out of the way for a few days so they can use more of my information, then put it somewhere where maybe even E can’t find out about it.

Spent the first day and a half of my exclusion changing all my passwords to everything, on the web and off it. Reconfigured my 46

firewall too, and got a little freeware that monitors all attempts to gain access to the root files. I feel like I’ve strengthened my borders, but I still need to be on patrol, just in case.

Chaz came round earlier. I called him up because I needed help on my latest English assignment. I’ve got to keep up to date with things, otherwise I’m off the course for sure. The Principal would love to see me gone. I know that’s what he thinks about a lot.

I hadn’t seen Chaz since the day of the fight, and he was looking even more totally Goth than I remembered. He had on an old Sisters of Mercy t-shirt. You know, I’d never heard of them until I met Chaz. He’s into so much old-school stuff. I tried to listen to one of their albums on my iPod, but it was so gloomy. And droney. I told Chaz I didn’t like the Sisters of Mercy, but he didn’t seem to care. You like what you like, he said to me. That’s what I like about Chaz, he doesn’t force his views on you, he’s very laid back. Open to lots of opinions and ideas. It’s the only way you can really learn, he says. I wish I could be more like Chaz. Like with the Sisters of Mercy. Because I didn’t like one of their albums, I’m not going to allow myself to like any of them. Emily calls it my black and white thinking.

Over the t-shirt he wore a long, black coat, possibly some sort of a military thing. It came right down to the top of his Dr Martens boots. Sixteen holes of Goth leather and laces. Some people wore coloured laces in their boots, but Chaz was strictly black. It wouldn’t be Goth otherwise, he said. Goths don’t do colours, he said. Except for hair, that was okay. Just as well, because Chaz had coloured his blue – a kind of dark blue, perhaps verging on deep purple. He looked kind of like a bluehaired version of Robert Smith. No, I didn’t know who Robert Smith was either until Chaz Googled a picture for me. Front man of late seventies group The Cure, famous for his wild hair and kooky singing style. And lipstick, but Chaz doesn’t go in for that sort of thing – I think his dad would kill him if he did!

Everyone likes Chaz. He’s just one of those people. He’s a very individual kind of guy, without being weird. I mean, even Mum 47

likes Chaz – even with all his different hair colourings. Dad’s not so keen, of course, but then accountants tend to be a little more uptight about the appearance of things for some reason. It’s not as though Dad says anything while Chaz is here, but afterwards he can’t help but start a conversation with me in which he feels its his solemn duty to point out the pitfalls of dressing like a multicoloured muppet and finding a job. Dad, and I say this every time, we’re students. As Chaz says, you’re only young once, so you might as well enjoy it.

He’s the only one on my English course that I really like. I don’t know why. It’s not that I dislike the other students, just that I don’t relate to them in the same way. I expect everybody has at least one person in their life that they just kind of get on with straight away. That’s Chaz. We don’t look the same, obviously, I haven’t got the balls to dress like he does or have my hair all different colours, but we do have quite a few things in common.

We don’t subscribe to the two major vices indulged by a lot of teenagers: alcohol and cigarettes. Haven’t acquired a taste for beer yet, and wine is just plain disgusting – specially the red variety. As for cigarettes, I did actually have a puff on one once, when I was about thirteen, and I remember trying to act really cool, like I was all grown up. Five minutes later I threw up. Never touched them since. They make your clothes stink and then they make your lungs rot, and then you die. And you pay a fortune in customs duty for the privilege! To be honest I’d rather spend the money on iTunes because music is odourless and it won’t kill you.

After Chaz had helped me with my English essay on the symbolism of The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, which I really like because not many books take a travelling salesman and turn him into a giant bug overnight, we both relaxed for a bit. Listened to some music. I put on some UNKLE, which wasn’t really his sort of thing, but he said he liked bits of it. I could’ve put on some Destiny’s Child – which I wouldn’t really, ‘cause I can’t stand it – and he’d probably still have found some bits that he liked. You like what you like.

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‘You know Em was really worried about you last week, don’t you? Chaz said.

I told him she’d phoned me that evening, but I didn’t really feel like talking to anyone. She knew I’d got into a fight at lunchtime, and it involved a lunch tray, and I’d got punched in the face. She and Chaz tried to find me when they got back from town. I just said I’d left College early. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about hiding in the toilets.

‘I think she really likes you, mate. She phoned me up before she phoned you, wanted to know if I’d been in touch with you, how you were. I think I disappointed her a lot when I said I hadn’t called you.’

Chaz, I said, I was right royally and supremely fucked up last week. That thing with the hacker kid just messed my head up. I think I might be okay now though, since I took precautions.

There hasn’t been any suspicious activity on my laptop, anyway.

But I can’t relax entirely because there’s the very real possibility that the information already in the wild may be used against me at some point in the future. I don’t know if it’s going to be next week, next month or next year. What I do know is that you’ve got to keep that radar going round and round to be in with a chance of spotting those rogue blips.

‘Em was going to get a petition started in the canteen to get you reinstated.’

I didn’t know. Why would she do that?

‘She likes you, you moron. She kept asking where you live, because she wanted to check on you. She’s probably done you a “get well soon” picture or something. Anyway, I thought she’d been round here?’

Never, I said. I remember inviting her round for that impromptu barbecue party I had last summer, but she didn’t get back from her skiing trip until the following day.

What happened to the petition?

Chaz told me he’d persuaded Emily that it wouldn’t be such a good idea. It would only make trouble for her. A decision had been reached and that was that. And anyway, by the time the peti49

tion had enough signatures on it to matter a damn, I’d have been back in College. So logical, is Chaz. A master of the considered response. Which make him such an absolute diamond geezer when you’ve got tricky essays to write.

Before he left for home, Chaz said I should invite Emily round.

I told him it might be better if he invited her on my behalf. That way it wouldn’t seem like I was asking her out on a date or something.

Chaz said, what’s wrong with going on a date? Didn’t I want a girlfriend?

Well, yeah. But… ‘Not Emily?’ Chaz finished for me.

Maybe. I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, I really like Emily a lot. But as a friend. Perhaps that’s it; perhaps she’s been a friend too long to be a girlfriend. Maybe if I’d just known her for a month or so then I’d be thinking she might make the perfect girlfriend. But we’ve never socialised alone. Never kissed.

Invite her round, Chaz called as he went out the back gate.

Promise me.

See you tomorrow, Chaz!

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10 son vs. stranger Beth’s diary 18 November 2008 (Written by Martin) Beth has been on at me for some time to contribute something to her diary, having refused point blank to maintain my own diary, which is what Beth originally wanted. I am a bookkeeper, not a diarist. I am more comfortable around numbers than words.

I have been deliberating what comments to make for some while, yet I still don’t really know what I want to say. I would probably prefer to say nothing, yet this entry would serve no purpose if left blank. I shall do my best to put into words what I am thinking at this present time, and that’s all I can do.

Beth began this diary with the diagnosis of Finn’s condition. I know the effect it had on her, and I also know how she has attempted to cope with it. Beth has always been a strong-willed woman, who can accomplish most of the things she sets her mind to. She came through that period when our lives were changed forever; she adapted to the new challenges very well. But it was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster ride for her.

As for myself, I coped less well. With everything. I’m aware that I have been missing from the home a lot, aware that I find it more comforting to stay late in the office. I don’t like conflict. And I 51

don’t like grey areas. There’s too much of both at home sometimes.

I coped this same way right after the diagnosis. Missing from home, I mean. It seems to be a routine that I’ve fallen into over the years. One I’ve been unwilling to change. It’s a hell of a thing to know that you could have done something to change the way your life happens, but you’ve allowed it to keep going down the wrong track because you’re afraid you’ll be run down if you try to stop it.

Like I said, I’ve never been very good with words. That Finn has always been good at English is probably due to Beth’s genes. I’ve never talked to Finn about his English course at College. Never told him how proud I am that he’s studying hard to make something of himself. I am not the kind of father I had promised myself I would be.

The diagnosis saw to that. Before that date I was an ordinary dad, who did all the things an ordinary dad would do. Finn and I used to go to local football matches on, I think, the first Saturday of every month. I took him to see a fourth-round FA Cup match.

As he got older and less sporty, the three of us would go to art exhibitions and galleries. He developed an interest in drama, and though he was always too shy to join any amateur dramatics group, he did like to watch the performances. His fifteenth birthday present was a day out in London and a ticket to see Phantom of the Opera.

All of that disappeared when we got the diagnosis. I felt cursed.

I wanted to rage at something, anything, anyone. At God, at the doctors, even at Beth. Sometimes I raged at myself, though I didn’t know if I was raging because I thought I had somehow caused Finn’s condition, or raging because I couldn’t stop it taking him over.

I was never a great believer in God, but from that moment I stopped believing entirely. What creator could inflict one of his own creations with such a horrific thing? It was suffering for the sake of suffering, surely? In Sunday school they taught us “God is love”. Although I also recall a line that went something like “and 52

suffer the little children to come unto me”. Is this what has happened to Finn? Has he been “called” only to suffer?

I’ve just re-read that last bit. I’m astonished and shocked in equal measure by how much anger I still have in me. I am beginning to see why Dr Belzaku recommended that Beth keep a diary; it may have some therapeutic value. I’m surprised that I have been able to engage in quite an honest dialogue with myself; that the diary has allowed me to analyse myself and acknowledge all this anger that I have obviously stored up over the years.

I don’t think I need professional help though. I probably do need to reassess my role as a father, and also as a husband, since I have been guilty of neglecting Beth in her struggle with Finn’s condition. I need to reconnect with my family and try to get back those bits that have got lost along the way.

I should have talked more. About everything. I should have shared the burden more. I should have reached out more.

Listened more. I should have realised long ago that my family is all I have, and it’s my responsibility to be a part of it.

I have always said, since the diagnosis, that we lost a son and gained a stranger. Beth hates me for saying it. Now, for the first time, it occurs to me that I might be the stranger.

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11 howl Finn, you asshole, I say, it’s Howler Monkey not Monkey Jowler! Always getting his wucking furds muddled this kid.

I mean it’s not that difficult is it? I am a fuckin’ Howler Monkey! I don’t know why he has to mix it all up. I hate people who get things wrong when there’s no need to.

I am a monkey, pure and simple. A big green monkey. Howler monkeys come from central and South America. That is, every other Howler monkey. I come from somewhere else, somewhere I don’t know the name of. I’ve tried describing the place to Finn, but he doesn’t know it either. Kids, they don’t know shit.

‘Jowler,’ he says to me, ‘you’re not right. I looked you up on the Animal Planet website. You’re the wrong colour and you’re way too fast. You’re supposed to be a slow mover, but you’re not.’

Didn’t your mother teach you that if you ain’t got nothin’ nice to say you shouldn’t say anything? I can’t help being fast, that’s the way I am. I’ve got loads of energy that I gotta have an outlet for. They said I was hyperactive when I was a kid.

I start leaping around his room. I go fuckin’ wild, and it’s great.

It’s even greater because I know Finn can’t bloody well stand it.

Every time I move he’s got to follow me with his eyes, like they’re part of some weapons system and they have to stay locked onto me. Lock onto this then, you asshole!

I launch myself off the bookcase straight at Finn. Gotcha, 54

sucker! Direct hit! I’m not tall, around three feet I reckon, but I’m a chunky little bastard and when I hurl myself at something it usually gets knocked over. Finn’s on his bed and I come down hard on his shoulders and chest, push off and bounce from the wall onto the top of his headboard.

Finn’s crashing back against the wall while I’m transferring to the light fitting in the middle of his ceiling. I flip round backwards in mid-air and grab the flex cord with my tail. I love doing this, I fuckin’ love it! See my tail, right? This tail is the same length as me! It’s like having another arm stuck to your ass! Really, I can grab things and hold on and manipulate and all sorts of stuff. I can take the tops off Coke bottles. How many tail-wearers can do that? I am so fuckin’ amazing I don’t know how it all stays inside this body.

I’m swinging and twirling like some Turkish dervish, or like I’m a superhero flying monkey, arms and legs stretched out, fur ruffling in the breeze created by my movement. FLY-MO swoops down to punish the black-hearted villain! Flying Monkey, you dork-brain, pay attention!

Finn is crushed. I’ve really done a number on him this time.

Clutching his chest and wheezing like a one-twenty-a-day smoker.

Crumpled like a ball of hurt. But he’s hooked! All munched up like this and still the little fucker’s eyeballing me wherever I go. It’s beautiful. It’s a classic.

‘Bastard!’ he yells up at me between sucking lungfuls of air.

Come and get me, you piece of shit. Whoo, this is so much fun.

With a capital fuckin’ F! I swing my body up towards the ceiling and grip the light flex with one hand before letting go with my tail, which I use to latch onto the curtain pole above the window. I let go of the cord and arc across the room to hang upside down in his window like a huge version of one of those little toys that come on suction cups that kids stick to the glass. My knuckles drag along the windowsill. On purpose! I use my hand like a pendulum. Back and forth, back and forth. I’m knocking off a stack of paper55

backs, a little carved statue thing, a couple of CDs, some Collectors Edition DVDs in metallic embossed cases and lenticular printed sleeves, and it’s all going on the floor in a cracking, snapping jumble.

‘Stop, Jowler, stop!’ he whines pathetically. Like I care about his stuff! Howler monkeys don’t care about stuff, all we want to do is eat fruit and nuts and leaves. That’s what we do. And chickens, yeah, we love chickens. I don’t mean roasted or stuffed or anything like that, I mean raw. On the hoof, so to speak. I’ll bet one of Finn’s neigbours has a coop in the garden, one of these New Age types, these self-sufficiency creeps who keep chickens for those lovely fresh eggs they have for breakfast each morning.

Boiled, probably with a side order of dinky little toast soldiers.

I’d keep chickens for the chicken, and I’d be breakfasting in the coop. Yum! Look at me now, I’m almost drooling just at the thought of chicken. And if there’s no neighbourhood supplier, I’ll just have to do a smash and grab raid on the local supermarket.

Maybe I’ll do that anyway, just to mess with their heads. I love the way that loads of the mums shop by mobile, meaning that only their kids are looking around seeing what’s going on. Oh look, Mummy, there’s a big monkey on that shelf eating the packets of chicken. That’s nice, Valentino, here, have another Haribo.

‘Jowler,’ says Finn, inching slowly off the bed and coming towards me, ‘get out of my room now, before you smash everything I’ve got!’

Shouldn’t put ideas into my head, Finny-boy! He lunges. I swing up. My tail is so strong you wouldn’t believe it. I could prop up a collapsing tunnel with it if I had to. My tail is a champion weightlifter. And a great escape tool. I kick my feet against the window, unhook my tail from the curtain pole and swoop across to Finn’s desk. Super-quick, I push his widescreen TV towards the edge of the desk with my tail. As he comes towards me, his eyes locked on my eyes, I carefully flex my tail so that the TV falls off the desk like a log going over a waterfall. Slowly, deliberately – until it reaches that tipping point and it increases its velocity. And it’s gone! Does he catch it? Does he bollocks! Tries real hard, 56

though. Gotta admire him for that. It’s like he’s trying to save match point at Wimbledon and he’s making a last-ditch effort to reach that edge-of-the-court ball. He throws himself at it from too far away. There’s probably a point where he thinks he can actually make it, a point where hope is alive and well – but it’s such a small amount of time, after which hope dies and so does the widescreen.

I look down at him, prostrate on the floor, his head pushed into the Spider-Man beanbag. That is just so rich! I almost fall off the desk laughing. The closest Finn can get to being a superhero is to wedge his head up the web-slinger’s ass!

His head pops up. It’s starting to go all purple and the little veins on his temples are throbbing as though someone is pumping fluid through them. Makes me think of a high pressure hose for some reason, and I can imagine the top of his head suddenly erupting like a fountain with blood and brains sprinkling all over his room.

The angrier he gets, the happier it makes me. Don’t ask me why, I don’t understand it. It’s the way I’m wired, I think; the way my chemicals react with each other. I’m not supposed to analyse it too much, because I’m only a monkey.

I go into ricochet mode, leaping, bouncing, spinning off anything and everything. A lot more stuff ends up on the floor, some of it breaks. By the hairs on my Finny Finn Finn, you’ve got to catch me to do me in! Not even close, dickhead! But watch me, watch me, follow me, don’t take your eyes off me. You’re my prisoner, Finn, and I can take you with me wherever I go.

Finn is beautiful. Poetry in motion. Chaos theory in motion. He is uncontrollable, uncoordinated, a slab of unthinking flesh spiralling in a maelstrom. I see this happening in his eyes, like I’m watching two miniature television monitors running an end-ofthe-world blockbuster. Or looking through two little windows.

They say that the eyes are the windows of the soul, but in Finn’s case we’ll make that “soulless”. There’s nothing inside him except what I put there. He’s as barren as the Mojave desert he’s always banging on about.

Finn screams. Not high-pitched, more a low guttural sort of sound. Sing up, boy! Let’s get a tune going! I’m cross-legged on 57

top of the wardrobe, picking my nose with my tail. My tail, I tell you, it’s like a Swiss Army knife! So many functions in one limb.

It should get the award for Best Multipurpose Instrument in the Animal Kingdom.

I get a whiff of something. It smells bad. It’s not in the room.

Yet. But something tells me it’s coming. I tense up, then change position, waiting. The inside of my mouth starts to go dry. All my senses are on standby. Finn is forgotten momentarily, his body jerking around on the floor.

There it is. It’s like some sort of a biological sign, triggered by Christ knows what, that says “danger, danger, danger” over and over. It’s a biological siren, that’s what it is. Something, some coded message is sent on ahead which gets deciphered by my biology as a warning, and I get to “see” the nature of the threat. It’s a very effective system, even though I don’t know how it works.

I know what’s coming! I’m in terrible danger! It’s going to be even worse for Finn.

I do what my biology tells me to do: I howl. That’s why I’m a Howler monkey. I howl. It can be heard over ten miles away, it’s that loud. That’s why Finn, who’s only about five feet from me, yells in pain and clamps his hands over his ears.

I’m howling.

Finn is howling. But he’s not moving. Finn! Finn! Listen, I’ve been messing with you I know, but this is straight up: it’s time to piss off, quick! You’ve got to get out of here. Even I’ve got to go.

Nothing. Except howling.

Finn! Finn! If you don’t get out now it’s gonna be real bad. Real bad! Finn! Get up, and get out!

Sorry Finn, don’t say I didn’t tell you so! I’ve got to go now. He’s almost here. I can feel him moving through the air.

Manson.

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12 crash Beth’s diary 23 November 2008 I’ve been meaning to write for the last couple of days, but haven’t been able to concentrate. Once again, we’ve been overtaken by events. Overwhelmed too, I suppose I should put.

Finn had a complete meltdown; it’s the worst he’s been since the diagnosis. Part of me thinks it might be to do with the incident at College, but I don’t know.

It happened around six o’clock in the evening. Martin had come home from the office unexpectedly early, I think as part of his attempt to reconnect with family life. Just after his arrival young Emily turned up. Finn told me what Chaz had said about inviting her round, and I think maybe he was just running it past me to get a second opinion on what he should do. He’s spoken of her often and I know they’ve known each other a long time, so I suggested he invite her round for some food. Nothing fancy. Pizza, perhaps?

She’s a veggie, Mum, Finn told me. Finn obviously doesn’t take much notice of our trips to the supermarket. They do vegetarian pizzas, Finn, I informed him. Great! he said, but get me a meat feast one.

I’d only just shown Emily in. She’s a bit shorter than Finn, around 5’6” I’d say, and wears her hair short and spiky. And 59

bright red. As red as a Ronald McDonald wig. She had on a lime green dress over a black long-sleeved t-shirt, black tights and a pair of Ugg boots. She’s a very pretty girl, and obviously very individual, which I kind of expected because Finn told me she studies Art. I got as far as taking her coat from her and hanging it in the hall cupboard, when there was an almighty crash from upstairs. Martin came out of the lounge, and would probably have gone off on one had Emily not been there. As it was he managed to control himself.

‘What the hell’s that boy doing up there?’ he said.

‘Shall I go and see if he’s okay?’ asked Emily. I like Emily, she thinks a lot like me. Perhaps the noise is not deliberate, perhaps it’s the result of an accident. Like me, Emily’s not prepared to think the worst as a first option.

Which, as it turned out, was a mistake. After briefly introducing Martin to Emily and vice versa, we both directed Emily upstairs to Finn’s room. We’d only just gone into the kitchen when Emily came back to the top of the stairs and called down.

‘Mrs Maguire, are you there? You have to come up here now!

It’s Finn. I don’t know what to do.’

She sounded urgent and panic-stricken.

Martin took the stairs two at a time and I followed behind.

Finn’s room was like a bomb site. And Finn was in the middle of it, on the floor trying to tear his beanbag in half. All the veins in his neck stood out like the root system on a tree; his skin had a real sheen to it, like he was a sweatlodge on legs. His teeth were clenched together, grinding relentlessly, and he was making a kind of growling noise in the back of his throat. I looked in his eyes. It was like they were rolled back in his head, and it made me think he was having some kind of a fit.

Emily was not alone in not knowing what to do. Martin was white, completely unprepared for the sight in front of him. He looked at me with a terrified, helpless expression. He even looked at Emily, as though she had the answer. Poor girl was completely out of her depth. You could tell just from looking at her that she had never experienced anything like this in her life.

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Finn stopped trying to destroy the beanbag.

Then, without any provocation on our part, he went ballistic.

With fists and feet. It was like being in a dream where you suddenly round a corner and find yourself inexplicably caught up in the middle of a kickboxing contest. Everyone got hit. Poor Emily got kicked in the ribs, then kicked again in the leg as she went to the floor. Martin and I were caught with glancing blows.

Finn was a ball of rage, completely out of control. Martin got angry himself and waded through the blows to pin Finn’s arms at his side. He walked him backwards to his bed and then, offbalance Finn crashed onto the bed with Martin on top of him.

We’d gone from kickboxing to mixed martial arts in the space of a few seconds.

There was only one thing to do. I ran downstairs, grabbed my mobile off the kitchen table and punched in 999. As I walked back upstairs I told the operator about Finn’s diagnosis and about the events that had just played out in his bedroom. She took my details and said the paramedics would be with us in around fifteen minutes, and would someone be outside to direct them? I told her the house was easy enough to find, but that I would be outside in the street waiting for them.

