A Voice in the Distance (4 page)

'What tea?'

I roll my eyes.

Harry and Flynn go next door to make more coffee.
I squat down and pick up my paintbrush again.

'Is it really the colour of vomit?' Kate asks in a small
voice.

'No!' I exclaim vehemently. 'It's a lovely soft beige.
Flynn just thinks he's being funny.' I can hear the other
two in the kitchen. Flynn is talking rapid-fire about
some television programme. They come back in, Harry
holding coffee mugs, Flynn still talking: '. . . and so you
can use the transfer of learning method to practise the
same trick with the other hand. Except you don't
actually have to use the other hand, so basically you
could just practise all day with your right hand and then
the next day find that your left hand has learned the
sequence of movements without doing any practice at
all . . .'

'I thought you said the documentary was about circus
clowns learning to juggle,' Harry says, handing out the
mugs. 'I don't see how learning to juggle has anything
to do with playing the piano—'

'No, I'm talking about the transfer of learning!'
Flynn practically shouts. 'Jugglers practise a skill with
one hand only and then find that the skill has automatically
been transferred by the brain to the other
hand! So it means they can cut their practice time in
half by training one hand to do one set of skills and then
the other hand to do a completely different set of skills,
rather than have to repeat the same skills with each
hand . . .'

'Who's learning to juggle?' Kate asks with an amused
grin.

'Flynn, apparently,' Harry replies with a roll of the
eyes.

'This means I could practise harmonic scales with my
left hand and dominant scales with my right hand and
then my brain would transfer what my right hand had
learned to my left hand . . .'

I feel uneasy suddenly. Flynn has a sharp, almost
agitated look in his eyes. 'Watch out!' I shout.

Too late. Flynn leans the whole of his left side against
the wall that Kate has just finished painting. Kate and I
look at each other in horror. Flynn straightens up and
peels his arm away from the wet wall, gazing down at the
mess of beige paint on his jacket and jeans.

'Whoops.' Harry looks as if he is trying not to laugh.

I look at Flynn's suede jacket and the massive splodge
on the wet wall with bits of fluff stuck to it. 'Anyway,'
Flynn goes on, taking off his jacket and tossing it onto
the floor – apparently unaware that it's now ruined –
'I'm going to put it into practice by learning a fast
new piece with my right hand and then the next day I'll
see if I can do it with my left hand, and I should get
exactly the same results, because if it works with
juggling—'

'Flynn, stop talking for a sec,' I cut in, worry making
my voice sound harsh. 'Why don't you sit down and have
something to eat?'

But now he is off again about how juggling is going
to make a significant difference to his practice schedule.
Harry and Kate, good-natured as usual, seem to be finding
it all quite amusing.

'I'm sure Professor Kaiser will be delighted when you
inform him you've given up the Rach Two in favour of
one-handed juggling.' Harry laughs. 'Just let me know
in advance so I can watch the spectacle from a distance.'

'You don't believe me. I'll show you.' Flynn downs his
coffee in three loud gulps and jumps up.

'Jesus,' Harry breathes. 'How does that not burn your
mouth?'

Flynn whisks the sheet off the desk like a magician,
uncovering Kate's computer and a plethora of office
knick-knacks.

'Hey, careful, I mustn't get paint on that—' Kate
begins.

'OK, now, watch!' Ignoring her, Flynn grabs a stapler,
a roll of sellotape and the remote control, throws them
in the air and attempts to juggle. Kate yelps as the
stapler hits her on the arm.

'Hold on, hold on, this really isn't the best room for
a circus act . . .' Harry protests, his laughter fading
slightly.

'The walls are wet!' Kate says desperately as Flynn
grabs the offending articles off the floor and tries again.

'Watch, watch! I've been practising and it isn't
actually that difficult!'