When I got back back into Finn’s room, Martin still had Finn contained on his bed, though Finn had found his voice by then.

‘Get the fuck off me, you bastard!’

‘You fucking paedo!’

‘You’re gonna break my fuckin’ arms, you asshole, get off me!’

‘Bastard, I hate you! I hate you all!’

Martin didn’t budge. He tried to keep Finn calm, but Finn wasn’t listening at all. At least not to anything in our world.

‘The emergency services will be fifteen minutes, Martin,’ I told him.

He nodded okay, and said he’d be alright with Finn until they arrived.

I gathered up Emily and helped her downstairs. The paramedics might need to examine you for injuries, I told her. I quickly made 61

her a drink of squash and sat her on the sofa in the lounge. She looked shellshocked.

‘I’ll be okay,’ she said. ‘I’m just worried about Finn. I’ve never seen him like this.’

Neither have we, Emily. Neither have we.

‘I’m sure everything will be okay once the ambulance gets here.’

I said to her, trying to smile.

The ambulance arrived very quickly, without its siren blaring, but with its blue lights illuminating the darkness like a mobile medical disco.

Two paramedics in green uniforms and yellow reflective tabards came into the house and I took them straight upstairs. There was more yelling from Finn. Loud, incoherent, directed at his new visitors. They managed to disengage Finn and Martin, whilst still maintaining control of Finn’s movements. But he wasn’t going to roll over and play dead just yet. He struggled one arm free and began lashing out. While the younger paramedic continued to try to restrain Finn, his older colleague went downstairs to the ambulance, returning a minute or so later with a stretcher.

I sent Martin downstairs to be with Emily. He looked exhausted. I wondered what he felt like inside. Make yourself a good strong cup of tea, I said.

I watched the paramedic construct the stretcher, deploying handles and straps before helping his colleague to manoeuvre Finn onto it. Not an easy task by any means, but from the look of things they’d had to deal with aggressive patients in the past.

‘It probably looks worse than it is,’ said the younger paramedic.

‘This just helps protect everyone.’

Finn bucked and wriggled and bellowed and swore, but all to no avail. His experienced adversaries soon had him attached securely to the stretcher with straps across his chest, elbows, legs and feet.

Finally they immobilised his head with a strap around his forehead.

For some reason this made me think of Frankenstein’s monster.

Then they hoisted him up and, with some difficulty given the limitations of space in the hallway, transported him down the stairs and out to the ambulance. While the older paramedic stayed 62

with Finn, the younger one went back to the house to check on Emily. Happily, just bruising. Nothing that can’t be sorted out with regular doses of Ibuprofen or Paracetamol.

‘Now, what about you two?’ he said, looking at Martin and I. Nothing physical, we both agreed. All our damage is on the inside.

Leaving Martin to take Emily back home, I rode in the ambulance with Finn to Stoneham Park Hospital, which is about thirtyfive minutes away. I sat in the waiting room with a cup of vending machine coffee while the paramedics talked to the doctor on call, and Finn was checked over by the nurses.

When I went in to see him, Finn was no longer restrained. He had been put into a hospital gown and placed underneath the starched white sheets and grey blankets in a hospital bed. His eyes were closed, his breathing regular. He looked genuinely rested, as though the traumatic events of the last couple of hours were sequences from someone else’s life.

The doctor spoke to me. He reassured me that Finn’s situation was not life-threatening; that he had been stabilized by an injection of Zyprexa, which I knew was a brand name for Olanzapine, an anti-psychotic drug usually administered if a patient is overly excited, agitated or aggressive. Finn had certainly ticked the last two boxes. The doctor informed me that they would keep Finn in overnight for observations, but provided there was nothing out of the ordinary, he’d be able to come home the following day.

The doctor asked me what might have triggered the episode. I don’t know, doctor, I said. I wish I did, then perhaps we could avoid it in the future. I mentioned the incident at College to him, but he didn’t seem to think that it could account for the behaviour he’s exhibiting right now. If Finn had been the one smashed on the head with the tray he might think differently, but since he came away relatively unscathed the doctor didn’t feel he could confidently identify a physical cause to Finn’s sudden loss of control. I would need to speak to my consultant of course, but the doctor did venture his opinion that the schizophrenia may be moving into another phase.

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I felt the need to speak to Dr Harper at that very moment. He had given me his home number should there ever be an out-of-hours emergency, and I was extremely tempted to call him from the hospital waiting room. Ultimately I resisted, talking myself out of it, arguing that it wasn’t a true emergency any more because Finn was in hospital being looked after. I would call Dr Harper tomorrow during surgery hours and arrange to see him with my concerns.

After a last look in at Finn, I walked through the hospital in a bit of a daze. A few other night visitors were wandering around too, some clutching little carrier bags or bunches of flowers. In the entrance way I used my mobile to phone Martin, updating him briefly about what was happening with Finn, and asking him if he’d mind playing taxi.

‘On my way,’ he said.

I slumped onto a bench just outside the hospital doors. If a cool breeze had not been blowing gently on my face I swear I’d have fallen asleep right there. I was in that place that exists beyond tiredness, where all the body wants to do is shut down, rest, recuperate, recharge.

I don’t remember the journey home. The last thing I heard was the click of the seatbelt. I do remember being confused when we got back to the house. The stopping car must have somehow jogged me awake, and I recall hearing someone talking to me, which I discovered was not Martin, but a DJ on Radio 2. Martin was full of questions of course, but I wasn’t capable of giving any answers – at least not in a language Martin would have understood. I stumbled up the stairs, fell into bed, and was promptly unable to get to sleep. Martin climbed in beside me, said goodnight, and nodded off almost immediately.

There was so much stuff going through my head, it was like Waterloo Station in the Friday rush hour. Some thoughts were running, late for their train, others headed for the Underground, descending gently via escalator into the chaos below, some made a stop for espresso and a bun; some thoughts were meeting friends, or family or lovers, some were skipping off the platforms in pursuit of their dreams; others harboured ideas of ending it all beneath a set of wheels from South West Trains.

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Update.

Although I’ve written this diary entry today it deals with the events of 20th November. However, I need to add a couple of things that have happened since.

Finn was discharged from hospital the next day (21st November) and is recovering further at home. He is due back at College next week. Both Martin and I have attempted to discuss what happened with him, but he’s very vague about the whole affair.

Clarity may come with time, so we’ll just have to wait it out.

I have spoken to Emily and extended an open invitation to visit Finn. I thought she may have been a bit hestitant; once bitten, twice shy, that sort of thing, but she’s more than happy to put one bad experience behind her and come to the house again. She must be an optimist, I think. We haven’t inked the date in yet as she’s got some Art coursework that needs her attention right now, but we’ll arrange something between now and Christmas.

I spoke to Dr Harper this morning. I explained the circumstances and, as usual, he was very sympathetic. In fact, he was more concerned with how myself, Martin and Emily were dealing with the aftermath of Finn’s meltdown. I can’t answer for Emily, though she does seem to be okay about it all, but I told Dr Harper that Martin and I are talking to each other more – I mean talking to each other more about Finn. Martin is much more supportive of me these days. I don’t feel like I’m trying to carry everything.

I told Dr Harper about the hospital doctor’s question. He told me that doctors always like to have causes for things so they can explain them, not only to their patients but also to themselves.

Finn’s sudden change in behaviour could be due to a number of things, but Dr Harper believes there is no value in speculation.

Which is why he’s recommended a further visit to Dr Belzaku at Brackendale. He suggested I phone the hospital to arrange an appointment, which I did earlier this afternoon. I’ve got an appointment for Finn at the beginning of February! I did say that I could come at a moment’s notice, so hopefully we might get a cancellation before then. I hope so. February seems forever away.

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13 Entry 005/23 November 2008 Out of hospital now.

Don’t know what to think about it all. My pieces aren’t joining up again.

Mum and Dad talk to me like I must remember. But I don’t.

They might as well be someone else’s parents talking to me about someone else’s problem. I’ve got pieces, that’s all I’ve got.

Jumbled, disjointed, scattered. A landscape of fragments. I think of it like radio static. Sometimes a radio station drops out and you get white noise. Nothing lives in the white noise. You lose all sense of continuity when that white noise kicks in. The sense of things is lost, and most often you can’t recreate the missing segment.

That’s what’s happened to me. I can’t reassemble the whole story. I have too many blanks. And the bits I do have don’t make sense because of the blanks.

It makes me very frustrated. I can’t tell my own story. It’s in the hands of other people. What if their recollections are unreliable?

Believing means believing their lies. It means I’m being fabricated, being fed false memories. Just like Dr Tyrell’s replicants in Blade Runner. False memories are used as a means of control. Is this happening to me? Am I being controlled by my parents? The very people who are supposed to love me and care for me are in fact controlling me, deciding who I should be?

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I don’t know what to think.

I don’t know what to do.

Perhaps I should ask E. I know he’ll be able to help.

9.30pm.

I decided to take a break from typing, mainly because when I looked up from my keyboard after typing out all the words above, I noticed Stellar sitting on the bed. I wondered afterwards if my nose had somehow alerted me, because she always wears a very distinctive perfume – although not distinctive enough for me to actually remember the name of it.

‘Hey, handsome,’ she said, when she knew that I had noticed her.

Hello, Stellar, I replied. What brings you round here?

‘See my favourite hunk of a guy,’ she said, her voice all sort of low and seductive and breathy, like all those sultry bombshell sirens from 1930s film noir. ‘And because I missed you at the hospital. But that’s alright, darling (which she pronounced dahling, just like I imagined Marlene Dietrich might), because you know how much I love to make house calls.’

Stellar. Stellar. What can I say about Stellar? She’s sexy. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s not really my type at all, much too brash and over-the-top, in your face and full-on. But that’s not to say that she isn’t still sexy. Chaz says that men think about sex every seven seconds, but Stellar must think about it every one second. It seems to inform everything she does. And says. And is.

Firstly, she’s not blonde. Everyone thinks that when you say someone is a sexy bombshell that they are automatically blonde.

Not Stellar. Kind of dark reddish is how I described her own hair to her when we first met. Auburn, darling, auburn, she corrected me. Well, her auburn hair is long and wavy and she never wears it tied back in a ponytail or in plaits or anything. Her hair is like her morals I think: worn loose. She always dresses in either a figurehugging black dress or a figure-hugging red dress. Definitely favours figure-hugging! And leg-revealing. Her dresses come to an abrupt halt mid-thigh. She also does that thing that a lot of women do: she co-ordinates accessories. So, if she’s wearing her 67

black dress she’ll have on red stilettos and carry a red clutch bag; a red dress means black shoes and a black bag. In her heels she’s slightly over six feet tall, which means she makes a real impact on any room. At this point I was also going to mention the fact that she’s got big tits, but I remember that I got reprimanded by my English tutor for writing that very thing to describe one of the characters in a novel we were studying. According to her I should have described the woman in question as ‘having an ample bosom’. So that’s how I’m going to describe Stellar, as a vampish twenty-something with an ample bosom. Even though Stellar herself would tell you she’s got ‘big tits’.

In fact, and I know I’m going on a bit here, Stellar’s name came about because of her tits. We were having a bit of a gathering a year or so ago, just drinks and nibbles really, with E and Flower and 3 and Mr Mixie, when in walked Stellar. She was captivating and oozed glamour and sexiness like a supermodel in a perfume ad. We were stunned into silence, until it was broken by Mr Mixie.

‘Fuck me,’ he said with uncharacteristic vulgarity prompted by his intake of alcohol, ‘look at the tits on her! Inter-fuckin-stellar!’

And that’s how Stellar got her name. Oh, and how Mr Mixie got his permanently damaged foot. After her somewhat rude introduction, Stellar smiled her way across to Mr Mixie. She did a hostile takeover of his personal space, getting so close that he disappeared from her view, hidden by the overhang of her voluptuous breasts. Mr Mixie must have thought he was blessed to be such a short man. However, just at that moment when he might have expected to enter seventh heaven, he found himself on the wrong side of the threshold of the house of pain. Stellar, smiling at the rest of us, brought her stiletto down quite deliberately on top of Mr Mixie’s right foot. She didn’t stamp his foot, merely placed her heel on top of it and slowly transferred her weight to it. For added emphasis she twisted the heel slightly. Mr Mixie’s pain receptors, only partially deadened by the booze, registered the searing red hot poker squirming into his foot and he squealed at the extreme hurt of it all.

When Stellar released his foot and stood back, Mr Mixie crum68

bled in a heap on the floor, gripping his injured foot with both hands and moaning to himself.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry darling,’ breathed Stellar, ‘but I didn’t see you there underneath my inter-fuckin-stellar tits!’

From that day to this Stellar always refers to Mr Mixie as ‘the limp dwarf’, which, aside from the obvious sexual connotations, is also a direct reference to Mr Mixie’s short stature, and to the fact that the damage Stellar inflicted on his right foot has resulted in a permanent limp.

So, that’s Stellar for you.

How did you know I was in hospital anyway, Stellar?

‘Flower got in touch, darling. Said she’d heard it from E. Honestly, darling, sometimes I think he has a monopoly on knowing things. I swear he’d just know at exactly what moment and from which newsagents to buy a winning lottery ticket.’

Good old E, he’s like a Batman utility belt on legs.

‘I watched you sleeping all night,’ said Stellar. ‘You were so still.

Sometimes I got frightened and I leaned in really close to hear your breathing.’

Why did you do that?

‘Because I didn’t want you to be dead.’

I’m sorry your visit was wasted. Mum told me that they shot me full of an anti-psych drug to stabilise me, so I was well out of it.

‘I know.’

What? How could you know about the drugs? You weren’t watching them inject were you?

‘Oh Finn, darling, how gross. I didn’t watch them do anything.

And I admit I didn’t “know” about the drug, but I had very strong suspicions after…’

After? After what?

‘Well, Finn, what’s a girl to do? I was there all alone with you, at night. You were naked apart from a hospital gown which, incidentally darling, wouldn’t cover a six year-old. I was curious. I couldn’t help myself. I reached under the covers and ran my hand 69

up the inside of your thigh.’

Jesus, Stellar! You’d fuck a man in his hospital bed? You have no inhibitions and no morals!

‘Oh Finn, please. I wasn’t going to climb on top of you. I just wanted to give you a wet dream to remember me by in the morning. But I couldn’t because you didn’t react. I tried, but you didn’t get hard. I was disappointed to say the least, darling. I’m not accustomed to failure in that department. My fingers are very dexterous, darling, everyone says so. And that’s when I began to think that perhaps it was drugs and not your young, pliable body that was denying me.’

Thank God for the drugs, Stellar! Think of the embarrassment.

‘Oh darling, it’s all an adventure.’

I went downstairs and got Stellar a lager from the fridge. She preferred Martini of course, but lager was all Dad drank, so that’s all he bought. I brought it back into the bedroom and put it on the bedside cabinet. Stellar took my arm and made me sit on the bed next to her.

I wondered which was more intoxicating: the lager or her perfume.

‘Have you spoken to Emily since it happened?’ said Stellar.

Emily?

‘Yes, Emily. You hurt her you know.’

Stop! Stop right there, Stellar. You weren’t there, so you don’t know anything. Now, I was there, but I don’t remember a goddamn fucking thing! I’ve been over and over this with Mum and Dad. I must know what I did. I must remember. Why did it happen? On and on! Once and for all, I didn’t know what I was doing that night. I was completely out of it. I don’t want to accept secondhand memories as my own! Now, I have spoken to Emily as it happens, and because she has no reason to lie to me, I’m prepared to believe that I was responsible for hurting her. I apologised to her, and she understands that I didn’t mean to hurt her.

She also understands that it’s difficult for me to apologise for something I don’t remember doing. I told her I thought it felt like 70

a hollow apology. Or a non-apology. Emily knew what I was trying to say. Emily is very good at knowing what people mean.

‘You like her a lot, don’t you darling?’

I suppose. She’s fun to be with. Clever, too.

‘Tell me, darling, is she more than that? Is she your girlfriend?’

Not you as well! It’s a conspiracy of matchmakers! First it’s Chaz, now you. What is wrong with you people?

‘I have no idea. And no idea who Chaz is either, darling. Is he tall, dark and handsome?’

He’s a Goth, how much darker do you want?

‘A trip to the dark side might be a very entertaining diversion, Finn darling.’

Sisters of Mercy?

‘Is this what you’re like with Emily? Would Emily know what you mean? You are a strange one sometimes, Finn Maguire. So Emily is not your girlfriend then?’

Not my girlfriend. Shall we talk about something else now?

‘So you’ve never kissed her?’

No. Never kissed.

‘You’ve never run the tip of your tongue inside her mouth, down her neck, over her breasts to the delicate bud…’

Stellar! Stellar, it’s a sickness with you isn’t it? You can’t leave it alone, can you? I’ve just said I haven’t even kissed Emily. Ever. Yet here you are, off and running with what sounds like a first draft sex scene from a Jackie Collins novel.

‘Sex is what makes the world go round, Finn darling. It’s what nature is all about. It’s what my nature is all about. I can’t imagine my life without sex.’

Really? Sounds like just another drug to me; another way of someone controlling you.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like, Finn darling. That’s what I’m trying to say, that you should experience it for yourself; experience the joy of losing yourself in the intimacy of another human being, savour that closeness, that passion. I can see you and Emily together in this way. You do have feelings for her, don’t you?

Urges, perhaps? Be truthful now, you can tell me everything, 71

darling. I can help you if you’ll let me.’

Your lager’s going flat, Stellar.

‘So’s your love life, darling.’

She downed the lager almost in a single gulp and then, most unladylike, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She belched. Then giggled.

‘You want her, Finn. I know you do. She’s coming round again, isn’t she? Isn’t she? Your silence betrays you, darling. You are so transparent to me. I can see your innermost thoughts, darling, and they are the same as my thoughts.’

What you need to see is a cold shower, Stellar. Or get yourself to a club or something where you can get some action.

‘How about a warm shower? And you can scrub my back?’

Stellar! Enough!

‘Alright darling, I’m only joking. Just my little fantasy. You’re so serious sometimes. Don’t you know fantasy from reality?’

No. I don’t. For all I know you could be a fantasy.

‘Oh darling, there’s no could be about it, I am a fantasy.’

There was no stopping her. Once she was on her favourite subject she was like an unstoppable train. With carriages full of shower scenes, dodgy dubbed dialogue and a wobbly Spanish guitar soundtrack! I excused myself on the pretext of getting myself a drink, but really I just wanted a break from Stellar’s sex talk.

When I got back to my room Stellar was gone, leaving as quickly as she had arrived. Only the lingering scent of her perfume gave any indication that she had been there at all.

And the lipstick on the empty glass.

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14 Italian Christmas Beth’s diary 15 December 2008 We find ourselves deep in the heart of the silly season. Christmas.

Hugely popular but wildly overrated. Less shopping days, more bargains, more pre-Christmas sales, more products to covet.

Every year since Finn was about eight, we’ve had a Christmas list from him. The list has got shorter over the years, but the items on it have become more expensive. When he was younger, Finn used to spend hours on the living room carpet poring over the Argos catalogue, or the WHSmith brochure, or leaflets from his favourite video games shop and music store. These days he just Google’s everything. Shopping made easy. He e-mails the web links to us from his laptop, we click and pay, then everybody relaxes until the postman or courier turns up to deliver it. Unless you’re really close to Christmas, when a last-minute panic is necessary, together with some last-minute praying!

Well, that’s got my festive gripes out of the way. Finn calls it my “Grinch-mode” when I’m banging on about Christmas, and how it all used to be so different “in my day”.

College breaks for the holiday period in two days’ time, so we’re gearing up for Finn being around all day until the new year. He’s pretty self-sufficient, cooking for himself and even washing up! If 73

I ask him, he’ll put the washing machine on too. Last week, Finn finally arranged for Emily to make a return visit to us. It might have been best for her to come round during the Christmas break, but since she’s going away on the first day of the holiday, and isn’t returning until about three days before the start of the spring term, we had a very small window of opportunity. So she came round this afternoon.

‘Go on up, Emily,’ I said, ‘Finn’s expecting you. Oh, and tell him we’ll be eating about seven o’clock. Vegetarian pizza is okay for you, isn’t it? I did ask Finn to make sure you like it.’

‘That’s fine, Mrs Maguire,’ she said. ‘Finn knows I love pizza. So much that I’m sure one of my ancestors must be Italian!’

We sat down to eat around 7.30pm. Partly my fault I’m afraid, I got sidetracked by a seemingly endless Christmas card list and I didn’t ring Mama Bella’s to place my order until about 6.45pm.

They said twenty minutes, but the delivery man was new and he got a bit lost trying to find us.

Martin and I, Emily and Finn sat around the table in the lounge.

I’d taken the pizzas out of their cardboard delivery boxes and put them onto large plates so everyone could help themselves. Because Emily was going to be away over Christmas, skiing with her parents in Italy, lucky girl, Finn had decided to throw an early Christmas dinner for her. Italian-style, of course. He’d been up in the loft and rooted about to find a small decorative tree, about nine inches tall, that he decorated with tinsel and sparkly things to make a perfect centrepiece for the table. We had glasses of wine, Sicilian Pinot Grigio from Marks & Spencer and the perfect accompaniment to any festive meal, Christmas crackers!

Finn had organised it all himself. I was really proud of him, and I know Martin was too. I heard them talking in the kitchen when Finn came down to put the wine in the fridge. Martin has really made good on his promise to reconnect with us, and especially with Finn, and I could hear him saying how well he thought Finn was coping with everything, and how proud he felt that, in spite of everything, Finn was trying to keep his life going. He mentioned 74

College and asked Finn what he thought about doing after that.

Even offered to speak to his boss and see if he’d agree to find Finn a job in the office, just to tide him over until he found something else. Good old Martin! Ever the realist. He knew as well as I did that Finn would never agree to a future in accountancy. But a temporary money-earner? Who knows? Maybe.

Christmas is a family time. And that’s exactly what it felt like as we all sat round that table, chomping on stuffed crusts and trying to wind stringy cheese round the wedges of pizza. It felt like we were a family. Even Emily being there seemed right. She’s a lovely girl. Full of the joys. Very free spirited too, but in a sensible way, not a carefree, devil-may-care, reckless way. I can see why Finn is drawn to her. Emily is very good at listening. She is gentle and non-judgmental, and you feel you can tell her anything. I’m sure she would make an excellent counsellor or social worker. It occurred to me that perhaps sometime in the new year I might ask her whether she would consider coming to volunteer at Dreamland. Some of our more vulnerable kids would respond very well to Emily, I think.

We swapped stories. We laughed a lot. We told Emily about Finn’s first pet, a little white mouse called Moose; so-called because Finn couldn’t at that time pronounce “mouse” correctly.

Finn loved his little pet, and often let him out of his cage to run around his bedroom. Everything was blocked off with bits of wood or stuffed with old curtains so he couldn’t get in somewhere we couldn’t get him out of.

We told Emily how Finn had caused a riot at school one lunchtime.

It happened when he was in Year 2 at Hillingcote Primary. The pupils ate their school dinners in the hall, on tables set out by the kitchen staff and benches to sit on. Finn had gone with the rest of his classmates, queued up to pay for the meal, gone to the servery for his food and then tried to find a spare seat at a table. It was still quite busy in the hall, with a lot of the younger children taking a long time to finish their food, so Finn and a couple of his mates waited patiently while a table of Year 1 children downed the last of their pudding and prepared to put their dirty dishes and cutlery on their tray.

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Then one of the year 1 girls screamed, dropping her tray on the floor and scattering cutlery under the table and broken crockery everywhere else. Everyone looked at her. Then they looked at where she was pointing. There, on the table, running happily amongst the plates and bowls, was a little white mouse! Panic.

Pandaemonium. Screaming and yelling and running. Food spilling everywhere, children slipping. Absolute chaos! Finn just stood there and laughed of course. Moose must have climbed into his trouser pocket before Finn had put the trousers on that morning.

It’s hard to imagine Finn not noticing little Moose moving around in his pocket, but there you are. Needless to say, after that incident, for which Mr Maguire and I were summoned to the school by the headteacher, we took great care to make sure that Moose was all present and correct in his cage before Finn went to school.

When it was Emily’s turn to tell, she shared a story about one of her first skiing trips to Italy. When she was nine she went with her parents to Santa Caterina on the Amalfi Coast. Her parents had been keen skiers since their honeymoon in Austria, where they both skied for the first time. Since then they had favoured the Italian slopes, and returned each year at Christmas time. Emily loved it, because unlike Britain, snow is practically guaranteed. Her parents often talked about how the Christmases of their youth were cold and white. There’s something very magical about a white Christmas, almost as though it’s not a proper Christmas without snow on the ground.

Emily told us that on this particular trip to Santa Caterina they had met up with another young family. They were German, from Stuttgart, but spoke fluent English because the husband had worked for some number of years at an oil company in Kent.

Emily struck up a friendship with their young son, Bruno. Without Bruno, she said, I might not be alive today.

They had all gone up to the slopes around midday. Both sets of parents, who were good skiers, wanted to ski the more challenging slopes, so they arranged for Emily and Bruno to be tutored on the beginner slopes. But there was a huge crowd of people there, all slapping around on their skis, poles waggling in the air; and 76

there only appeared to be one instructor. So Bruno suggested they find a quieter place to learn. He’d watched his parents long enough to feel that he could confidently learn on his own. Emily could watch and learn from him. Like a lot of bad ideas, this sounded very good at the time, and Emily followed Bruno away from the slopes and up beyond the taped-off boundary.

They were both concentrating so hard on practicing their technique, which mainly consisted of finding the least painful way to fall on their bottoms, that not only did they lose all track of time, but also all sense of direction. When they eventually stopped to take stock of their surroundings they noticed that they were a long way from civilisation, and a lot further up the mountainside than they had realised. Worse still, a steady snow had been falling, which blotted out all trace of their passage through the snow. They would not be able to follow their own footsteps out of the white wilderness.

They had been gone too long. Their parents would be beside themselves with worry. They would be searching, alone or with experienced searchers. The snow was growing heavier and dusk was beginning to eat up the light. Emily said that she and Bruno were tired and aching, and more thirsty than hungry. Emily was terrified that no-one would find them and she’d never see her parents or schoolfriends or anybody else ever again. Bruno was less worried. He had been around snow before in his native Germany. More snow than they get in England. They should look for somewhere sheltered, to wait for the search party to find them. They decided to head up to a tree line in the middle distance, hoping that searchers might also see the landmark as a source of shelter and investigate.

In the trees they discovered that some of the huge firs had fallen one across the other, resulting in a natural structure that would enclose and protect them if they dug down into the snow. They scraped at the snow with what strength they had left, until a hollow big enough for two bodies was created. Then they lowered themselves into the chamber; trunks at angles either side served as windbreaks, and the two trees resting on them formed a kind of roof, although the snow could still get through.

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They waited. It grew darker. And colder. Hunger started to nibble at them. Emily began to cry. Bruno tried to distract her with stories from Germany about traditional Christmas markets and the games that children played around the fire and about the village Christmas tree decorations. But the stories didn’t stop the cold from worming its icy fingers through Emily’s ski jacket. And they didn’t provide food.

Eventually the cold consumed Emily and all she could do was shake. Her teeth chattered and her hands were so cold they felt like they were burning. Bruno too was feeling the effects of the frigid weather. So they did the only thing that they could do. They sought out the warmth of another human body. Like when you’re young and you get cold at night, you sneak into bed with Mum and Dad and snuggle up so you’re nice and warm.

That’s what Emily and Bruno did. After scraping more snow out of the hollow so they would be able to lay down more easily, they stood facing each other and took off their ski jackets. Bruno tied his jacket sleeves together, struggling to knot the thick fabric.

Emily followed Bruno’s example, then they put the jackets on again, wearing them like cloaks. Next came the trickiest part of the manoeuvre. Bruno bent down and held his jacket sleeves out so they formed a hoop, which Emily stepped into. As Bruno brought his sleeves up behind Emily’s back, Emily dropped her own knotted sleeves down over Bruno’s head. When they faced each other again they were joined together by a band of knotted sleeves. They gently lowered themselves into the enlarged hollow, with Bruno laying against the snow and Emily balanced on top of him.

For Emily, it did not matter that a young boy’s hands were on her body; it mattered only that those hands were trying to keep her warm. Despite the cold and their rather precarious positioning, both Emily and Bruno must have fallen asleep, for Emily recalled afterwards that they were only dimly aware of torchlights playing over them and several men with big gloved hands lifting them up from the snow. That was the last time Emily saw Bruno, but she often thinks of him on her skiing trips, and where she might have been without him.

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We were captivated. Young Emily certainly knows how to tell a story. Finn seemed a bit subdued, but that might be because he couldn’t drink the wine because of his medication. Before we finished our meal with Christmas Pudding, that good old traditional favourite, we pulled our crackers. We suffered the usual bad jokes, and marvelled at the completely pointless offerings inside the cardboard tubes before putting to good use the only thing of value in any cracker: the hat.

Afterwards, Martin and I shared the washing up duties while Emily and Finn went up to his room. I’m just thankful that Emily’s visit has been a much less traumatic and painful experience for her.

Martin took Emily home about 11.30pm. I had expected Finn to accompany her, but he stayed in his room. To be honest, he was probably tired. He’s not used to this much socialising! Emily looked tired too, and subdued like Finn had been at the meal table. Too much wine, perhaps?

As she got into the car she mouthed “thank you” at me, and gave a little wave.

I waved back.

12.45pm.

It’s late and I’m tired too. Martin’s already in bed and probably asleep. I’m only writing this because the Christmas pud is repeating on me. I knew it might when I was eating it.

Hope Finn’s going to get up for College later on this morning.

His light’s still on and I can hear the faint pulse of music.

All in all, it’s been a good day. I’m off to sleep now, tired but happy. Most un-Grinch-like!

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15 Entry 006/16 December 2008 It’s all fucked.

I don’t understand it. I don’t know why people do this to me. I thought Christmas was all about love and stuff, not let’s piss Finn off by making him look stupid. And Emily and that German git!

I wanted it to be perfect. Did I expect too much? Can’t people like me attain perfection? I’d arranged it all, even the little plastic tree that we put on the table that it took me ages to decorate. And the crackers, and wine, and it was all set out, with me next to Emily, then Mum and Dad on the opposite side. The Italian theme had been pretty much my idea, because it tied in so well with pizza.

Well, a fucking bad idea that turned out to be. Italian! It didn’t mean Emily had to tell a fucking Italian story to go with the meal.

I didn’t say we should have themed stories. I didn’t say we should have any sort of stories. And my parents! What a couple of fucking imbeciles! The last thing you want, in your final teenage year, is some story from primary school about a stupid little mouse. I loved that mouse when I was seven years old! Now, it’s a distant memory in a shoebox in the back garden. Of our old house!

It was going so well until the mouse story. I actually thought we looked like a “normal” family, gathered round the table for Christmas dinner. With wine and proper silver cutlery, and everyone happy and relaxed. Then the mouse! Why the mouse? What the fuck were they thinking of, dredging up that old story when there 80

are thousands of others they could have picked? Stories that didn’t make me look stupid.

Who didn’t notice they had a mouse in their pocket, then?

Everybody laughed. My so-called mates pissed themselves.

Teacher didn’t. Headteacher didn’t. Bastards. All bastards, every last one of them. I was “Mouse Maguire” until the day I left primary school. I sounded like some stupid kid show cartoon detective, probably with a cat for a sidekick. And, just like the cat in Hong Kong Phooey, the cat would know more than the stupid mouse detective.

I’m so angry with my parents for humiliating me in that way with Emily. I wanted to make a good impression, but everything just turned to shit. I’ll just be a stupid mouse carrier from now on, that’s all she’ll remember. Even though she says she enjoyed the story and thought it was hilarious, and wished she could have done that at her school, which was a bit posh and they gave out house leader detentions for even wearing the wrong colour socks and not having your hair tied back if it was long.

Emily could tell there was something wrong with me when we went up to my room after having our Christmas pudding. She’s very good at picking up on little things; things that other people might not notice, like body language and subtle changes in personality.

‘You’re unhappy Finn,’ she said, all matter-of-fact.

Oh yeah, you got that right! Unhappy because I am so pissed off.

‘Is it me?’ she asked, looking at me in a strange way; the way in which I imagined a psychic might look at me after having read my thoughts.

Yes. No. I don’t know. It’s everything. It’s my stupid parents and that stupid mouse story. It’s your story. It’s Bruno.

‘Bruno?’ said Emily, surprised. ‘What’s Bruno got to do with anything?’

He was in your story.

‘Sure. It’s just a story Finn. I told it so you wouldn’t feel bad about your Mum and Dad telling the mouse story. I could see you 81

didn’t like them telling it, and especially you didn’t seem to like them telling me. So I told you an embarrassing story of my own, in the hope that it would make you feel better. Or if not better, at least not alone in having something embarrassing happen to you when you were younger. But all the same, it’s just a story.’

It’s not just a story, and you didn’t need to tell it.

‘Look Finn,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to, you should know that. I thought it would help you.’

If you’d really wanted to help you wouldn’t have told the story, you’d have chosen a different one. It had pretty much the same effect on me as the mouse story. It’s all about betrayal. Betrayal of trust. I kind of trusted my parents not to tell anyone about the lunchtime mouse event. But no, they dragged it up from the mud of history and paraded it like an exalted banner at the head of the procession.

‘I think you’re reading too much into it, Finn,’ said Emily.

‘Really. It’s just one minor detail in the whole of life’s rich tapestry.’

God is in the detail, Emily. Everyone knows that.

‘And Bruno? Bruno’s even more irrelevant to you.’

Of course he’s not. You just want him to be irrelevant to me. So I might not register what he means to you.

‘Finn! I last saw him when I was nine. That’s nine years ago.

Half my lifetime. He’s as gone now as he was then.’

But you and him. In your story. You don’t just get that close to someone, with his hands on you like that, and you on top of him, close enough to share breath, and have it all mean nothing.

‘We were keeping warm, Finn. We were trying to survive. I was nine years old. And, anyway, why are you so bothered about what happened with Bruno and me all that time ago?’

I trusted you, Emily. But you’ve been keeping secrets from me. I had no idea you’d had a relationship, especially with a German.

‘Relationship? Finn, where are you getting this stuff from?’ She seemed angry with me, probably because I’d realised her dishonesty with me. Then she said, quite slowly, ‘Finn, did you take your medication today? You seem just a little wired right now. And weird, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

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I snapped at her. What are you, my nursemaid now?

‘All I’m saying is that you’re a little obsessive with the whole Bruno thing. You’re all knotted up inside, Finn. It’s not good to be like this. I was no more having a ‘relationship’ with Bruno than you were having one with your mouse. And both things are in the past now, so let’s bury them there and move on.’

There was a sudden silence after that. Emily asked to put some music on, scrolled through my playlists on the iPod and selected something that didn’t fully reach me, so I can’t tell you who it was she chose. I sat there with a face as grim as an inner city tower block, my mind churning over and over. I could feel something spiralling out from my centre, but it was not the feeling of something negative leaving me; more the feeling of some destructive force gathering momentum as it moved outwards.

Chaz said I should ask you round, I said to her. The first time, I mean, the time I don’t remember, when you say I attacked you.

That was Chaz’s idea.

‘What, that you attack me?’ Emily laughed, her eyes going wide like they were laughing too.

If you’re going to mock me, Emily, you might as well get my dad to give you a lift home now. I’m trying to talk to you seriously.

You know I didn’t mean that! I meant it was Chaz’s idea to invite you here. Because you’d never been here before. We’d only ever been out with a group of friends for drinks, and to Pizza Express and that other restaurant I never remember the name of. Always with other people.

Emily just looked at me. At first I thought it was just a blank look, like she’d switched off or something, but as I watched with increasing fascination I could see her working through some kind of process. I think it was a process of enlightenment because of what she said next.

‘Did Chaz ask you if I was your girlfriend?’

Yeah. He said you liked me.

‘Is that was this is all about, Finn? You want me to be your girlfriend?’

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I guess.

‘How long have we known each other Finn? A long time, right?

And in all that time we’ve been good friends, haven’t we? You’ve always been a friend to me, Finn. You know how I’m usually quite good on my people skills, I mean at figuring people out, their intentions and stuff? Well, I never once got any hint that you wanted to be more than friends.’

Does that mean no?

‘I don’t know, Finn. I mean I just don’t know. I’m confused.

Surprised. Shocked, even. I feel like I’ve wandered into somewhere I don’t belong, and I don’t know how to get back out again. I feel like I’m in a small space that’s getting smaller, and I’m in danger of being crushed.’

I’ve fucked up, haven’t I? Everything else is messed up, why should I expect this to be any different? I should never have listened to Chaz.

‘It’s not Chaz’s fault, Finn, he just suggested that you invite me round. And he’s right, I do like you. And I like you being a boy and being my friend. I’m just not sure if I could like you as a boyfriend. It seems such a strange concept to me, after we’ve been friends so long. Perhaps it would be a bad thing; perhaps it would change us into people we didn’t like. I don’t know. I could be wrong.’

So, you’ll think about it then? About us, then?

‘I don’t know, Finn. I do think about your reaction to my story; about how Bruno seemed to spark a jealous rage in you. I can’t think about this quickly, Finn, and you can’t rush me. It’s not fair.

I don’t want you to think that I don’t value you as a friend, and I really want us to stay friends, but you’ll have to give me time to think through all this. Sorry Finn, but I can’t be spontaneous when it involves decisions, I come over all methodical and I have to examine everything so I don’t make a mistake.’

So. There we are. Zippity fucking doodah! What a sorry old mess. I’m not going to College today. Might go tomorrow as it’s the last day of term, we’ll see. Depends if I can bring myself to be 84

around Emily. She says she’s confused, but she’s confused the crap out of me, I can tell you. I don’t understand women. I know it’s a cliché, I know. Probably sexist and chauvinist as well. She keeps throwing Bruno at me. She says, oh, let’s bury him in the past – but she was the one who dug him up and told his story in my house at my table with my pizzas and wine and crackers. I think she told the story on purpose. I think Chaz told her that we’d talked about her being my girlfriend, and I think she arranged the whole thing to let me know that there was someone else.

Anyhow, she’s going to think about everything while she’s skiing in Italy over Christmas. Yeah, Italy. How do I know Bruno doesn’t go skiing there every year, too? Not knowing eats me up.

Happy Christmas.

Everything’s shit and then you die.

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16 night ride home Beth’s diary 16 December 2008 (Written by Martin) I know Beth has already written in her entry about the meal that Finn put on last night, so I don’t really have anything to add to that, but I just wanted to make a quick note about taking Emily home.

Emily lives about twenty minutes from us by car, in an older, quieter part of town. She was silent at first as we headed out along the dual carriageway past the shopping centre, and we both listened to the nighttime sounds of Radio 2 coming through the car speakers.

After a while, I noticed she was humming along to the radio.

‘You like this song, Emily?’ I said.

‘Not like, exactly,’ she replied, ‘I just know it, that’s all. My dad listens to this station and it seems to play a lot.’

‘What you mean is that it’s music for old people.’ I said, signalling to take the second right at the mini roundabout.

‘Oh no, I didn’t mean that, Mr Maguire,’ Emily said, worried that she’d offended me.

‘It’s okay Emily,’ I smiled, ‘I’m only joking.’

‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t know. I mean, Finn says you don’t have a 86

sense of humour.’

‘Why? Because I’m an accountant? Ah, maybe he’s right. I have my moments, I suppose.’

We turned off the main road onto a narrower road with more curves than a Bond girl. I flicked my beams onto full so I had a better view of the road and any wandering wildlife. It was a notorious stretch for hedgehogs.

‘I thought Finn might have come with us, to make sure you got home safely,’ I said.

‘Yeah, might have been nice,’ said Emily. ‘He’s acting a bit odd at the moment, though.’

‘Odd?’ I said, ‘In what way odd?’

‘I…’ She faltered in a way that suggested she didn’t really know how to answer the question.

‘You can tell me, Emily. I am his dad, after all.’

‘Oh, I know that Mr Maguire. And I do know what to say. It’s just a question of should I tell you?’

‘Deliciously mysterious, Emily,’ I said. She seemed to be caught up in some moral dilemma. To tell or not to tell, that is the question. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘if it’s private…’

‘Oh no, it’s… Well, yes, it is private really. But you are his dad.

And perhaps you should know.’

I waited. In the distance coming round the corner towards us was another car. I could see its headlights cutting through the dark, raking across the trees at the roadside. The lights suddenly dipped, the driver obviously aware of my oncoming presence.

Reflexively I dipped my own headlights.

‘He wants me to be his girlfriend,’ Emily said.

I found myself faltering for a second. I didn’t quite know what to say. I certainly didn’t want to say the wrong thing, but obviously I didn’t know what the right thing would be. But then I thought, what the hell, I’m an adult and she’s probably expecting me to say the wrong thing anyway.

‘Oh, does he? Well, you have known each other a long time I suppose.’

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‘As friends, Mr Maguire, as friends. And to be honest, that’s what he’s being so odd about. In all that time he’s never asked me out once. Never treated me like a girlfriend. We’ve never… you know, kissed like people do when they’re going out with each other.’

In a way this was good news to me, because it meant they hadn’t had sex either. Which meant I wouldn’t be a Grandad anytime soon, and Beth would no doubt be overjoyed at not being a Grandma just yet.

‘Perhaps he’s been shy about asking you, Emily,’ I said.

‘I don’t know, Mr Maguire, I really don’t understand him right now. He acted really strangely when we were in his room. First he got all annoyed with you and Mrs Maguire for telling the mouse story. Then he got annoyed with me for telling my story. He seemed particularly upset about Bruno, because of the events I described in Italy. He seemed irrationally jealous of someone who I told Finn I haven’t seen since that day when we were rescued together. He seems to suggest I’ve been unfaithful to him! And he’s really intense, and I felt really uneasy. Scared, almost. As though he was just seconds away from losing it, like he did the last time I came to your house.’

I didn’t like the sound of these new revelations. Finn had seemed okay to me before I left the house. A little tired maybe, but okay.

And now this. I wasn’t doing as good a job at fatherhood as I had imagined. I needed to brush up on my observation skills.

‘But they’re just stories, Emily. Silly stories. The mouse one I mean, yours wasn’t silly. A mouse on a lunch table is not a life or death situation.’

‘The mouse story was centred on Finn, and he told me he was nicknamed “Mouse Maguire” for the rest of his time at primary school. They took the mickey out of him and he felt persecuted I think.’

‘I didn’t know about the name-calling,’ I said. And I didn’t. Finn had never told us. But the memory of it obviously still haunts him today, which is why he got so upset about us telling the story.

‘I can understand his reaction to that,’ said Emily. ‘My story I 88

don’t understand, though. I mean I don’t understand its effect on Finn. He’s just imagined somehow that it’s to do with him; that I’ve somehow treated him badly. Yet despite all that, he still wants me to be his girlfriend.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘You’ve missed my turning, Mr Maguire,’ said Emily, a brief sound of panic in her voice. ‘Brandon Drive, we just passed it.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, looking a little embarrassed. ‘I’ll do a threepointer at this next turning, don’t worry.’

‘I told Finn I’d let him know in the New Year, when we’re back at College,’ said Emily, as I negotiated the Fiesta through a threepoint turn. We headed back down the road and I signalled to turn right into Brandon Drive.

‘I’m sorry, Emily. Your last visit went badly, and this one doesn’t seem to have been an improvement.’

I’m sorry too,’ she said. ‘Sorry to have burdened you with all this stuff. Thank you for listening by the way. I think it’s probably done me good to share, stops me from bottling it all up. Felt like I might explode if I didn’t talk about it, and, as my old chemistry teacher used to say, it’s not good when things explode!’

‘Perhaps that’s what’s going on with Finn,’ I ventured, ‘perhaps he’s experiencing a chemical reaction.’

‘You mean because of his medication?’ asked Emily.

‘No, I was thinking more of the wrong chemicals, and I’m thinking about chemicals in a metaphorical sense, the wrong chemicals being mixed together and causing an explosive reaction. Like your last visit. And, judging by what you’ve told me, like what nearly happened tonight.

‘I don’t really understand what you mean, Mr Maguire.’

‘I’m not sure I do either, Emily. I suppose that’s why I’m only an accountant and not a psychiatrist.’

We pulled to a stop at the curb outside Emily’s home. She unclipped her seatbelt and opened the car door, letting in the cold air from outside. Before she climbed out she turned and looked at me with a gaze that suggested a perplexed vulnerability.

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‘Do you think Finn will be alright?’ she said.

‘I’d like to hope so,’ I said, smiling. I thought it was important to smile, even though I didn’t much feel like it. ‘Goodnight, Emily.’

‘Merry Christmas, Mr Maguire.’

I thought about what Emily had said as I drove home. At one point I must have been thinking too hard, because I stopped concentrating on my driving. Suddenly I became aware of a family of hedgehogs crossing the road, their movement in my main beams resembling jerky stop-motion animation. It was late, I was tired, I’d had two glasses of wine, and I over-reacted. I swung the car wildly to the right, failed to steer it left again, and ended up nearly crashing into a hedge. Thank God I’d had new brake shoes fitted at last month’s very expensive MOT. I was shaken up in more ways than one when I finally reached the safety of home. I must find a way to talk with Beth about what Emily told me. I’ll suggest that we don’t mention any of this to Finn. If he finds out that Emily has told us it might go badly, both for us and for Emily. And for Finn.

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17 Boxing Day I come floating in on Boxing Day. How dreamy is that? How perfect? How appropriate. It makes me scream with laughter just thinking about it.

I’m a long way from home, and it’s quite challenging moving through air, but here I am. It’s good to get out and visit your friends. Especially at Christmas. Kind of a universal thing, Christmas, isn’t it? Celebrated the world over, in sun, sand, rain or snow.

So I’m visiting. And where’s Finn? Still in bloody bed! It’s two o’clock in the afternoon! To be fair, he didn’t know I was coming, so I’m prepared to be a little lenient with him.

Oh well, I think three minutes is lenient enough.

Whoo! Ay, ay, ay! Man does that boy scream! I hit him with one of my tentacles. Just one. Just gently. Whammo! He’s up and squealing like a good ‘un. I’m at my most impressive when I’m not even trying.

Hey, Finn! Surprise! Merry Boxing Day! Pleased to see me, you bloody sleepyheaded bugger?

He can barely speak from pain. He’s clutching his shoulder, breathing in ragged clumps. Tears stream from his eyes. Poetry in motion, boy. I am without doubt a true artist. Admire my work.

‘B..B..B…’ he splutters.

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Come on boy, spit it out. Get more sense out of a banana.

‘B..Box bastard!’

Nope, still makes no sense. Good use of alliteration, but still bleeding senseless. Normally he just calls me Box, or Boxy or Boxer. Not the most imaginative name you’ll ever hear for a jellyfish, but Finn can sometimes be a bit literal with his naming of things. After he’d named me I got him to look me up on the National Geographic website. There, I said. Look! Sea Wasp.

Marine Stinger. Two names infinitely more interesting than Box! But he wouldn’t budge on it, and he’s called me Box ever since.

The first time I visited Finn I managed to scare the crap out of him. He had one of his walls painted blue, which was dead useful, because that’s what colour I am. In a transparent kind of way, you understand, not a solid colour. No, if I was a solid colour I would have to be the exact same colour as the wall to blend in. I’ve seen the octopus pull the trick off, but we jellyfish rely on being a bit see-through to achieve the same result.

So anyway, Finn comes into his room carrying a mug of tea and a plate of biscuits. It’s perfect! I love it when they’re carrying something. I’ve got all my tentacles, yeah, sixty if you want to count them, fanned out across the wall. I judge it just right and flick myself off the wall right in line with his face.

Boo! I’d seen flying fish and I’d seen a Flying Dutchman, but I’d never seen flying biscuits until that day. Oh yeah! Biscuits went up, mug went down. In the end it was all mush on the carpet. Finn was on the carpet too.

‘Oh, fucking hell, fucking hell.’

Hey there, me bucko, I’m new in town. Just happened to be passing and thought I’d call in!

I remember all my past exploits, me. Mind like a steel trap.

How did I find Finn? I couldn’t help myself, I was attracted to his chemicals. He’s covered in the stuff, it’s like manna from heaven. Lordy, lordy! I have to exercise so much self-restraint 92

when I visit. The urge to sting him is overwhelming, but I really have to ration myself otherwise we’d never talk about anything.

He’d be forever curled up like a foetus on his carpet, pain receptors going absolutely haywire and preventing him from doing just about anything meaningful. Yeah, I’ve got to hand it to myself, my toxin is a thing of beauty. When Finn looked it up on the National Geographic site we discovered that my poison is one of the deadliest in the world. Imagine that. No wonder everyone’s terrified of me! Even Manson, that old scumbag, even he’s scared shitless of me. My reach is so long you see. You come within ten feet of me and zap! Gotcha! Try and sneak through sixty of these poisonous strands to surprise me, you bastards! And then of course there’s my surveillance system. Yeah, that’s a real beaut!

I’ve got three hundred and sixty degrees of vision. Because I’ve got forty-eight eyes, you dummy. For-tee-eight! I can see everything everywhere. You can’t hide, you can’t escape. All you can do is get stung and get eaten.

So far, I’m resisting eating Finn. It’s not that I don’t think he’s edible, he is; I’ve tasted others like him and they’re completely delicious. No, it’s got something to do with the fact that we enjoy a symbiotic relationship. According to Finn, this is, so it could be nonsense. I think what this means is that we can’t do without each other; that we rely on each other to survive. What an absolute screamer that is! Finn sure got the shit end of the stick there. I know what you’re thinking: if he dies, I die. True. But there’s nothing in the rules about not causing pain, is there? I still get to inflict all the pain I want. I just have to remember not to make it terminal.

It’s all Finn’s fault anyway. Him and his bloody chemicals. He invited me in; he holds me prisoner as much as I hold him. Lately I’ve been thinking that the allure of his chemicals is as strong as the toxins in my tentacles. Perhaps we are more evenly matched than I have previously given him credit for. Except in the pain department of course, he can’t touch me there. I rule in the house of pain.

Finn begins breathing normally, but he still looks pale, like he’s 93

just seen his entire life pass in front of him. He’s hauled himself into a sitting position in his bed, backed right up against the headboard in an effort to get as far away from my tentacles as possible. There is fear in his eyes, and that’s just the way I like it. Fear breeds a certain kind of respect.

Okay now, Finn?

‘Jesus, Boxy, why d’you have to sting me every time? It kills!’

Nah, if I stung you properly you wouldn’t be asking any questions, I said. You would be dead!

‘Why did you sting me? You could have just called me?’

I don’t call people, Finn. That’s a stupid way. I waited patiently for you to wake up. Until I got pissed off with waiting and decided to nudge you out of your dreams.

‘Yeah, well, it hurts that’s all.’

You know you’re alive though, don’t you?

‘That’s a pretty piss poor reason for stinging someone. I don’t need pain to know I’m alive.’

Never underestimate the uses for pain, Finn. Now, how’s your heart?

‘Thumping, thanks.’

Skin cells?

‘Jangly. Oh, and that last time you got me on the arm? Viciouslooking scar, like I’ve been in a knife-fight, or like I’ve tried to slice myself up.’

CNS? ‘What? What’s that? New rock band?’

Central Nervous System, dipshit! That’s the one I love the most.

I can frazzle yours all to hell, but I don’t even have one. Gotta laugh, haven’t you?

‘I’m creased.’

Don’t be facetious, Finn or I’ll have to stroke you with a tentacle! Got any food around, I’m starting to feel peckish looking at you. Meat would be good, you know I’m a meat-eater. Something succulent and juicy. Medium rare lamb, perhaps?

‘You should have come round yesterday, we always have lamb on Christmas Day. You’re a day late, Boxy. This is leftovers day, 94

and I can tell you there’s no leftover lamb.’

Shit. Got me a present, then?

‘Did you get me one?’

No, but I thought about it. After all, it’s the thought that counts.

And I was thinking about you.

‘That’s why you haven’t got a present, Boxy, ‘cause I wasn’t thinking about you.’

Soon changed that though, didn’t I? Ah, that Boxing Day scream was music to my ears.

‘Why are you here, Boxy?’

I wanted to know what you got for Christmas, Finn. Hey, y’know it never occurred to me before now that your name is part of a fish. Fish have fins. Except for jellyfish.

‘Wow. Underwhelming insight into marine biology.’

Don’t push it, bucko, I might just lose control of a tentacle.

Now. Christmas. What did you get, and tell me all about those embarrassing presents from Aunties who forget you’ve got older and who still buy you things like you’re eight years old.

‘That’s all part of Christmas, Boxy, isn’t it? I’ve only got one Auntie who does that, Aunt Rita, and this year it was the same old set of three monogrammed handkerchiefs, with a little blue F embroidered in the corner. I didn’t know they even still made these things, but Auntie Rita manages to find them year after year.

Unless she bought the entire stock of them back when I was born.’

What else? You must’ve got more than that?

‘Nosey, aren’t you?’

It’s fun to know. It pleases me. It’s alright for you, but Christmas presents for jellyfish are rare as rocking horse shit.

‘You mean your Auntie doesn’t hand knit thirty pairs of socks for you each year, to keep those tentacles warm in colder climates?’

Finn, me bucko, it’s only because that’s almost funny that I’m not going to sting you!

‘That TV behind you there, that was my main present I suppose.

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Got it at the beginning of this month though, because Monkey Jowler trashed my other one.’

That old tosspot! You know if he had another fifty nine tails he’d be a hairy version of me. No good underwater, of course, but then I’m no good in trees. I haven’t seen him in months, how is the old bugger? Still manic?

‘Like a Mexican jumping bean pumped full of speed. He moved so fast when he was here last month I completely missed most of our time together; it was more gappy than a mouth full of tooth decay. Everyone says he’s bad news, that it was his fault I ended up in hospital. I’m not so sure. I mean, it’s not as though he’s really bad, he’s just got too much energy sometimes. And sometimes he goes too far with his jokes until they’re not funny anymore.’

That’s why I like him so much. There’s a real willingness to go that extra unnecessary mile just for the effect. Jowler’s a consummate professional and a real credit to the industry.

‘When are you leaving, Boxy?’

Not exactly the biggest festive welcome I’ve ever had, Finn. I know I didn’t bring you a present or anything, but I was at least hoping for a slice of Christmas cake. There’s a chemical in the icing that inhibits my natural inclination to sting, if you get my meaning.

‘I get that you’re trying to blackmail your way to a piece of cake. But you didn’t come all this way just to ask about my presents and nab yourself some cake, surely?’

You’re right, Finn, absolutely. I’m so transparent.

‘You’re a jellyfish, Boxy, you’re supposed to be transparent.’

One more like that, me bucko, and the stinging amnesty is cancelled! I meant transparent in the obvious, easily detectable sense of the word. You should know that, you’re a student of English.

‘So, you’ve got a hidden agenda then?’

Obviously.

‘Boxy, just tell me why you’re here! It’s like an archaeological dig with you! Each piece of information has to be teased out of the soil with a trowel and dusted off with a small soft brush.’

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Bruno sent me.

Finn. Finn? Are you hearing me? I said Bruno sent me.

Helloooo! Finn, what’s the matter with you? Someone flicked your off switch? Talk to me!

Hey, shit for brains, you in there? Don’t you dare get fuckin’ weird on me, you little shit!

FINN! Fuck! I’ll sting you! You talk to me right now or I’m gonna sting you!

Bastard, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Man, that squeal is definitely to die for! Kind of a trade off for the cake I won’t be getting now, I guess.

Flipping like a landed fish. Ace! Could watch this ‘til next Christmas.

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18 scream Beth’s diary 30 December 2008 We’ve finally got Finn back again. In body at least. With his mind it’s much more difficult to know what we’ve got. Anyway, Martin picked him up from Stoneham Park just after lunch today. He was in there longer this time, partly because of it being Christmas, partly due to the senior consultant wanting to run a series of tests intended to fill in the gaps in the hospital’s data set. For the last two days Finn has been on about being out in time for the New Year’s celebrations. I think he’d planned to meet up with Chaz and a few of his other mates down at The Silver Chalice, which has just recently re-opened after a refurbishment. I think they’re keen to start making money off their new restaurant facilities.

Funny, I thought we were having a really good Christmas; a good family time. We were distracted by the festivities. We took our eye off the ball, and it turned into a curve ball. We learned that not everything believes it’s the season of goodwill. Like schizophrenia.

Martin and I were an hour into the Boxing Day movie, the millionth screening of King Solomon’s Mines, when Finn started screaming. He’d seemed particularly tired the previous day, so we’d left him to sleep in. I went up around midday to ask if he 98

wanted a sandwich for lunch, but he wasn’t awake enough to make a coherent reply, so I left him.

At around half past two Finn’s screaming jolted us out of H. Rider Haggard’s fictional landscape and propelled us headlong into the gritty realism of our own. My heart was hammering in my chest. The noise made my skin crawl, and I thought of Regan MacNeil in The Exorcist, bellowing like a steer. But the devil was not upstairs in our house. Only Finn.

We found him dressed only in his boxers rolling around on the floor, his arms clasped round his body and his knees drawn up.

There was an angry red mark on his left shoulderblade, reminiscent of an injury caused by pressure. He continued to scream until there was nothing left except an agonized sobbing. He didn’t seem to register our presence in any way, and we got no response to our attempts to communicate with him.

He was tense and taut. Martin and I gave up trying to get him onto his bed. Unlike his last episode he was not actively fighting us, but he was in almost constant motion. The longer we were witnesses to whatever was happening to Finn, the more frightened we became. His eyes were open the whole time, yet it seemed to us that he was not looking at anything around him, including us.

He was focussed on something we couldn’t see.

When he began to get distressed and started hitting himself and banging his head on the floor we realised that we could do nothing for him. This time, Martin dialled 999 while I got the pillows off Finn’s bed and put them under his head to stop him really damaging himself.

Despite the fact that it was Boxing Day, the paramedics arrived quickly and dealt with Finn with their usual efficiency. And instead of the happy ending of King Solomon’s Mines followed by a glass of wine, I found myself occupying a fold-down seat in the back of an ambulance en route to the hospital.

Once medication had been administered and Finn was resting in bed the doctor spoke briefly to me, before being called on his pager to attend another emergency admission. The doctor seemed 99

to think that it might well be a repeat of Finn’s previous problems in November, with the only difference being that instead of directing his aggression outwardly at others it had been directed inwards. Hence the uncontrollable urge to hit himself. The doctor told me that there might be an outside chance that Finn had had some kind of a seizure, since the body movements that both I and the paramedics described to him suggested a possible disruption to the central nervous system. Testing for this would be a medical priority on the following day, as Finn’s current condition should have stabilised by that time.

As it turned out, further testing failed to find any conclusive evidence of seizure. The doctor reported that he was slightly concerned about, and spent some time examining, the red mark on Finn’s shoulderblade. Bruising on Finn’s arms and chest was directly attributable to being hit by a hand or a fist. But Finn could not have physically reached the site of injury on his shoulderblade, so that mark must have come from another source, which the doctor was not able to determine. It was a bit of a mystery. It bore certain characteristics of a burn, said the doctor. I told him there was nothing in Finn’s room that could have done that. He clearly didn’t like leaving the mystery unresolved, but all he could do was make a note of his findings and his opinion in Finn’s file.

Yesterday, I went with Finn and Martin to see Dr Grahamson, a senior psychiatrist who was not exactly on call, but had made himself available to see us in order to explain the test results in more detail and see what else might be done to help Finn.

As we introduced ourselves and took seats in Dr Grahamson’s office, I explained that we were under the care of Dr Belzaku at Brackendale. Dr Grahamson understood my concerns immediately, and reassured me that he would not be treading on Dr Belzaku’s toes, nor would he be implementing any changes to Finn’s treatment plan himself. He would pass all information on to Dr Belzaku, whose decision it would be as to what course of action to pursue.

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Dr Grahamson went through the test results with us, explaining it in layman’s terms, even though we have picked up some medical knowledge over the four years since Finn’s diagnosis. All three of us sat in silence as the psychiatrist led us through the data. We were hypnotised by his soft voice and relaxed manner. I imagined that he might be very good at being the voice of audiobooks. I glanced at Martin and Finn. Finn especially looked particularly alert, which made me very happy and was in stark contrast to his almost catatonic state on Boxing Day. Hospital was obviously agreeing with him.

According to Dr Grahamson, the test results do not suggest any sort of physiological trigger. In other words, the behaviour is not triggered by physical occurrences outside of Finn. Or, as the psychiatrist said, “it’s all in his head”. This, of course, was his little joke. He didn’t mean that Finn was making it all up, merely that the problem, as we all know, is that Finn has too many faulty neurotransmitters. His brain doesn’t work like mine. Or Martin’s.

Yet, he is the product of both of us. Perhaps jointly we are responsible for giving him the things that don’t work. But however it all came about, and to be honest I don’t think anyone truly knows the answer, we are the ones responsible for Finn. Sometimes it’s a huge burden. And then you stop and think: when is it too much of a burden to care for the one you love?

When Dr Grahamson had explained everything from his perspective, he asked us if we had any questions. He was looking directly at Finn, but Finn just smiled and shook his head. Martin cleared his throat and shuffled slightly in his chair.

‘What can be done,’ he said, ‘to stop these episodes? Or reduce the effects of them, if they can’t be stopped entirely? Some sort of therapy? Increased medication? New medication?’

Good question, I thought.

Dr Grahamson thought it was a good question too. He said that we should consider reviewing Finn’s current dosage of anti-psych medication. I told him that Finn was on Amisulpride at the moment, and had been since he was taken off the Chlorpromazine a couple of years ago.

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Dr Grahamson looked at Finn.

‘Are you taking your meds regularly, young man? Most problems occur when people stop taking their meds; symptoms get worse and worse until hospitalisation is the only option.’

Finn squirmed a bit and didn’t make eye contact. He mumbled something, but none of us could hear it.

I looked at Martin, and we exchanged furrowed brows and eyes wild with alarm. Could it be? Was this the root cause of it all?

And all because he’d not been taking his medication and we’d missed it? How could we be so blind? Had we trusted too much?

It’s the little things that trip you up just when you think you’re doing so well. I thought I was a responsible mother, but I realise now that no matter what level of care you provide it’s still possible to be negligent.

What Dr Grahamson said next made me go bright red. I could feel the heat rising from my neck upwards as the psychiatrist suggested we might want to think about putting a more robust monitoring system in place for Finn’s medication. I felt like I’d been caught doing something really stupid. I felt small and sheepish, and I found myself copying Finn in not making eye contact with the doctor.

‘As far as a change of medication goes, there are a few out there that might be suitable. But I must stress that it falls to Dr Belzaku to prescribe any change. I know Dr Belzaku professionally and I know he’s had a measure of success recently with Geodon. It has proven to be very effective, and in a year-long study patients who took the drug were shown to have less chance of the symptoms returning. But again, I do need to stress that Dr Belzaku will be responsible for initiating any changes to Finn’s programme of treatment. In fact, what I really need to do is refer you to Dr Belzaku. I think he might want to do another psych evaluation as soon as possible, and that will help him decide whether Geodon might be right for Finn.’

When I explained that I had already made an appointment with Dr Belzaku for early February, Dr Grahamson conceded that any referral he made would probably not come through until after 102

that. Nonetheless, he would contact Dr Belzaku and let him know that he had recommended a referral and send him copies of Finn’s test results from Stoneham Park.

And now, Finn’s upstairs in his room. Probably plugged into his iPod. When he got back he seemed to be treading a line between upbeat and upset. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something not quite right. He was definitely happy to be home.

Said it felt like he’d been in a hospital bed forever, and the food!

There’s nothing like home cooking, he said. Not long after that he had me making him scrambled egg on toast. Lazy devil! Still, it’s good to have him back home before the New Year.

After he’d got a bit more used to being at home he started asking about Geodon. It seemed to be a cause of some anxiety to him, which I don’t think I entirely relieved. I told him that it was nothing to worry about, that it was just one of the possible treatments out there. I told him nothing would be done until we’d seen Dr Belzaku. And Dr Belzaku might not think that Geodon was suitable. Okay Mum, Finn said. But I could see that deep down he was still concerned, and I worried that Geodon might become a loose thread on a knitted jumper which Finn would pick at until the whole thing unravelled.

I’m keeping a close eye on the clock. At six o’clock Finn is due his Amisulpride. I just need to find a way to check that he’s taking it without him thinking that I don’t trust him to take it. Parenthood: just another word for problem solving.

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19 a visit from number seven Hey, Finn. Well, it’s more cheery in here than I thought it would be.

‘Who’s that? 7, is that you?’

Who else is going to make the effort to come here at this time of night to cheer you up? Course it’s me.

‘Sorry, 7, they drugged me up and I’m still a bit fucked up. Can’t see too clearly.’

Got you some chocolates, Finn. Maltesers. Hope you like them.

Actually, it was a full bag but I got bored waiting for them to let me in. Boredom always makes me peckish.

‘Why, thank you 7, it’s the thought that counts. Not sure if I’m really supposed to have sweets in here.’

Finn, you’re only young once. What’s the worst that can happen? Extra visit to the dentist? A little spot on your chin?

These people in here, it’s their job to care for you. But that’s not the same as saying they know what’s best for you. Is it?

‘S’pose not, 7. And I’ve got a couple of little spots already so 104

one more probably isn’t going to make a great deal of difference.’

That’s the spirit! See, you’re more cheerful already, and I’ve only been here a minute. Looks like they’ve got you all strung out there, Finn. Sure you’re being looked after by people who know what they’re doing? I mean, I used to work in a hospital once – actually, a lot like this one, in need of modernisation – and some of the things that went on there you just wouldn’t believe. Hey, I tell you, one time I was on the Geriatric ward and an old guy gets admitted with, I don’t know, something like kidney stones or something. So he’s there for a couple of days and we feed and we bathe and we medicate the old fella. And listen to his stories of wartime heroism. Ambulance driver during the North African campaign I think, because he kept ranting how Ice Cold in Alex was preposterous old tosh and if you’d been there you’d know the film was nothing like the real thing. Anyway, like I say, two days he was there. Nurses came and went. Doctors came, consulted the charts at the end of the bed, and went. For two days. Then, on day three he’s suddenly whisked away down to Theatre. When he gets back to the ward the old fella’s only got one leg! Without a word of a lie, Finn, the old duffer’s only got one good leg. His left one was missing from the knee down! I mean, honestly, Finn, you expect people to know what they’re doing, don’t you? The whole thing was just a tragedy. Worse, an avoidable tragedy.

‘Should have sued the crap out of the hospital, 7.’

That’s the real tragedy, Finn. He never got the chance. His whole life must have been in that leg, Finn, ‘cause when his leg was lost so was his life. He died during the night. Shock, I think.

‘7! I thought you were supposed to be cheering me up? Suddenly you’re off-message, with tales of amputation and gross malpractice!’

It’s just a story, Finn. And kind of a lesson too. Perhaps one you can learn from.

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‘What do you mean, learn from?’

I mean, you have to be careful in places like this. I mean, do you know who you can really trust? With all these drugs and things, half the time patients are completely out of it. Anything could happen to them and they wouldn’t know it until afterwards. When it’s too late. What about you? How long have you been laying there coming round from the effects of the drugs they’ve filled you with?

Are you sure they’ve only been doing what they’re supposed to?

‘I don’t know. How could I know?’

That’s what I’m trying to get at, Finn. You don’t know. The only way to know for sure is to keep away from the drugs.

‘It’s not as though I had a choice, 7. They say I was out of control again, like the last time, and the drugs are the only way they can sort me out.’

Exactly. They say. You don’t know for sure what went on. They blank off bits of your memory with their drugs, then fill in the gaps with what they want you to remember. Which is different to what actually happened.

‘But I don’t really remember anything, 7. Really I don’t.’

That’s just evil, Finn. They’ve left you blank.

‘Like they’re trying to erase me…’

Wouldn’t put anything past this lot. ‘…just like E says. They collect all your information and then delete you.’

E? E for Enigma? He’s still around? I thought the men in white 106

coats had come for him a while back. The guy’s a nut. The last time we met he was telling me about this book he’s writing called The Conspiracy Theory of Everything. Can you believe that? E’s a nut. However, even nutters are capable of at least one blinding flash of brilliance, and this might be his. Leaving you with blanks is erasing you. He’s absolutely right about that. That’s why we need a strategy, Finn. And I think I can help you.

‘Strategy? Always makes me think of board games.’

No games here, Finn. Much too important to be a game. This is a life and death situation. We need to get you away from the mind controllers.

‘The drugs, you mean?’

Yes, the drugs. But more importantly the people behind the drugs. That’s who we need to neutralise, Finn. Trouble is, the enemy is large in number. They’re everywhere, all around us.

Everyone wants you on the drugs.

‘So everyone wants to control me? But I take the drugs of my own free will when I’m at home, 7. Nobody makes me. I do it to help myself.’

That’s because the enemy is devious and very clever. They don’t physically give you the drugs. Like you say, they are self-administered. And that’s how beautiful and well-crafted their plan is. You are their weapon. You are helping them, not yourself. They’ve got inside your head so effectively you don’t realise it. You’ve been groomed, Finn. Set up. Done up like a prize bull on market day.

‘Why? I mean, what’s it all for? I don’t understand. Why would everyone want me not to be me?’

We live in a world of control freaks, Finn. They all want some107

thing from us. And mostly they’re very good at getting it. But if you’re smart like me you’ll learn that you have a higher purpose. It is your job to resist. Think of yourself as a fledgling member of the resistance movement. A newbie. Are you ready to join us, Finn?

‘So, like, you’re an organisation?’

Not an organisation as such, more a loosely formed collective of like-minded individuals, all pursuing our own higher purpose.

You’d fit right in, honestly. The resistance movement could almost have been made specially for you.

‘And what are we resisting?’

Control, Finn. Control. Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? We need to break you out of the cage in which others keep you. You need to experience the fullness of life. Someone once told me that experiencing life to the full was like being on a permanent chemical high. In other words, drugs are not essential to the joy of existence. Life itself is enough to sustain us, Finn.

You don’t need the drugs, so we need to dump them off.

‘Sure?’

What, don’t you trust me, Finn? It’s me, 7. Ever steered you wrong before?

‘Well, there was that time when I was in hospital. That was kind of because of you, wasn’t it?’

Oh, so you’re dredging that up again are you? I thought we’d settled that ages ago. You know that was your fault for drinking so much vodka.

‘But I only drank it because you made me. I’ve never been so ill in my life. I haven’t touched a drop since that day.’

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Now, Finn, don’t let your imagination run away with you. I didn’t make you drink it, you agreed to drink it as part of your withdrawal programme. Remember? Even then I was trying to educate you. Remember? I was attempting to prove just how bad the drugs were for your enjoyment of everyday life. Enjoying a drink with your mates is key to the life of a teenager. But the drugs controlled you then as they control you now. So I’m here again. With a new plan. We need to be just as devious as the controllers in our methods, Finn. It’s going to be up to you to choose your moment, but what we’re aiming for is quiet rebellion.

The idea is not to call attention to yourself. Ever done any acting before, Finn? If not, now’s the time to perfect that Oscar winning role. You need to be seen to be doing the right thing, just in case.

‘In case of what?’

Surveillance by the enemy. Never underestimate their resources, Finn. Unless you’re vigilant all the time the slightest little mistake will result in failure. The gig will be up, my friend, and you’ll likely end up back in here.

‘Plans, enemies, I’m all confused, 7. I can feel my pieces disconnecting and floating further apart like islands of Arctic ice in the summer melt. I know you’re doing your best to try to help me, and I believe you about the drugs and stuff, and even about my parents using the drug to control me, but I can’t think my way through anything else you’ve said. I don’t know what to do.’

Trust, Finn. It’s the key to everything. Trust me. The first thing we need to do is pretend. This is where the acting comes in. You have to act like everything is normal; act like you’re still under the influence of medication and therefore still under their control.

You have to be really careful though, because they’re trained to pick up on every little nuance, every little thing that looks or feels out of place. And remember, there’s more of them than there is of you. It’s like every day is going to be one man against the world.

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It’s a struggle, like all revolutions, but in the end you will prevail.

You can do this, Finn. I am going to put my faith in your trust of me. I know you won’t let me down.

‘I’ll try, 7, you know that. Listen, you said about friends and going for a drink, and that’s what I want to do. I’d arranged to go to the pub with some mates for New Year’s Eve, but I can’t do that if I’m in here, can I? I know that New Year’s Eve is in four days’ time, so I guess what I need to know is, am I going to be out in time?’

You just leave that to me, Finn. Everything will be okay. But don’t say anything to anyone. Silence is a powerful weapon in the arsenal of the resistance movement. Like they say, if you don’t name a thing it doesn’t exist. And if it doesn’t exist, the enemy can’t find out about it.

‘So I’ll be able to celebrate New Year’s Eve? Bloody brilliant, 7!’

I can get you out of here, Finn, but I wouldn’t recommend partying hard. It’s a mistake. Remember, they have eyes everywhere. They have informants. I’m not saying your friends are involved, but there’s a possibility that they’ve been compromised.

You need to spend a bit more time on your own to build up your defences. You need to keep strengthening your wall, because you know they’re never going to stop chipping away at it. You want to fly low under the radar for as long as possible.

‘I’m scared, 7. How do I know who is on my side? You’re telling me all my friends might be working against me, so how do I know who I can trust? I mean really trust? I mean, it’s like everything I’ve known is suddenly alien to me, turned upside down, been made into a jigsaw puzzle without edge pieces. It’s nuts.

Crazy. Maybe I’m crazy.’

Once you’re off the drugs you won’t think like this, Finn. You’ll be free. Now settle down and get some sleep, I’ve got to get out of here while the shops are still open. I’ve got a real craving for Maltesers.

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20 New Year’s Eve Beth’s diary 31 December 2008 (Written by Martin) Another year is almost over. It’s not been a particularly good one, although no doubt it could have been a lot worse. Personally, I feel I have made good progress in trying to reconnect with Beth and Finn, and I really think I can build on this even further in the coming year.

Still haven’t managed to speak to Beth about my conversation with Emily before Christmas. I should have done it before Finn’s latest relapse, because now it seems so long ago. Do we still need to worry about Emily’s concerns in the light of more recent events? And it might worry Beth to suddenly talk about it now.

She’ll wonder why I haven’t mentioned it before. I won’t forget about it entirely, but at the moment I think that perhaps I don’t need to do anything further with the information.

When Finn was still in the hospital he was very concerned that he’d miss a night out with the lads tonight, to celebrate New Year.

I know he’d asked all his nurses when he was due to be discharged. I wonder if he drove them so mad with his constant questioning that they decided to discharge him early! I bet it was so quiet after he left that they thought they’d gone deaf!

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Strangely, after making all that fuss about it, he hasn’t gone anywhere tonight. In fact, right now he’s in his room with a can of lager watching Jools Holland’s Hootenanny on BBC2. Beth said she heard him on the phone with Chaz earlier, telling him how he didn’t feel up to socialising right now. Maybe later. Also mentioned something about needing time to make sure that Chaz wasn’t involved, as he’d been a long-time friend. Beth didn’t understand that bit, and neither do I. Involved in what? I know there was a piece in the local paper a week or so ago about some of the kids round here dealing drugs, so maybe Chaz is involved in that. I don’t know, and I’m not going to ask Finn, because he’ll know that his phone conversation has been overheard and he might just think that we’re monitoring him in a way that we’re absolutely not. Personally, I hope Chaz isn’t involved in any illegal activity because, despite his appearance, I actually quite like the young man. He’s always very courteous when he’s in my house, anyway. Seems quite an intelligent fellow. Let’s hope too intelligent to get mixed up with drugs.

Just been up to Finn’s room to see if he wants to come down and see New Year in with Beth and me. He declined my kind offer, choosing instead to watch Tom Jones on the Hootenanny thing. I wished him a happy new year in advance of the event. He didn’t reciprocate, merely shifted position on his bed and raised the can of lager to his lips. He seemed curiously remote, almost as though he was listening to the sound of the universe rather than the sound coming live from a London television studio.

When I told Beth she laughed. Not about Finn not wanting to join us, which actually made her feel a little sad, but about him wanting to listen to Tom Jones. She said, how uncool is that? She did that whole ‘kids today!’ thing, throwing her hands up in the air and making a big exaggerated sigh. This made me laugh, given that Beth spends a lot of her time working with kids.

12.15am 01 January 2009 Happy New Year! Just put a stopper in the wine bottle. Since we 112

only drunk half between us it will keep until tomorrow. I was closing the fridge door after putting the wine in there when Finn suddenly appeared. Took me by surprise, and I’m sure had I still been holding the wine bottle I’d have dropped it. In my surprise I must have made an involuntary sound, which actually made Finn smile. Slightly worrying that his first smile of the new year should be caused by nearly giving his old man a heart attack! Classic, he said. Dad, he said, it’s just like a scene from any typical horror movie where someone goes into the empty kitchen, opens up the fridge door, grabs some milk or whatever, closes the door – and the killer’s standing right there!

So you’re the big scary killer, Finn?

Not today, Dad, he said. Although I could kill a sandwich right now.

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21 first day Happy New Year, Finn.

‘3? It’s two o’clock in the morning! Where have you been?’

Celebrating, of course. Oh Finn, it’s 2009! It’s so exciting. Today is the first day of the rest of your life, Finn.

‘It’s two o’clock in the morning and you felt compelled to come here and tell me something that sounds like a message from my Grandad? Probably means it’s going to be another bad year.’

There’s something different about you, Finn. You seem to have lost your spark. And you don’t seem pleased to see me, which slightly saddens me. You’ve been drinking, I see, so that’s probably what’s making you a bit cranky.

‘Two cans of lager doth not a drunkard make, 3. And cranky?

Cranky. If you haven’t got something nice to say about someone you should really say nothing at all. That’s good advice, that is.

Given to me by a good advisor.’

There’s something going on, isn’t there? You weren’t like this when we last met. Do we need to talk, Finn? Perhaps if we talk it 114

through we might identify the problem and find a solution. What do you think? Would you like to tell me?

‘Yeah, I’d like to tell you. I’d like to tell you to piss off! If I want you meddling in my affairs I’ll book an appointment. And the only appointment I keep at two o’clock in the morning is my appointment with bed!’

You’re starting to worry me, Finn. I know it’s late, or early depending on your viewpoint, but I can see that you’re experiencing some sort of turmoil. You’re trying to bluff it out with bravado and rudeness, but I can see turmoil in there, Finn.

‘And I can see the door. Close it on your way out.’

I’m not going anywhere, Finn. Not until I’m convinced you’re going to be okay. You’re not going to get violent or anything, are you? No rough stuff, ‘cause I’m just a girl, and that’s not going to do your street cred any good, is it?

‘Look, the last girl I hit, or kicked actually, so they say, was Emily. Everyone said that was an accident anyway, so it doesn’t really count, does it? And you’re going to have to watch me sleep if you plan on staying here with me. You’ll get bored in under ten minutes, then you’ll go. And I’ll get some peace at last.’

My boredom threshold is very high. I could easily last until morning. I think I may have been a dog in a previous life, because they sit patiently outside a door for ages waiting to be let in. They don’t do anything else; they just sit and wait. And that’s what I’m going to do, Finn. Because I like you. Because I worry about you.

‘So if I threw a stick out of the window you’d chase it, right? That’d get rid of you. Y’see I don’t need you, 3. I can take care of myself now.

I’m nineteen years old, a man. Old enough to vote, get married, make babies, own a house, drive a car blah blah blah. I don’t need you.’

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Well, I suppose you’re lucky in that you still have your parents.

They always seem very supportive.

‘Don’t need them either. I make my own decisions now. I’m in charge of myself, they’re not controlling my life.’

Who do you need then, Finn? Who can you turn to in your hour of need? You can’t get through life all by yourself. It’s sad if things have broken down between you and your parents, but you must have a friend or two that you can talk to? Emily? You told me that you could tell Emily anything, that she was a good listener and you valued what she had to say. That would make her an ideal person to confide in, would it not?

‘I thought so, but now I’m not so sure.’

Why? What went wrong?

‘I don’t want to think about it. And I don’t want to talk about it!’

To me?

‘To anyone, 3. Anyone! Now will you please fuck off and leave me alone!’

Oh Finn, there’s so much pain. I can help you if you’ll let me, I know I can.

‘Stop trying to psychoanalyse me! I used to like you, 3. Once, I thought you might be able to help me. But now? You could so easily be playing for the other team.’

Other team? What do you… wait! You’ve been talking to someone haven’t you? Who did you see last? E? Sounds like the kind of stuff that E comes out with. I met him myself since we last talked.

He’s one seriously disturbed individual, Finn. Frisked me, looking for bugs, can you believe?

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‘E knows way more stuff than you’ll ever know.’

So it was E! ‘No, Miss Positive Pants, it wasn’t E. It was 7! There. Now I’ve said it. You’ve made me say it. I hope you’re really fucking pleased with yourself. Just piss off!’

Oh Finn. Oh Finn Finn Finn. Seven? What did I say to you? I begged you not to see him ever again. Didn’t I? I thought I’d explained how dangerous he is. What’s he got you mixed up with now?

‘I-am-not-telling-you! And if you don’t get out of here right now I’m not going to be responsible for my actions. See how you’ve made me. It’s your fault. I feel like I want to hurt you, 3. I don’t like the feeling but I can’t help it. You’d better go while you still can.’

Okay, Finn, I’m leaving. I don’t want you to do anything bad, because I don’t think you’re a bad person. You should sleep now, relax.

Goodnight, Finn. I’m not really a believer, but I feel strangely compelled to pray for your very soul.

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22 Entry 007/03 January 2009 I’m getting away with it, and it feels really good. I’m really nervous though; especially about typing it in here. 7 said I had to be on high alert all the time. Don’t let your guard down, he said. So I’m taking a huge risk mentioning it here, but I feel the need to let it out of me.

It makes it feel like a celebration, like I’m winning the battle.

I haven’t taken my Ami for three whole days.

I typed that in really quickly, hoping that it would not be noticed by any remote surveillance equipment. I don’t think they can do that, can they? Can they know what I’m doing on my laptop in my bedroom? Have they bugged me? Does it look like legit sofware, but it sends back messages and video to the controllers? I have to speak to E about this, he would know if it was even possible.

7 was right, you have to learn to be a really good actor when you join the resistance. I’m still a newbie, but it seems to be working. Mum and Dad don’t have a clue. I’ve started to notice that certain things they say seem designed to feed me ideas that I just don’t have on my own. I’ve been kind of doing them though, just so they don’t get the idea that I’m not under their control.

Spoke to Chaz on the phone today. Not for long though, just in case. E says phones are the most unsafe form of communication 118

there is. Everything you say can be intercepted. Plucked right out of the air. So quick, according to E, that the eavesdropper knows what you’ve said before the person on the other end of your phone does.

Chaz said they’d had an okay time at The Silver Chalice. Not brilliant because I hadn’t been there, and because Emily was not yet back from Italy. This brought to mind Bruno, which in turn brought to mind hands rubbing bodies. I found myself gripping the handset so tightly my knuckles were white.

The food at The Silver Chalice was also not brilliant. Which Chaz said was surprising, since it was a new venture. Perhaps the chef was just having an off night. Or perhaps he’s just newly qualified or something. Perhaps he’s someone who can’t bloody well cook, said Chaz. I laughed. Sometimes Chaz just hits the nail on the head with what he says. Short and to the point. Very economical with his words, is Chaz; speaks his mind using plain English.

No purple prose from Chaz.

Suddenly it’s Emily again. Everywhere I go there’s Emily! Chaz says she’s back from Italy tomorrow, just one day before College restarts after the Christmas break. I know, I said. She told me that before Christmas.

And then he asked me how it went. The visit from Emily, I mean. I was immediately suspicious. It was just an odd thing to come out with. One minute we’re talking Silver Chalice and crap food, the next it’s Emily and how did it go? She must’ve told him about it, probably with a good dose of spin on it, and now he’s asking me to see if my story tallies with hers. That’s bloody sneaky! But I’m on to it.

Chaz, I said, putting on my best oh-that’s-a-bummer voice, I’m afraid I’ve got to go. I can hear the beeper on the oven telling me my forty-five minute pasty is ready to be eaten. Gotta go! Catch you later. At College on Wednesday probably.

Perfect! Job done! I get rid of cold callers the same way, with exactly the same excuse. Always a pasty in the oven. They usually phone up around lunchtime or late afternoon, but even if they phoned just after breakfast or at two in the morning, I’d still tell them I had a pasty in the oven.

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23 Entry 008/05 January 2009 There’s a saying that goes “same old shit, different day”. And that sums up today.

First day of the Spring term. Not so much of a social buzz as my parents tell me it was in their day. They used to spend the whole of the first day catching up with friends, finding out what people got for Chistmas, laughing at or worshipping the new haircuts, blah blah blah. These days Facebook pretty much takes care of all that, in real time, in the comfort of your own home or car or bus stop or corner shop.

Anyway, everyone was back in class except this guy called Keegan who apparently is stuck in Morocco with his Aunt and two sisters. Morocco? For Christmas? I suppose it takes all sorts.

We got our new timetable today. We’re studying Shakespeare (who else!?) and Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse 5 for most of the year.

Chaz was his usual fashionably unfashionable self. Apart from his t-shirt. Seems he got a new crop of tees for Christmas, so today he was wearing The Mission across his chest. Forthcoming titles, he proudly announced, include Fields of the Nephilim, The Cure and Souixsie & The Banshees.

Beyond fashion, Chaz seemed a bit paradoxical today; he seemed both distant and overly concerned with my wellbeing.

‘Are you alright, mate?’ he asked me, clasping my shoulders and 120

looking me straight in the eyes, like a parent might check for dilated pupils to see if their child is using drugs. It was a pretty intense kind of look and I felt very uncomfortable about it, especially as we were in the classroom with everyone else at the time.

I kind of mumbled yeah, and fought him off.

‘You seemed a bit pissed on the phone, dude, that’s all. Like you couldn’t wait to get rid of me.’

Shit! Chaz has known me too long, and when you know someone a long time you can tell things about them, like when they’re getting all weird and stuff. I decided to bluff it, to downplay the situation. Chaz, I said, you have one wild imagination. I was hungry. Nothing more, nothing less.

‘So it’s not about Emily then? It sounded like you got the urge to hang up just after I mentioned her name, that’s all.’

Chaz. Chaz. Persistent little bugger. Like a dog with a bone. He gnaws away at something until he gets to the bit he wants, the juicy marrow bit. I think Chaz would make a good journalist, he’d root out scandal and corruption day in, day out.

It’s all about the pasty, Chaz, I said. Just the pasty.

He asked me if I’d seen Emily that morning. Apparently, Chaz had just caught a glimpse of her red hair, purple rucksack and highly decorated art portfolio as he came in through reception.

But before he could catch up, she was in the lift up to the second floor where the Art department lives.

Before I could tell him that I hadn’t seen her, Mrs Wagstaff called the lesson to order so we had to sit down, shut up and pay attention. I like Mrs Wagstaff, or Woolly Wagstaff as Chaz and I call her, on account of her slightly outrageous afro-like hair.

That’s not to say that I trust her, of course. She is, after all, a cog in the corporate machine. And I know she definitely keeps tabs on me. At the beginning of last term E told me he’d come into the possession of some documents with my name on, and they’d been signed by Mrs Wagstaff. He said they related to my continued presence on the course, and detailed all the little incidents that had taken place within the class, and my attitude and behaviour 121

and a whole bunch of other stuff that would no doubt be used against me at some point.

I’ll have to be as careful around Mrs Wagstaff as I have to be around everyone else from now on.

Emily. I genuinely did not know what to do about Emily. Until I met E, quite by chance in the lift going down to the restaurant. I know, I said I’d never eat in there again, but according to Chaz the kid I hit with the tray has left. Got a job with his dad or something, and ditched the course. Don’t miss him.

When I got in the lift I didn’t immediately recognise E. He was pressed into the far corner of the box, hands in his pockets, head down, chin almost tucked into his camouflage jacket. I saw his eyes flick up momentarily. There was a brief glimmer of recognition, followed by a sigh of relief and a big beaming smile.

‘Finn. Jesus, I’m glad it’s you. Thought they’d tracked me down.

Thought I was a goner for sure.’

I don’t know how E gets himself in these situations. His entire life is lived on the edge of something. Edge of the unknown, probably. Anything could happen next. An unpredictable life. I don’t know if he likes that kind of life or not; I’ve never asked him.

Who’s tracking you down, E? I had to ask. It would’ve been rude not to. He spouted off a whole bunch of stuff. In amongst all the faceless acronyms I picked out government, shadow agencies, hacker collective, dead letter drop, information overload, official channels blah blah blah. Crikey Moses in a basket! He wibbled on and on until the familiar ding! of the lift door opening onto the ground floor. We spilled out into the throng of lunchtime. It’s like Piccadilly Circus in the rush hour. Every day seems to be the same, too. It makes you wonder how all these students fit in the building when you see them on the move at lunchtime. Emily once referred to them as a swarm of locusts. Chaz thinks they resemble ants. I think they’re just hungry people. Whatever they are you need to stop yourself being swept up by them, because if you are you’ll definitely end up somewhere other than where you were aiming for.

We somehow made it to the restaurant, bought our food and went to a table at the far side of the room. E picked at his food 122

like he didn’t really want it. I made the mistake of trying to be funny. What’s the matter E, think they’ve dumped a spoonful of Thalium in it? That was that, I’m afraid. E pushed the plate away from him and didn’t touch another mouthful. Despite me telling him I was only joking. He tried to make me feel better by saying he wasn’t hungry, but I knew he’d only sacrificed his lunch because of my attempt at humour. Gallows humour do they call it? Whatever, I learned that E does not like jokes about poison.

Since he was not eating he took the opportunity to talk to me.

About Emily. Payback for my poison joke, maybe?

‘So, are you two an item yet?’

I don’t know where you get this stuff from, E, I said.

‘Chaz told me that he suggested you and Emily get together in a more “relationship” kind of way. I was just wondering how that was going?’

Oh. Chaz. Bastard stoner goth. Why does nobody mind their own business? Apart from E, I mean. That’s kind of what he does, mind other people’s business.

I rolled the dice. Tell? Not tell?

I told him about the Italian Christmas dinner. I didn’t tell him the mouse story, but I did tell him about the lost on the slopes snuggle-up-close encounter with the German git, Bruno. And I told him what happened afterwards, and how it all went belly up.

And now it’s all up in the air, hovering, indecisive, not knowing if it should stay put or fall back to the ground. I knew Emily was back from Italy, but I hadn’t seen her yet.

‘And you’re hoping she’ll say yes, Finn? That she’ll be your girlfriend?’

I really don’t know what she’ll say or do, E, I said. For no particular reason other than making polite conversation, I asked him what he thought. Lucky thing I did, otherwise I might never have known, and I might have made the most tragic mistake of my life.

‘She’s popped up on my radar, Finn,’ he said, wearing his serious look.

I asked him what he meant.

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I sat by myself in the restaurant, nursing a cold cup of tea for an hour. Afternoon lessons started, but I just sat there. Mrs Wagstaff sent Cordelia down to get me. She’d seen me in the restaurant when she came back in from town and assumed that I’d still be there. Luckily for her I was. Unluckily, she went back without me.

Told her to tell Mrs Wagstaff I didn’t feel well, and I was going to sit for a while and hopefully I would recover enough to come up and join the lesson.

Was I really ill? I don’t know. Perhaps I was. Perhaps I felt sick inside, like you do when you’re really worrying about something.

Not that I was worried. No, I was angry. And I felt foolish because I had laid myself open to someone who was untrustworthy; someone who was working a hidden agenda that had nothing to do with boyfriend and girlfriend. It would definitely have been a relationship though, a controlled relationship.

E reminded me of something that Chaz had said about Emily when he was here around the middle of November. He looked at me in that curious way he does when he’s all fired up.

‘Chaz said, and I quote, “She kept asking where you live, because she wanted to check on you.”’

One of the things about E is that he’s got a photographic memory. He says he’s always had it, that it’s not the result of specialist training or anything. I have no idea how he gets the information in the first place, but once he’s got it, he sure as hell remembers it.

That would explain a lot. She wanted to check on me. For one purpose only, I think. To make sure I was under control. That was why the Italian evening went badly; and why she decided to tell the Bruno story. But, I said to E, that doesn’t explain why she wouldn’t commit to being my girlfriend. E, as usual, had an answer. I think, he said, that perhaps she really does like you, but she wouldn’t be able to monitor you effectively being so close to you. The distance between you is what makes her task easier.

To say I was angry is a definite understatement. I was eruptive! I wanted to break something, smash something, destroy something.

My heart was broken so I wanted to retaliate by breaking some124

thing. Two wrongs don’t make a right, I know that, but sometimes damage can only be repaired by causing more damage.

I sat in the restaurant until home time. Thinking. And watching.

For red hair. Purple rucksack. Decorated portfolio.

Emily eventually emerged with a couple of her art buddies. I watched her swipe her pass through the exit barriers. I followed at a distance. When they got to the underpass leading into town Emily split off from her fellow students and headed in her usual direction to the bus stop. I didn’t need to rush after her. The bus wasn’t due for at least another fifteen minutes.

As I approached the bus stop Emily turned round and saw me.

Gave me a hesitant smile.

‘Hey, Finn,’ she said. ‘I was going to call you when I got home.’

I was angry. Really angry. And nasty. Yeah, well don’t bother, I told her. Don’t bother with me again, okay. Ever. Just get lost, Emily. I know what you’re all about and what you’re trying to do.

Go on, get yourself back to lover boy Bruno. I’m better off without you!

And I stormed off. I glanced at her as I strode past . She hadn’t seen it coming. The shock of being found out was there for all to see, like it was wearing a hi-vis jacket. She’d started to tear up I think, but that was just for the effect, I’m sure.

Je ne regrette rien. Edith Piaf I think. She got it right. I regret nothing. I just managed to reduce the opposing team by one.

But finding out about Emily was not what made my day shit. It was shit because when I got home from College, Mum told me I’d got a cancellation appointment with Dr Belzaku. In a week’s time.

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24 negative vibes Oh Finn, it’s great to see you again! This is, like, my first visit of this new year. You’re looking really good. Did you get lots of cool stuff for Christmas? Did you celebrate on New Year’s Eve? ‘Did you swallow a dictionary or something? Sometimes, Flower, you use words like you’ve bought them in a cut-price warehouse and they’re all on a short best-before date.’

Hey, like, you know, that’s me isn’t it? Words are my life. They describe my world and everything in it, including me. And you.

‘I think what I’m really trying to say, Flower, is shut up. Be friggin’ quiet. Just like for once like!’

But I’m just so excited for you, Finn. And when I get excited I can’t help myself, I just have to express my feelings.

‘Well you do my fucking head in! Why have you come anyway? Didn’t you make any new year’s resolutions not to visit anyone?’

I don’t understand why you’re so negative today, Finn. I thought you’d be as excited as I am about your appointment.

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‘My appointment? How the fuck do you know about my appointment? Mum only told me this afternoon. Are you playing for the other team as well? Covert surveillance?’

I did make a friend a kind of, like, a garden mobile sort of thing with little bits of mirrored glass on it for Christmas, but I don’t know that you could use it for surveillance. The pieces are, like, too small to really see anything.

‘See? That’s exactly the kind of crap that does my head in. Why don’t you go and annoy somebody else with it?’

Do you not, like, like me, Finn?

‘What kind of a stupid dumbass question is that, you bloody airhead? I can’t not like you, Flower. But just sometimes you really irritate me. I can’t figure out if you’re the embodiment of innocence or the epitome of stupidity!’

Perhaps it will become clearer after your appointment.

‘Oh, we’re back to that are we? The appointment? And you’re doing it again, aren’t you? It must be quite clear to you that I don’t want to fucking talk about it, and yet you persist in bringing the subject up. You know, I like you Flower, but I’d like you more if you could just shut up and stop bugging me about my bloody appointement.’

I just thought you’d, like, be happy about it, that’s all.

‘Yeah, well do me a favour and don’t think. Okay?’

You’re just an old sour puss, Finn. But I can be quite stubborn when I choose, so, like it or not, I’m going to be happy for you. Just, like, as happy as I can. I’m doing happiness by proxy this week.

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‘I know you don’t even know what that means. But you know what this means: piss off.’

I only want you to be happy, Finn. That’s all I ever want. Yet every time I visit you’re unhappy. If I was a pessimist, I might begin to think that it was me who made you unhappy. But I only, like, bring you good vibes and a relaxing aura; I build up your inner calm.

‘Yeah, well, I don’t know Flower, I can’t explain it. But right now I don’t need you. I’m okay on my own.’

I wish I could be sure, Finn. Perhaps if you would let me interpret the chakra? I’m sure everything’s, like, okay and stuff but it could really work for you, massage that inner conflict away.

‘Y’see? Again. Interpretation and massage. Two things. Two more things. After I said I don’t need you and dropped a big hint that I wanted you to leave! Jesus, Flower, just fuck off. Look, I’ll help you. Look, headphones going on. iPod cranked up. Deftones rocking in the free world. Can’t hear you! Oh bliss. Bliss. Bliss.’

Finn. Finn? There’s no need to close yourself off in there. I kind of, like, have to go now. I just realised I have to get some massage oils and scented candles before the store closes. You take care now, and I’ll, like, see you around.

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25 good news/bad news Beth’s diary 07 January 2009 Another new year. Perhaps this one will be different. I hope so.

Had meant to write earlier but work commitments got in the way and time just seems to disappear when you least need it to.

It’s been relatively quiet since Finn’s problems on Boxing Day. Most of the time he’s just a typical teenager. A mumbly, grouchy, obsessed with one thing or another, music up too loud, clothes all over the room teenager.

And the good news? We’ve finally got a cancellation come through for Dr Belzaku at Brackendale. 9.30am 11th January – which is next Thursday. Now, hopefully, we’ll be able to get a proper review of Finn’s care plan and medication. In the letter it said we should expect that the appointment itself would only last around thirty minutes, but we should allow most of the day to be taken up with psychiatric evaluations and other procedures, data from which would of course form the basis of a possible revised course of treatment.

All that Martin and I want is for Finn to have more of a balance to his life. Life without the mood swings. Without the peaks and troughs, as it were. This is where we are now, of course. He has good days and bad days. What we’re hoping for is a new medica129

tion, or perhaps old medications in conjunction with each other, that will flatten out those peaks and troughs. Finn’s relapses are so disruptive, and very often destructive.

I think Martin intends taking the day off so that he can come with us. At the moment his boss seems agreeable, but Martin said I should be prepared for change, since there might be a laterunning account from a major client to sort out. If Martin can’t make it, I’ll probably have to borrow his car to take Finn on my own. It’s not that we’re incapable of using public transport, we just find it very cost prohibitive and highly inconvenient. At least when you take a car you can travel when you want to, you’re not at the mercy of irregular public transport.

I’m so relieved that an appointment has become available now. I know it’s not too far in advance of our original appointment in February, but it means that should any revisions be suggested, Finn will be able to start the treatment that little bit earlier.

Now for the bad news. The letter from the hospital dropped through the letterbox on the day Finn started back at College.

However, when I told Finn about it, as soon as he was back in the house, he practically ignored me. At first I just thought it was tiredness. He wasn’t used to doing a full day, especially one where you have to concentrate all the time. But the longer I stood in front of him, the more it seemed to me that he was distracted by something. Almost to the point of being angry. There was a palpable undercurrent of disquiet, bubbling away.

By way of trying to distract him from his own distractions, I asked about Emily. Big mistake. Huge. He reacted like I’d just run him through with a massive red hot needle.

‘What is it with people and Emily?’ he yelled at me. ‘Emily this, Emily that. I’m sick to my stomach with Emily!

As you can imagine, this wasn’t exactly the response I was expecting. I thought he’d be pleased to see her again after her Italy trip. I think the trip may have been why he was a little bit down before Christmas, and that perhaps he might like to have gone with her. But we can’t afford that sort of thing really, and anyway 130

it was a family festive holiday so Finn being there too would all have been a bit awkward.

‘She won’t be round again, Mum,’ he told me, with a real note of finality in his voice.

I was surprised, and told him so. I thought you two were trying to get closer, I said. I thought she had come to terms with the events that occurred on her first visit to the house, so something else must have happened since. Finn had seemed a bit miserable after the Italian meal he’d organised. But that could just have been Finn having one of his off moments, and nothing whatsoever to do with Emily.

‘She won’t be coming round because I told her not to.’

That’s the kind of statement that warrants a question. In this case a question that often gets people all tongue-tied as they fall into the linguistic trap of knowing what they want to say but being unable to fully explain it.

Why? That’s what I asked Finn.

‘You wouldn’t understand, and I’m not even sure I want to tell you,’ he said.

I offered to make us both a good strong cup of tea. I’d rustle up some biscuits and we could relax and have a chat about what was obviously making Finn unhappy.

‘You’re not at Dreamland now, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’m not one of your lab rats…’ And he suddenly went very quiet, as though he had somehow said too much. He looked nervous.

I just felt nervous. Something was definitely going on with Finn.

I wished the appointment with Dr Belzaku had come sooner.

Finn, I said, you might be nineteen, but I’m still your Mum. I have a moral responsibility, if no longer a legal responsibility, to care for you in any way I can. Your dad, too. This is what it means to be parents. You have to love and care for your children, help them, even during times when they might not want you to do any of these things. It’s precisely at times when you’re refusing help that you need it most.

Finn looked at the floor, refusing to make eye contact with me.

He didn’t immediately say anything, but I could see he was strug131

gling with something. I decided to play the patience card. I only waited about a minute.

‘Because she’s seeing someone else, Mum,’ he said through clenched teeth. Ah, the anger, I thought. This is its source.

Oh Finn. Finn, the world is joyful and it is cruel, often in unequal parts. This is life. Ups and downs, rough with the smooth, good and bad. It’s all in the mix, Finn. Relationships are a tricky business no matter what age you are. The more you have, the more you learn how to deal with them. Perhaps you become more of a realist as time goes by; perhaps your expectations change. But when you’re young, and it’s the first time, you are utterly consumed by it. Like a moth to a flame. I know, I know, that picture’s been painted a million times but, however poetic and outdated it seems, it still sums up those first feelings perfectly.

But sometimes, the investment is more one way than the other.

Again, this is life. We don’t all think the same things, and what you might see as relationship the other person might see as friendship. It’s a different way of seeing; a different way of interpreting the signs and signals. Is that what happened between you and Emily?

‘That’s exactly it, Mum, just like you say,’ he said eagerly, as though he might have agreed to anything I said, no matter how ridiculous.

Is it someone at College? I asked, thinking that it might be Chaz, even though I knew he had suggested that Finn should invite Emily round to ours.

‘Bruno.’

Oh, right. I don’t know him. Is he on your course or Emily’s? Or neither?

‘No, Mum, Bruno,’ he said, in an exasperated tone that suggested to me that I had missed something very important.

I gave him a quizzical look and shrugged my shoulders.

‘I think you must have Alzheimer’s or something, Mum,’ he sighed. ‘The meal? Before Christmas?’

Suddenly it clicked. Oh, that Bruno! The snowy slopes of Italy Bruno. Not a College Bruno. But I thought Emily told us that 132

she’d never seen him again since that day, Finn?

‘Yeah, well… she’s kept going to Italy though, hasn’t she? He’s definitely the one anyway. So she won’t be round. Oh, and if she phones I don’t want to talk to her.’

I told Finn that I thought that was a bit extreme. There’s no reason not to be friends with someone just because they’re going out with someone else. Even though, I thought to myself, it’s mighty odd that Emily has to go to Italy to see him – and that only happens once a year. But maybe I’m wrong. I don’t really know what goes on with other people’s lives. I have a hard enough time knowing what’s going on with my own.

I told Finn that if that’s what he’s decided then that was okay with me. After all, I can’t force him to take phone calls from Emily, or anyone else for that matter. You just have to hope that these things work themselves out and nobody ends up getting hurt in the process.

After all that about Emily I wasn’t sure if I should try to talk with Finn about his hospital appointment. I decided to give it a shot. What’s the worst that could happen? I thought, he’ll simply blank me and go to his room if he doesn’t want to talk about it.

And you know, that’s pretty much what he did. I got as far as telling him that the appointment would probably take up most of his day, and that I’d ring Mrs Wagstaff to let her know that Finn wouldn’t be in lessons that day, when he suddenly muttered something I didn’t catch and went scurrying off upstairs.

And that was the end of that, really. Although there was one more minor revelation to come. When Martin came home I told him about the appointment and he said he’d probably be able to take us, and it would be good to present a unified front, to go as a family. Then I told him about Finn and Emily.

‘Oh,’ he said, looking suddenly sheepish. ‘I forgot to tell you something about the other night.’

The other night turned out to be weeks ago, of course, but Martin has a habit of thinking that things occur more recently 133

than they actually do. He told me what Emily had said to him in the car about Finn being unreasonably jealous of the Bruno character from her story. She’d also repeated the claim that she hasn’t seen Bruno again.

Martin and I sat at the kitchen table and just looked at each other for a moment, both of us gripping our mugs of tea as though their warmth would make everything better. We didn’t get it. Why would Finn tell us that Bruno was supposedly back on the scene and poaching his girlfriend, who apparently had not yet agreed to be his girlfriend, when Emily was telling us that Bruno had effectively disappeared nine years ago?

The only thing we could both agree on in this sea of misinformation, and probable downright lies, was that the appointment with Dr Belzaku could not come soon enough.

Oh, I forgot: Happy New Year!

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26 suggestion Box ‘Owwwwwwaaaaahhh! Fuck! Fuck! Bastard!’

Oh come on, Finny, I only just touched your arm! Stroked it.

Light as a feather. And there you are, screaming like a baby. You wouldn’t last five minutes in the open ocean. You’d be eaten alive.

‘Box! Why, why, why can’t you speak? Why do you have to sting me? Do you like causing pain? Are you some kind of sadist?’

Woah, Finny boy, what’ve we got here? Twenty questions? I’ll take your first one: I don’t speak because that would take all the fun out of the surprise. And yes, I have to sting you because it causes pain, which I like. I guess that makes me a sadist as well then, doesn’t it? Do I get a prize for so many right answers?

‘Why are you here? Just happened to be passing, I suppose?’

You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? But there are no prizes for wrong answers, Finny. This is a business trip. Nothing personal, just business. Here because I need to be.

‘You’re not making sense, Box. If you just came here to talk crap…’

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Oh, that’s rich that is! That’s a fucking hoot and a half, Finny boy! You’re the one who’s not making sense. Not thinking straight. Doo-fucking-lally, in fact! You think that going to see this head shrink doctor Frankenstein is going to make a difference?

‘What? What the crap are you on about, Box?’ Your appointment, Finny boy! Fuck me, let’s wake up and get on the same page, shall we? Your appointment tomorrow!

‘Oh, you mean Belzaku, Box. Dr Belzaku.’

Belzaku, Frankenstein, whoever, he’s just going to mess you up, you know that? Here’s a suggestion: don’t go! In fact, to hell with the suggestion; consider it an instruction: don’t go. Seeing him is the worst thing you can do. Your parents are forcing you to see him, aren’t they? Be honest with me, Finny!

‘No. Well… no, they’re not forcing me.’

Do you want to go then? Do you want to be a rat in someone’s maze? An experiment? Is that what you want?

‘No, I don’t want any of that.’

Then you’re being forced to go, aren’t you? You’ve got to stand up for yourself, Finny boy. Don’t get pushed around by people who are only in it for themselves. They don’t care about you. Take your parents and this Dr Bazooka, they’re all in a nice cosy little arrangement aimed at helping you, aren’t they? Wrong! What they’re actually doing is using you as a guinea pig in some sort of unregulated drug trial so they can get a feature in The Lancet and then start marketing the stuff and raking in the money. Medical ethics my ass!

You can’t trademark ethics and sell it in a bottle, can you?

‘You wouldn’t understand, Boxy, but I’ve got to go.’

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Finny boy, you’re beginning to try my fucking patience! I haven’t got a lot of it at the best of times, and right now it’s really, really thin. Could snap at any moment…

‘Because I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Okay? That’s it. I want everything to be like normal so nobody gets suspicious.’

Hold the friggin’ bus, boogaloo! I have no idea what you’re saying to me, but I can tell you that if you go tomorrow nothing is going to be normal. It’s going to be distinctly abnormal.

‘How do you even know what it’s going to be like? You ever been to a hospital? That’d be one hell of a place, wouldn’t it?

Jellyfish ward. Swordfish ward. Hey, even S-ward-fish ward!’

If you were a stand-up you’d be dodging the rotting fruit by now, Finny boy. So I don’t know what it’s going to be like, alright.

I only know what Manson has told me to tell you.

‘Manson? Manson. Man-son… something about… I think Jowler, was it Jowler? might have mentioned…’

Christ, it’s pitiful listening to you think! And painful. Of course it would be more painful if I could sting you, but I’m not allowed to.

‘How come you’ve stung me already then? I mean if you’re not allowed to, how come the first thing you did was sting me?’

That wasn’t a sting, that was just the equivalent of me shaking hands with you; a means of introducing myself. You know that wasn’t a proper stinging, don’t you?

‘It wasn’t as bad as last time. I could hardly breathe. I thought I was going to die. Wait a minute! I remember! Box, you bastard, you put me in the hospital, didn’t you?’

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It was completely your fault, you dickhead. You went rogue on me. Your body was there but your mouth had disappeared, leastways there was nothing coming out of it. When I’m talking to you I expect a friggin’ answer, old Finny boy, me bucko!

‘If you can’t sting me, does that mean I can give you a good kicking for putting me in hospital?’

I didn’t say I can’t sting you, I said I’m not allowed to. If you even think about fucking with me I’ll certainly give you a handshake. In fact, I’ll give you lots of little handshakes, you shit. If it wasn’t for Manson, you’d probably be on the floor now, halfway to a coma.

‘But I don’t even know Manson. We’ve never met.’

Well, ain’t that a mystery? He’s the one who sent me, sure enough. To tell you what I’ve told you. Don’t ask me why. All I know is he said to tell you not to see Bazooka-man, and don’t put you in the hospital again, or else.

‘You can’t just leave it there, Boxy. Or else what?’

He’d set the sea turtles loose. Man, I hate those little fuckers.

Gives me the creeps just thinking about them. Bit like Manson.

You’re sure you’ve never met him? You poor fucker, he must have you marked for something if he’s willing to threaten me to protect you. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when he turns up. He is one seriously malevolent fucker. And he is going to be so pissed off, so pissed off, when he hears that you’re still going to the hospital.

And I’m the one who’s got to tell him! I want to say a big thank you, Finny boy, for potentially shortening my life. What’s the one about don’t shoot the messenger? Manson will probably shoot me, stab me, strangle me, burn me – and then set the sea turtles on me!

‘Jesus, Boxy, when’s he coming?’

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I don’t know, Finny boy. But whenever it is, I doubt you’ll be ready for him. For now, the best you can do is not think about him.

Get some sleep. Perhaps dream. Dream about Frankenstein doing his unspeakable experiments on you. Maybe then you’ll wake up in the morning, see some sense and cancel your appointment.

And I won’t get eaten by sea turtles, you little shit.

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27 an injection of hope Beth’s diary 12 January 2009 I was going to write this yesterday, but to be honest it was such a long day and I was so tired when we got back home, that I just had to put it off until today.

Martin was able to get time off work so we were able to attend the hospital as a complete family. At least we all get firsthand information that way, and it doesn’t end up becoming a game of chinese whispers, which frequently happens when information is passed between two people, only one of whom was at the meeting.

When I got downstairs in the morning Finn was already there.

Hunched over the kitchen table he nursed a really strong coffee, stroking the cup like he was trying to keep his hands warm. Finn rarely has coffee in the morning, so that made me take a closer look at him. He looked awful. His eyes were tired with dark semicircles underneath, almost resembling scorch marks on his whiter than usual skin. I asked him if he was feeling okay, and he told me he hadn’t slept well.

‘I feel as though I shouldn’t be going,’ he said sullenly. ‘That it might be bad for me if I do. But then I realise that if I don’t go, I’ll be calling attention to myself and everyone will know it’s not my normal thing, and I’ll be found out and hunted down like in my dream last night.’

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This appointment was right on time, I thought. Finn was rambling. Perhaps he knew what he was talking about, but I didn’t have a clue. Was it simply due to lack of sleep, or was it something more significant? And if so, what? I could assume any one of a number of things of course, none of which could turn out to be correct. As Finn the film buff always says, in a line borrowed from that awful Steven Seagal movie Under Siege II, assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups.

Finn and I just about made it to the appointment on time.

Martin thought we ought to leave around 8.30am for what is really no more than a thirty minute journey. Except yesterday, when a truck carrying timber decided to run off the road into a ditch, spilling its load over our lane of the dual carriageway.

Fortunately we arrived at the tail end of it all, so we were only delayed by about fifteen minutes. How does that old saying go?

Smile, it could be worse. So we did smile, and it was worse! Typically, despite it only being around 9.15am, there was a queue for the car park like the Great Wall of China – it stretched as far as the eye could see and it didn’t move! Although I had a sudden urge to panic, Martin became our voice of reason and suggested that Finn and I go ahead and book in for Dr Belzaku while he waited to park. He’d find us when he was done. So that’s what we did. Martin eventually met up with me again while Finn was undergoing his second psych evaluation at around 10.00am.

After complaining bitterly about the inadequacies of the car parking arrangements, Martin spent the next ten minutes with his notebook and pen trying to work out the profit margin of the car park, which he suspected would be on the criminally greedy side of generous.

We waited in various locations within the Psychiatric Department while Finn was tested. I had taken with me a selection of current magazines to alleviate the boredom, but Martin had to make do with the hospital’s selection, which included amongst its elderly issues such gems as Carp Fishing Today, Top Gear, Esquire and British Railway Modelling.

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By about 1.15pm we were told that all the tests were complete and that we should return to see Dr Belzaku himself at 3.30pm, when we would be informed of the results. We debated whether to visit the hospital’s restaurant or head off into the nearby town to try and find somewhere to eat there. If we decided on the latter option we would have to walk, because Martin had paid for an all-day ticket in the car park, and there was no way he was going to give the parking operator any more money – or face the prospect of another potentially time consuming queue.

Finn definitely wanted to get out of the hospital, and Martin too seemed very keen, if only because in town he’d have the opportunity to purchase a more up-to-date magazine that he actually wanted to read.

So we stretched our legs and walked into town. Finn was very subdued and looked exhausted, as though he was having trouble staying awake. I made sure he walked on the inside of the pavement so he couldn’t suddenly stray into the road.

Martin tried to strike up a conversation with him, asking him what sort of tests the technicians had been running. He sounded genuinely interested to know what Finn had experienced, perhaps in the hope that it might help him to understand Finn a little better. But Finn was morose and mostly silent, the air only punctuated briefly by monosyllabic responses to Martin’s questions. After a while Martin gave up his attempts to communicate and we all continued into town in our own little worlds with our own little thoughts. Finn shuffled along beside me, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, staring at the street ahead seemingly without focus.

It turned out to be one of the longest lunchtimes of my life.

Finn’s mood had spread like a virus to Martin and myself. We found a McDonalds, which itself has virus-like characteristics, given the way it has transmitted itself to most corners of our green and pleasant land, and ordered three inedible objects with three undrinkable ones to wash it down. A technique I’d describe as getting rid of one bad taste by replacing it with another.

What followed was a general mooch about town, aimless, with142

out purpose. We were going to visit WHSmith so Martin could buy himself a magazine, but he couldn’t be bothered. I’ll make do with the hospital’s old issues, he said, because I feel old right now, which means we’re ideally suited. Snap out of it, I told him, you’re only mid-fifties. Old is one hundred and three. You’re still a spring chicken, my love, I laughed, hoping my humour would lift his spirits a bit. No, he decided to be lift-resistant. A spring chicken I may be, he replied, but today that old fox has had a nibble.

By the time we returned to the hospital I think I could feel that old fox chomping on me too. I was weary, both physically and mentally. I hadn’t expected the day to go this way. We were starting to fall apart. I hoped that the news from Dr Belzaku would inject a more positive attitude into our ailing family unit.

We sat in the waiting area outside Dr Belzaku’s office for about twenty minutes. He was running ten minutes late on his appointment times, which all things considered I thought was pretty miraculous. And it kind of made up for the time that Martin had to wait to park the car in the morning. Finn sat there plugged into his iPod, oblivious to everything and everyone, including us. I read my last magazine. Had I got to the end of it and still been waiting to see Dr Belzaku I would have started doing the crosswords to fill time. That was my plan B. Martin went straight to plan B, missing out the previously tried old magazines route, to embark on a massive people-watching campaign. If anyone moved, Martin saw it. That he didn’t seem to grow bored with this pursuit probably owes much to the fact that he’s an accountant, and is well used to the repetitive nature of things.

When we were finally called into Dr Belzaku’s office we found a trio of chairs ready for us in front of his desk. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, shook hands etc, and assumed our seats. Me on the left, then Finn, and Martin on the right.

‘The results are, broadly speaking, more or less what I would expect to find,’ began Dr Belzaku, glancing at the A4 sheaf of typed papers in his hand. ‘However, there are some areas of concern, and it’s these that we need to address, I think.’

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What you really want to hear, of course, is that everything is fine. Hunky dory. Peachy. But life isn’t like that, is it? And our lives certainly aren’t like that. As a weather forecast we’d be cloudy with a chance of flash floods. On the flip side, I do find optimism so difficult to kill off, so I’m prepared to believe that we have enough sandbags to keep the water at bay.

Dr Belzaku went on to tell us the results of all the various tests that had been performed that morning, from the oral and written psych tests to the physiological investigations and finally the CAT scan. We watched the scans on a small wall-mounted screen. It was like the lightshow from a hippy disco, with reds and yellows, greens and whites fluctuating and pulsing to a tune beyond human hearing. Dr Belzaku explained what we were looking at using mostly layman’s terms, with only a smattering of medical and technical jargon so that we would not feel intimidated by it.

He did a good job. I understood what he was saying, and a quick glance at Martin gave me the distinct impression that he was also following the doctor’s explanations. Finn, however, looked detached the whole time, barely even looking at the screen.

Perhaps he found it disturbing to be looking at what was going on inside his own head. And even more disturbing to hear the doctor talking about how this neurotransmitter wasn’t triggering that, and that synaptic nerve wasn’t communicating with this.

Nearing the end of the consultation, Dr Belzaku told us that he’d received the report from his colleague Dr Grahamson at Stoneham Park, and had considered his thoughts in reaching his own diagnosis.

‘I think,’ he began, ‘that because of the issues highlighted by the CAT scan, and also because of the data from a couple of the other tests, I’m going to recommend a change to the treatment plan. I know Dr Grahamson mentioned the drug called Geodon to you, Mrs Maguire, and I’m in agreement with my colleague that this would be a suitable option for Finn. I am confident that it will provide a higher level of relief from his symptoms and promote a prolonged period of stability, leading to a reduction in the frequency of relapses.’

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We took a moment to digest this information, during which time Finn seemed a little agitated, as though he was beginning to stir from his lethargic state. Then Dr Belzaku dropped a bit of a bombshell.

‘I’d like to suggest, and I think it is of the utmost importance, that we begin our new course of treatment now.’

Martin and I looked at each other. Really? Right now?

‘Right now. I have everything set up. We’ve got a room ready and my registrar will administer the drug. On this occasion we’ll administer a 20mg Geodon injection, but I’ve prepared a prescription for 20mg capsules for Finn’s continued treatment. You can pick them up either from our hospital pharmacy or your own local pharmacy. Timewise you might be better off filling the prescription here, since you should be able to get the capsules today. Your local pharmacy is likely to be closed by the time you get there, and the Geodon will probably be a special order drug, so not available immediately.’

We all shuffled a bit in our seats as Dr Belzaku came round us to open his office door and call to one of the nurses outside. When he came back in the nurse came with him.

‘The nurse will take you to my registrar now, Finn. Good luck, young man.’ As Finn stood up to go, Dr Belzaku shook his hand.

‘And Mr and Mrs Maguire,’ he said, ‘I’ll have an appointment made for you in about six month’s time so we can review Finn’s progress. In the meantime, you’ve got a department contact number should you have any general questions, or if any complications arise. Thank you for coming to see me, and good luck with Finn.’

We shook his hand and left the office. When we arrived outside, Finn was still there. With a nurse on each arm, trying to steer him towards his injection. He was resisting. He looked back over his shoulder at us with big pleading eyes, as though he was being dragged off to the electric chair, but he didn’t say anything. It was as though an inner conflict was raging inside him. He wanted to go with the nurses, but he didn’t want to go. Martin and I 145

stopped, motionless witnesses to it all. To an outsider it must have seemed like some surreal tableaux, possibly with a title akin to something the Old Masters would have come up with. Like Finn observed in his Valiant Battle in the Temple of Medicine.

As we watched Finn disappear slowly down the corridor we knew we’d done the right thing. Sometimes you just have to put yourself in the hands of others and assume that it will all work out okay. I know, I know, that Steven Seagal quote is going to come back to haunt me, isn’t it? But that’s the way it is, and sometimes assumption is the best we’ve got.

That’s not to say that Martin and I didn’t feel like we’d abandoned Finn in some way. I think it’s inevitable as a parent to think like that, especially when you see your loved one being taken away from you, albeit for a good reason, and you do nothing to prevent it.

We spent a nervous ten minutes in the waiting area before we got news that the injection had been successful and Finn was resting.

Seems it had been a very traumatic experience for him, and he was initially so tensed up that they couldn’t get the needle into him. But he’s okay now. We were told that he would probably be alright to come home in around twenty minutes. Martin suggested that I wait there for Finn while he attempted to find the pharmacy and fill Finn’s prescription.

When we got home we were all exhausted. It was about 6.30pm, so we’d spent the last ten hours of our day at the hospital. We all thought we were starving, so Martin ordered a Chinese from the local takeaway. But when it arrived we were all so tired that no-one could eat it. I think the bag of spring rolls got snacked on, but everything else found its way into the kitchen bin.

Afterwards, as Martin and I enjoyed a strong cup of tea, we noticed that Finn was so tired he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. I didn’t have the heart to wake him so I went upstairs and got a blanket out of the airing cupboard in case he slept there all night.

I didn’t particularly want to leave the central heating on all night, but I didn’t want Finn to freeze either.

Finn slept right through the night. On the sofa. I woke him up this morning with some breakfast and he looked genuinely rested. Even 146

managed a smile and a thank you. The Geodon doesn’t seem to have lessened his appetite! I’d like to think that he looks calmer and is not so detached as he was, but after only one injection I suspect I might just be a victim of wish fulfillment! Time will tell, as they say.

It’s not going to be an overnight fix. I know this. But when you love someone you’re prepared to settle in for the long haul.

And so we go on with renewed hope for the future. Hope for a ride less bumpy and a journey without thunderstorms.

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28 Entry 009/28 March 2009 It’s been a long time. Too long? Difficult to tell. Sometimes it seems like a lifetime.

Been on the new anti-psych drug for almost a couple of months now. Geodon. Stupid name, but at least I can remember it and pronounce it, unlike the last one. I thought I would have to inject it all the time, after what they did to me at the hospital, but I don’t. I take a 20mg capsule every morning with breakfast, and that little blue and white capsule keeps me ticking over all day.

I’m still doing College. It’s okay, but I seem to spend more time on my own now. Emily stays away from me and I think she’s taken Chaz with her, because we haven’t spoken since about one week into the term. If I see them together they’re always giving me strange looks, which I can’t interpret. I really need Emily for that; she was a very good interpreter. I haven’t seen E at all since that meeting in the lift. I think he was being chased or something from what I remember. Memory’s a little hazy these days. It means I have to write everything down, especially in English. Mrs Wagstaff says that my note-taking skills would make me a formidable detective. Except that sometimes I forget where I’ve put the notebook.

Do I feel happier? Everybody says I look happier, but that’s not the same as feeling happier. I think it might be possible to look 148

one thing and feel another. I think this because even though I do smile a lot more than I used to, I still feel a bit… well, depressed I suppose. A bit down. I can’t decide why this should be, unless it’s to do with loneliness. Since starting Geodon I’ve hardly seen anybody. None of my ghost people have been round to see me. I never thought I’d see myself typing this, but I do quite miss them.

Even Boxy, pain in the ass though he was, even his visits helped pass the time and gave me contact with someone outside of my parents.

Not that my parents don’t care for me. They do. I know they love me. Even Dad now, he’s much more like the kind of dad I think he should be. I think he stayed away in the early days because of me, because he didn’t know how to relate to me. That’s how he was back then. He didn’t want a son with schizophrenia; a son who was less than perfect. But he’s changed; he’s compromised and come to accept that sometimes things are less than perfect, but knowing that doesn’t mean we should love them less.

And Mum, bless her, it’s her personal mission in life to make sure I’ve taken my little blue and white capsule. She thinks she’s being quite clever and unobtrusive but I know she’s doing it.

When I’ve finished eating she hovers around, collecting the dishes and plates and cups and cutlery… and anything else that isn’t nailed down. And she does it so slowly. But I’m equal to the challenge and I make her wait. I drink my cup of tea really slowly, keeping a watch on her out of the corner of my eye, seeing her get nervous and twitchy like she’s thinking I’ve forgotten to take it.

Then, just after she starts saying Finn have you remem… I toss the capsule into the back of my throat and swallow. If this was an Olympic sport I’d win gold every time.

I should sign off now. I have some English work to do: an essay on what life might be like on Tralfamadore, the fictional planet in Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Slaughterhouse-5.

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29 with feathers Beth’s diary 22 June 2009 I haven’t written in this diary for so long I’d almost forgotten about it. I did think that I would get rid of it if everything seemed to be going okay, and everything does seem to be going okay. The diary has served its purpose really; it provided me with an outlet for my anxieties, my hopes, my thoughts about myself and Finn.

And Martin. I’ve been grateful for it, but now I think the time has come to let it go.

But just for old time’s sake, I’m going to make one last entry.

Finn leaves College in about three weeks’ time. His last exam is in two days. That’s it, then. He has never wanted to go to university, even though his teachers have all said he’s bright enough. I don’t have any clear idea of what he wants to do next, and I don’t think Finn does either. Martin and I have said that we’ll support him in whatever decision he makes. Meanwhile, we’ll probably be helping to support him financially until he can find a job. It’s a time of change for Finn.

In fact, a change has occurred already. He’s been a different person since he started on the Geodon capsules. So far I’ve managed to keep a surreptitious eye on him when he takes the 150

drug. He hasn’t missed a day and it really shows. He’s much more alert, much less moody and definitely more stable than at any other time. The only possible downside is the fact that he doesn’t seem to have become more social; if anything the opposite is true.

He’s upstairs most evenings on his computer, listening to his music or watching television. He seems to have grown distant from his friend Chaz, even though they are in the same class together, and he doesn’t mention Emily at all. I did wonder if I should try to speak to him about it, but I’m not sure it’s my place to. He would probably consider it meddling, and perhaps he’s right. Do nothing could well be the best policy. After all, they’re teenagers, and teenagers go through a hell of a lot of mixed up feelings before they get themselves sorted out. Finn, because of his mental health problems, may well take a little longer than most to get sorted.

One thing I have noticed, one significant thing, is the absence of ghost people. And animals. And numbers. There has been no activity at all that I’m aware of. I no longer hear Finn talking to his imaginary friends, which is somewhat of a relief. He was very loud sometimes, and I know the neighbours have mentioned it to Martin, who simply asked them if they could remember being teenagers. I think that did the trick, because they’ve never mentioned the noise levels again.

I know that people have said that I’m always the eternal optimist, but I’ve been very doubtful over the past couple of years at least. Now, at last, it seems that that optimism is back on track.

And hope. The poet Emily Dickinson said that hope is the thing with feathers. If that’s true, then I’m certain we’re ready to start flapping our wings; we’re ready to take off and soar high on the thermals of life.

We have Finn back with us. Everything is under control.

Today everything feels good. It looks good. It is good.

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30 Entry 010/11 July 2009 I can hardly bring myself to type this. It is so shocking. I have been physically sick because of it.

E is dead.

E is dead, and it’s my fault.

I didn’t notice him at first. He was slumped in a corner, barely conscious. It gave me a real jolt seeing him there, and I became confused about what I was looking at. It was just so weird. As I got nearer I recognised the camouflage jacket. He was not in good shape, and I fought to get him out of his uncomfortable position and onto my bed. He doesn’t look that heavy, but because he was completely uncooperative, he weighed a ton. I stuck a pillow under his head and began to examine him for injury. There was nothing. No blood.

Nothing. I ran downstairs for a glass of water, thinking that that might help his situation, though I must admit I was dubious.

When I got back he hadn’t moved. I manhandled him into a sitting position against my headboard and held the glass of water to his lips. As I tipped he made little sucking motions with his mouth, which dribbled some of the water down the front of him.

I was very patient with him, and eventually he opened his eyes and looked at me.

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‘Finn,’ he said weakly.

E, what the hell happened to you?

‘I knew,’ he swallowed, as though it was difficult for him to talk, ‘I knew they were out to get me… but I didn’t realise it would be you they sent. Oh Finn, after all these years of snooping and ferreting, of sniffing out and tracking, I just… I just never saw it coming.’

E, what the fuck are you talking about? Sent me? Who sent me?

For what?

‘You see? You don’t even know, do you? You’ve killed me, Finn.

I’m dying right now, I can feel it.’

I didn’t understand what he was banging on about, but I was getting ever more frantic. I searched him again for injuries, but found nothing. I asked him what he was dying from, and he said Geodon. My Geodon! How in the hell? This was madness.

But nowhere near as mad as what happened next. While he was sitting there, propped up on my bed, he began to disappear! He was becoming intangible, opaque, and I began to see the surface of my bed through his upper body. I was stricken dumb in terror, and I felt a tightness in my chest which made it difficult to breathe, followed by the idea that I might hyperventilate at any moment.

As I sat there, immobilised by terror and fear and all the other negative forces in the world, I noticed that E was fumbling with his still-physical hand in his still-physical jacket pocket. When it emerged he had hold of a small book, which dropped through his mist-like body onto the bed. He was almost gone!

Eeeeeeeeeeee! Don’t go. I’m sorry. If it’s my fault I didn’t mean it.

Just before he was extinguished completely, like the embers of a 153

dying fire, his voice reached out of wherever he was. It sounded like he was in a very small space a very long way off. And when he spoke his last words to me it was like he only had one breath in which to do it, so he seemed to speak in one long sentence, which in turn sounded like one long word.

‘Found-this-in-the-trash-Finn-you-destroyed-my-life-but-thiswill-save-the-others…’

I must’ve sat there for a good hour with my arms out like I was still holding him up. But E was not there. He was not anywhere any more. I’d seen to that. It was my fault. I was responsible for his death.

I threw up.

After I’d puked for the third time there was nothing left. I was drained.

I glanced at the book on the bed through bleary eyes. I could hear Mum running up the stairs, obviously alerted by the sounds of sickness, and probably the smell too.

Beth’s Diary, I read, then pushed it out of sight under a pillow.

Update.

It is now two o’clock in the morning. My stomach hurts from puking, and my room stinks from puking – despite Mum’s best efforts with cloths and a fragranced odour-eating aerosol.

I’ve read the diary given to me by E. Mum’s diary. I understand why she wanted to dispose of it. I understand what I’ve been going through these past weeks. I’ve been such a fool. But now it’s time to make it right. E is dead, but he wants me to save the others. This is something that only I can do. This is my higher purpose.

No more blue and white capsules.

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31 hate vs. love Who’s been a naughty boy then, Finn?

‘Jowler? Jowler! How did you get in?’

That’s for me to know and you to find out, Finny-boy! What did you do to E? ‘Don’t! Just don’t, okay. I feel like shit about it already, without you having a go at me as well. You know what I did.’

Oh yeah. You poisoned him, you little tosser. He was useless, of course, always sneaking around, collecting. Useless words and stupid codes. And syphons. Syphons! The dickhead meant ciphers, but he couldn’t pronounce it to save his life.

‘You shouldn’t talk about him like that, he never did anything to you. It’s because of him that you’re all going to live. Think about that you ungrateful bastard!’

Very self-righteous today aren’t we, you murdering little scumbag.

‘You should be nice to me, Jowler. I’ve stopped taking my meds for you.’

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You didn’t stop taking them for me, Finny-boy, you lying little shit. You stopped taking them for you.

‘You don’t know anything, Jowler. Just leave me alone. I’m still grieving.’

I know what’s in the diary, Finny-boy. I know what’s in the diary. Oh, the betrayal, Finny-boy. The absolute betrayal by people who you thought cared for you. They just wanted to keep you in line, make sure you didn’t stray from the path. Their path.

Oh, I know all about it, Finny. The mind games, the manipulation, all in the name of love. Hell of a thing, love, isn’t it? Has a habit of keeping you prisoner.

‘You’re full of shit, Jowler. Fuck off!’

I’m hanging upside down from his curtain pole one minute, the next I’m right in his face. I swing down so fast I arrive almost before I’ve left. Friggin’ amazing how I manage it that quick, blows me away every time. Finn doesn’t see it coming of course, which is the whole point of it. Shock value. Fucking priceless!

Wanna say that to my face? I yell.

Kapow! Falls backwards like he’s been tazered, flipping and flopping. Like a big spasm. Yee-hah! No swearing at the monkey, Finny-boy! It ain’t cute.

‘Bastard!’ he screams.

I bring my tail round like a whip, the tip all curled over like a boxing glove, and smash him straight in the solar plexus. Love that phrase. Solar plexus. Sounds like some sort of astronomical phenomenon when really it’s just a place that hurts a lot if you punch it.

He starts to cry. This is more like it. Sounds like music to me, because it’s a full-on blub, not a reedy little snivel. He buries his head under his pillow, clamping it down with his arms. It’s what I 156

call “doing the ostrich”.

I decide to wait a bit. Be real quiet. He’ll think I’ve gone and come out from his hiding place. Then I’ll get in his face again.

‘I know you’re still there, Jowler,’ he says, his voice muffled and barely audible beneath the pillow. ‘Why do you do this to me all the time? You must really hate me. And I don’t know why.’

Don’t sweat it kiddo, if it’s any consolation I pretty much hate everybody. How’s that for an extreme sense of fairness? It’s just me. It’s the way I am. It’s a character trait. A genetic disposition.

Maybe even a trauma from childhood, like discovering that I was not the most handsome kid in the treetops. That was a real bummer!

‘I don’t understand people who hate.’

Really? You’re kidding me, right? It’s all around you, Finny-boy.

But let’s not think about hate, let’s think about love. Love in all it’s useless glory. It is too weak to be any good to you. Did Emily love you enough to want to be your girlfriend? No. Did your father love you enough to stop you taking those blue and white capsules? No. Did your mother love you enough to stop writing her surveillance diary for the benefit of those who controlled your freedom? No. Did you, Finny-boy, love E enough not to have killed him? No. Am I making myself clear, Finny? Are you beginning to understand why I hate? Because it’s so much more productive than love.

Love is for wimps. It’s time for you to man up, Finny-boy. Time to cultivate some hate.

He pops his head out from under the pillow, his eyes all red and puffy from prolonged whimpering. God, if I had a camera now.

Priceless.

‘I can’t be like you, Jowler,’ he whines.

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Of course you can, Finny. You can be exactly like me. I know you. We are blood brothers, partners, collaborators, we are two in one.

‘I’m not listening, Jowler, you can’t make me listen.’

Afraid to hear the truth, Finny-boy, that’s your trouble. You’re just a…

Shit! The hairs on my spine are standing up. I’m suddenly all alert, transfixed. Rigid with growing horror. It’s not good. I can smell it. Far off right now, but approaching very fast. There is atmospheric disturbance and something is coming. Something evil. Dangerous. Danger! Danger! Danger! I do what my biology tells me to do: I howl. That’s what Howler Monkeys do when faced with danger.

‘Jowler! Shut up!’ Finn screams at me, burrowing under his pillow once more.

I’m screaming my lungs out. I can’t stop. My mechanisms don’t work that way. Snatching a breath. The threat needs to stop in order for me to stop. Screaming again. But it’s coming closer. Still screaming. The smell is overpowering. I can see waves of heat rippling the air. Snatching a breath. I need to get out of here before I’m trapped. Screaming and screaming.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit! I know what it is! It’s coming through!

Manson!

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32 Manson Finn, look at me. Behold me. I am Manson. I am your deliverer.

I am the way.

‘Manson? I don’t know you. We’ve never met. Where did Jowler go? How did you get in?’

Inquisitive scumsucker, aren’t you? I got in because you let me in. Because you’re ready for me now. You made me wait for this moment, shitbag! I would have introduced myself earlier, but that stupid ass-wipe Jowler put you in the hospital, and I never visit places of healing ‘cause they make me puke. Like the people in them. They all make me puke.

‘You’re angry, like Jowler.’

No, I’m angry like you. It’s your anger that makes me angry. See how you’ve got it all twisted around? We’ve got to get you thinking more clearly before we embark on our higher purpose, Finn.

We’ve got to make sure you’re ready.

‘Ready for what?’

Listen, scumsuck, if you want to really piss me off you keep 159

acting like a brainless little fuck! Don’t piss me off! I’d kill you in a heartbeat, no matter the consequences. That’s me. That’s who I am. Ask anyone. Anyone who’s still alive that is. So. Pay a-fucking-ttention!

‘What do you want from me? I don’t understand, and I have been listening. It’s just… you terrify me.’

Yeah, fear is the key, wormhead. You’ve read the diary. You’ve read the fucking diary, you crackhead! It’s all in there. It couldn’t be more perfect! The stupid cow’s written it all in there. Every sordid little detail of her crime. And the one who calls himself your father. Him too. He’s guilty as hell, just like the cow. In it together. Classic conspiracy. Classic assholes too, writing it all down! Good for us, though. Now it’s real. Tangible. We can touch it. We can run our fingers over the words, wrap our tongues round them. Taste the hate, Finn! Lick it, know its flavour. It’s disgusting and it’s all aimed at you.

‘Jowler said hate was stronger than love.’

Jowler’s a pathetic ass-wiping scumbag, whose tail I want to tear from his body and loop round his neck! But he’s not wrong.

Hate is stronger than love. It’s the reason we’re here now, talking like this. It’s brought us together. Teacher and pupil. Let the lesson commence!

I brought something with me, Finny-ninny. Something to start your new thought processes off. It’s in your wardrobe right here.

Ready? Open the door and… Voila!

‘No no no no no! Manson… what have you done? Flower never hurt anybody! Is she dead? What have you done? This wasn’t supposed to happen. E said the others would be saved!’

It’s not what I’ve done, you ignorant tosser! It’s what you’ve 160

done! You let her inside your head, and that’s where she hurt you!

Little Miss Hippy Chick and the Eternal Optimism of the Spotless Mind spreading her new age propaganda shit. Everything’s going to be okay. Be strong and you’ll win through. Horseshit! And you needn’t bother fussing over her, dickhead, she’s deader than a dodo and has been for days. And E, that sniveling pseudo-spook, should have known that not everyone can be saved. Like him, Flower had to be sacrificed.

Jesus, it was so delicious, Finn. So sweet and succulent. Death can be so beautiful if you take the trouble to really observe it. It’s just like art. There’s the ideas stage, then the preparation, followed by execution and contemplation.

‘But you killed her? How can that be beautiful?’

Finn, you’re beginning to try my fucking patience! You killed her. You! Got it? She was getting inside your head, and now I’ve fixed it so she can’t do it again. Ever. You should be thanking me.

You’ve got no soul, you fucking philistine, no finesse and no appreciation. She went so gently. At first I thought she was even happy about it. She stopped smiling when I tightened that belt round her throat though. Oh, and her limbs got all jerky like some stupid marionette wired up to the national grid. I held her close like we were long-time lovers, my lips just brushing hers. I breathed in her perfume. Saw the small beads of sweat gathering above her top lip. I watched her eyes lose their sparkle, turn grey and turn up in her head. Complete with all those little haemorrhaging veins that would tell everyone how she died. Wish I could have videoed it to watch over and over again. Like a memento. A trophy. Or a keepsake.

‘But she was innocent. She didn’t deserve to die.’

No such thing as innocence, you asshole, they’re all guilty of something. Hippy chick was guilty of putting bad ideas in your head. You know she was working for them, don’t you?

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‘Them? Who do you mean?’

Last chance, shithead. If we’re on different pages again I’m going to punch you straight in the face. And it gets worse from there, so you better pray you keep up, you little parasite. Your parents, stupid, they were who Flower was working for. Where do you think she got her ideas from? She was an airhead! Tailormade for their purposes. You could feed your ideas in through her ears and they’d come out her mouth. And everybody thought they were her ideas!

‘Why? Why would my parents make her do that?’

Finn, I swear to God al-fucking-mighty, you are the dumbest piece of shit I’ve ever met. I can see why you liked Flower so much – you’ve both got air in your heads! Did you believe what airhead girl told you? Damn tootin’ you did. Hook, line and a big fat stinker of a sinker. Your parents, Mr and Mrs Love Central, Teenage Schizo-Care Experts, want a little sheepy baa-lamb for a kid. They want you how they want you. Not how you are.

It’s all a charade. A sham. A put-on. A scam. Flim-flam. Hocus pocus, mumbo jumbo. All for your benefit. But they can’t do it without the drugs. Their whole world, and yours, is built on drugs.

Difference is, Finny-O, that when you take the drugs away their world collapses – but yours rises from the piles of rubble you’ve been reduced to. You can fly. You’re flying now. It’s good, isn’t it?

A good feeling, knowing that you are beyond the control of manipulative forces; beyond those who say they want to help you be free but camouflage the bars of your cage so you can’t see them.

This is what we’re up against. This is why we need to act now, while you’re off your meds. Because, you see, these shitheads won’t stop coming. You can’t hide from them forever. They’ll find you, and they’ll know you’ve flushed the meds, flown the coop so to speak, gone rogue. Then, Finny-O, they’ll strap you to a gurney and pump you full of Geodon ‘til it’s coming out your ears. They win, you lose.

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‘What about Chaz and Emily? Surely they’re not in on it too?’

Gothy and Frothy? Nah. They were both major players, in the game right up to their pretty little pimped up student hairdos. But you played the game better, and took them both out by neutralising one of them. Remember how angry you got? That told her, little redhead riding hood, arty-farty freewheelin’ tarty pants.

Personally, I think you got lucky. She was strong, that one, so strong she was able to take Mr I’m So Alternative Stuck In The Eighties gothic turd with her. Hey, killed two turds with one stone! Boy, I’m so full of wit I can hardly stand myself.

Those two are out of the picture. If they put themselves back in the frame then we’ll have to deal with them, but for now we need to deal with the problems closer to home. So close they’re just one flight of stairs away from us right now.

‘What do we do?’

First fucking sensible question you’ve asked, shithead. What did I tell you? They won’t stop coming. They’re relentless, like the ocean. First time that tide goes out you think its gone forever.

Then it comes back. Oceans have been doing that for millions of years. And if dummy-mummy and baddy-daddy lived that long they’d keep receding and surging too. Relentlessly. You’d be forever on a beach, fluctuating between gathering sparkly shells and getting a mouthful of saltwater and seaweed twice a day.

‘How do you stop an ocean?’

Back to the asshole questions then, you brainless jerk? Can’t believe you’re a College boy. They must embrace despair when you’re in the lesson, Finn-O me boy! Obviously, you don’t stop an ocean. You can’t stop an ocean. Any primary school kid will tell you that, you moron.

‘Why did you tell me about it, then?’

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Look, will you just shut up and listen! Or I’ll hurt you. Bad. Really bad. Not like Flower, though. Different. I can be real inventive when I want. Get this into your rhino hide thick skull, jerky boy, it’s really simple. Oceans are natural phenomenon and cannot be stopped. The Manipulative Maguires are man-made.

Or man-and-woman-made if you want to split hairs. And they can be stopped.

‘Stopped how?’

Stopped so they never come back. Don’t forget, you stop them and you stop the drugs. Stop the drugs and you stop living someone else’s life and start living your own.

And we’ll all be together.

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33 Entry 011/20 August 2009 I only emerge from my room for food. It’s the only way to avoid detection. I’ve disconnected from the internet by taking the wireless card out of my laptop and smashing it with a hammer, just in case they try to monitor me that way.

I can barely stand it. This is not living, merely existing. The pressure is intolerable. And I can hear them whispering downstairs. I mean, I can hear them whispering from downstairs when I’m in my room! I know it’s about me. It’s always about me.

Manson was right, it’s time for me to act.

I have to take control.

I am absolutely clear in my thinking, and I know that what I am going to do is irreversible. Once done, this thing cannot be undone.

Everything that has happened over the past four years has led me to this moment. This one inevitable moment. Sometimes the things we think we love and the things we think love us are just weapons in the service of things we don’t understand.

I have gathered my forces, because I can’t do this alone. They are here with me now, watching over my shoulder as I type this.

They are waiting.

I am ready to fulfill my higher purpose.

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34 Entry 012/07 September 2009 My pieces are starting to join up more and more. Really, they are.

I sometimes have little nightmares about what happened, but Manson says it’s probably just from the shock of release, of being truly free at last.

I’m a little hazy on the actual events, but that’s okay. Manson says it’s a desirable thing if it gets more hazy as time goes by, and it will apparently.

There was blood, I definitely remember that. There wasn’t supposed to be. When we planned it there was no blood. It was a majority decision. Box, Jowler, 7 and me against Manson. He was the only one who voted for blood. Said it would make more of an impact, more of a statement. And he wanted to write something in it, which he’s always wanted to do since watching a documentary on his namesake Charles Manson, whose “family” scrawled in blood on the walls at the Sharon Tate murder scene.

Mum was supposed to be first. Then Dad. Simpler that way, one at a time. But they both came in together because they’d been shopping at the supermarket. I remember apples rolling across the kitchen floor, and eggs smashing, as the shopping bags were dropped the minute we jumped them.

For an accountant, Dad was surprisingly strong and caught us 166

all by surprise. Box was supposed to paralyse them both, I think, but due to the confines of the kitchen his tentacles were unwieldy and I know they caught Jowler and 7 a couple of times. It was Box’s failure to operate his stingers that probably made Manson overturn the majority vote and pull a small chef’s knife from the block on the side next to the tea, coffee and sugar canisters.

There was blood. Dad’s first, because he was the strongest and needed to be subdued before he either damaged one of us or escaped. It was Box who brought Dad down, using his tentacles like spaghetti, tangling Dad’s legs so he could only fall. Manson leapt on him, whooping and hollering. This was his thing. He was born to it. He took Dad’s hair in one hand and yanked it back.

The knife moved in a blur across his exposed throat and a scream became a gurgle. A river of red gushed up, sprayed out, splashed all around. On work surfaces, on the floor and on Manson. It covered his face and dripped off his chin, and all you could see in that mass of red was the whites of his eyes. But he didn’t care. He peered right down into Dad’s face so he could catch all the details of his death. Manson was the last thing Dad saw.

I’d become so captivated by the exquisite choreography of Manson’s exploits that I’d forgotten Mum. When I looked round I saw that 7 had hold of her, though not even she was going down without a fight. She’d inflicted several wounds on 7’s arms and face, having savagely raked him with her nails. He was covered in red parallel lines, almost like someone had been holding leech races on his skin. But he still had hold of her, and had managed to pin her arms by her sides. She was a picture of disheveled terror, screaming, yelling, crying, utterly traumatised by what was happening to her. My name was in there somewhere. I could hear it trying to come through, but her voice was on the wrong frequency and all I got was intermittent transmission. I could see her confusion. She was using her eyes to plead for her life, but they soon turned to grey and closed forever when Manson arrived and drove his knife up underneath her ribs. She went limp immediately. I think he knew exactly where to stab somebody to make 167

them do that. Manson seemed a little bit disappointed I think that she had gone so quickly. You can tell he’s the kind of man who likes to take his time. Quick things do not please Manson.

It must have been Manson’s lucky day, because he spent much more time on 3. No quick death for her. I don’t know what he did to her, but she was screaming for ages while I stood outside waiting for him to finish. 3 had come down unexpectedly from upstairs, undoubtedly alerted by the noise. I think she was trying to sneak through unnoticed, but Manson, glancing up from Mum’s lifeless body, saw her. Manson is a big man but he moves quickly and it didn’t take much effort to pin 3 against the wall.

Manson looked at me and the others. He looked like an extra from any horror movie with “bloodbath” in the title. He looked at us without speaking. He didn’t need to. We all knew.

3 could have ruined it for all of us. Manson and 7 had suspected for some time that she may be a double agent. I remember what she had said to me about 7; she’d tried to poison my relationship with him. Poor E, he was obviously very good at missing what was right in front of his face. He didn’t see me coming, and he didn’t identify 3 either. Poor dead fool. He thought she would be saved, but she can’t be saved. She must be sacrificed so that the others can be saved, those others who will not report to the authorities. Deep down, I think I always knew that she was too cheerful. She had an overdeveloped capacity to love.

I’m sure 3 would have appealed against the sentence, but Manson’s hand was over her pretty little lipsticked mouth.

Manson looked at us and gave a little wave with his knife. We silently agreed to what would come next. Only Box stayed to watch. The rest of us went outside into the garden to wait. I felt strangely energised by the whole affair, like I imagined an adrenalin junkie might feel during a base jump or something. I was tingling with some sort of anticipation. I knew something unthinkable had been committed and that I was part of it. But I knew I had been liberated by it.

When it was all over and the house was silent, Manson appeared in the doorway and looked out at us as we sprawled on 168

the lawn. He was the blood monster. He was the one who might very well have been born to murder the world. He was grinning.

‘Come on, Finn-O, you old scumbag,’ he said, beckoning me towards him with his finger. ‘I’ve done something on your behalf.’

I followed him through the kitchen. The floor was slick with blood and it was difficult to walk without holding onto things. I glanced down briefly at the bodies of the two people whom had once been my parents. They were butchered like meat. Manson must have played with them after he’d finished with 3. We slid through to the lounge, where at least the carpet soaked up the blood from another body. It was 3, and she honestly looked like roadkill. Propped up against the far wall she was almost unrecognisable as a human figure.

‘There,’ chuckled Manson, pointing to the wall above 3’s distressed form.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

It was written in blood. The amount was excessive and caused every letter to drip down the wall, the trails merging with other letters before continuing down to join the rest of the blood around 3. Manson was very pleased with his efforts. It was, after all, the fulfillment of one of his dreams. It was also a delicious irony of course, since it was something that I remembered 3 having said to me during one of her visits. I thought it was a fitting statement, and a true statement.

And that’s all I remember from that day when my life began again. Which surprises me, because I’ve remembered more than I thought I would, which must mean that even more of my pieces have joined up.

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35 Portsmouth We couldn’t stay in the house since it was no longer habitable.

Anyway, those stupid fuckwit neighbours had called the police because the plan had been messed up. The plan called for absolute quiet, but that went to hell in a handcart when my stupid parents turned up together. Even if they hadn’t I still think it would have gone wrong. Manson is a man who likes the sound of his own voice too much, and he’s always scored poorly in sponsored silences. We could hear the sirens blaring as we ransacked the house looking for cash and credit cards. I didn’t think we were going to find the PIN numbers for the cards until I looked in Dad’s wallet, crusty with blood, and discovered he’d written all the numbers on a slip of paper that he kept in the zipped compartment.

We’re all here in Portsmouth. In a little bed and breakfast place about twenty minutes from the sea. I’m paying for everything with the cash I took from various holes in the wall using my parents’ plastic. Well, they don’t need it. I didn’t take everything, but I’m not quite sure if I can chance getting any more because there was an item on the Ten O’Clock News last night and they had my picture. But not a picture of Manson or 7 or Box. Which upset Manson because he thought that he was the one who should be getting all the credit for the killings. He’d always wanted to be infamous, like his namesake.

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Fortunately the B & B’s owner hadn’t seen the news bulletin, but it’s only a matter of time. Jowler and 7 have both been out to see if the killings have been mentioned in the late edition newspapers. Nothing. We’re also monitoring the news on the radio.

Seems like it’s coming full circle again. I thought I’d escaped all the madness, got away from the people who wanted to control me.

But no. I can’t stand it. I can’t go through all that again. I can feel the pressure building up in my head, like I could go volcanic at any moment. It’s going to get worse. What was that fucking stupid story 3 told me? About that girl in Iceland? All the pictures she painted were all screaming at her? That’s kind of where I’m about to be I think, except that my picture is a photograph on the television and in the papers, and everyone’s fingers will be pointing at me! It’s just so unfair how quickly my pieces have come apart again. I can’t think clearly. I’m overwhelmed by even the smallest things.

But the gang’s all here and there’s safety in numbers. They give me a certain confidence that I would not have on my own. I don’t know what I’d do without them.

We’re staying put tonight. Right now I’m typing my last thing.

Until the next time. Strangely, I’ve grown used to sharing my life with this diary. It’s not a Pulitzer winner, and I’ll probably never go back and read it all, but I’d like to think it’s been of some help.

Or maybe it’s just typing practice in case I want a job in an office, I don’t know.

I think we’re all tired. Except Mr Mixie and Stellar of course.

You wouldn’t believe it, but they seem to have patched up their differences and they’ve got really close now. They think they’re going to be the next Bonnie and Clyde! Romantic fools! Talking of romance, we can hear them groaning together in the next room. You can’t have privacy and thin walls!

7 is downstairs, counselling the owner’s daughter on some 171

problem at College with another girl. Box is already asleep, curled up like a giant ball of scrappy string on the bed and floor.

Manson is hovering. Pacing. Full of nervous energy.

Manson? I’m scared. I’ve done everything I know how to do to try to keep us together. Yet I know that outside others are coming to try and make me the way I was. I’ll lose me, Manson. But more importantly I’ll lose all of you. E said you could be saved, didn’t he?

Was he wrong? I couldn’t stand for him to be wrong. What can I do, Manson? I want to keep everything the way it is right now.

‘I don’t know, Finn-O,’ he said, still pacing. He started to take on the appearance of something feral, untamed and unpredictable.

‘You know what you have to do to make everything stop?’

Sure, Manson. Kill it.

‘Then you have to make a choice, Finn-O. Maybe it’s the last choice you can ever make. I’m going to give you this knife that’s still got the blood of your useless parents on it and you have to choose whether to use it on yourself or on the first scumbag who comes through that door for you.’

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