'Flynn, this isn't funny!' I yell. The stapler, sellotape
and remote go skidding across the floor again and this
time I get to them first. Flynn is momentarily distracted
by a large tub of paint by the door and drags it to the
centre of the room. 'Hey, I know how we can get rid of
this vomit paint! Have any of you heard of the artist
Chris Ofili?' His voice is so loud, he is almost shouting.
I am starting to feel frightened.

'Flynn, that's the paint for the front door . . .' Kate
looks frantic.

'You remember him, don't you, Jen?' Flynn continues
as if she hasn't spoken. 'We saw some of his exhibits last
year at the Tate Modern.' He squats down in front of the
paint bucket and begins to prise the lid open with his
fingertips. 'He was the guy who did the Virgin Mary out of
elephant shit and won the Turner Prize—'

'Flynn, that's black paint!' I shout. Then several
things happen at once. The lid flies off and Flynn
plunges the paintbrush into the inky pool. Kate's hand
shoots out to stop him and knocks over Harry's coffee.
Harry jumps to his feet and tries to grab Flynn's arm.
Flynn jumps back, dodging him easily, and shakes the
paint-loaded brush vigorously, sending a splattering of
black drops onto the nearest wall.

Kate lets out a small scream.

'What the hell are you doing?' Harry yells, his eyes
wide with disbelief.

'Wait, wait, I haven't finished!' Flynn dodges Harry
and dives for the paint tin again. 'Look, it has a speckled
effect, you have to do each wall in turn, all you do is
shake it like this . . .'

Kate jumps up, looking close to tears, and flees the
room. Harry lunges again for Flynn's arm, misses, slips
in the spilled coffee and crashes to the floor. Flynn starts
to laugh. 'Yeah, this is what I'm talking about! Abstract
art – scene of a struggle – get paint and put it on your
clothes, press yourself to the wall, the paint will show the
movements of your body, like shadows, like spectres . . .'
He dips his hands into the black paint and slaps them
against the freshly painted wall, smearing black streaks
into the wet beige.

'What are you doing?' Harry tries to block him but
Flynn just grabs Harry by the shoulders and pushes him
back against the wet wall.

'Stand still!' Flynn shouts. 'I'm going to paint round
you! Now this is how you create a shadow . . .'

Harry attempts another desperate lunge for Flynn's
arm and Flynn grabs a handful of paint and smears it
onto Harry's clothes. Harry tries to wrestle Flynn to the
floor, but with the speed of lightning, Flynn escapes
Harry's grasp. I realize I haven't moved since the
carnage began. It's as if my body has gone into shock
and all my muscles have frozen. I force myself forward,
towards Flynn, who is now smearing handfuls of black
paint down his own sleeves, over his jeans . . .

'Oh my God, he's lost it, this time he's really lost
it . . .' Harry stares in horror, starting to back away.

'Flynn, stop it!' My voice shakes, and I try to grab his
hands. 'Stop it! Look what you're doing! You're destroying
Harry's flat!'

Flynn laughs. 'I know, I know, I know, it looks great –
d'you wanna help? Look, Jen, you just have to put it on
your hands and then press your hands to the wall and
then—'

I've got hold of one arm, Harry grabs hold of the
other. Flynn shoves us off him, hard, and overturns
the tin of paint.

'Ha ha ha! You wanna play catch? You think you can
get me? You think you can catch me?' He leaps effortlessly
up onto the table. I grab the tail of Flynn's shirt
and hang on for dear life. Flynn drags himself away
from me and the shirt rips in my hand. Harry grasps
hold of one leg and Flynn kicks him away. Harry
staggers backwards, gasping, holding his side. 'I'm calling
the police—'

'No! Call an ambulance – just call an ambulance,
please, Harry.' I am almost sobbing. Harry staggers from
the room. I crawl up onto the table. Grab hold of
Flynn's arm and hang on for dear life.

'Flynn stop – please stop – just sit down – Flynn,
please!
' I am clawing at his clothes, trying to drag him
down from the table. He pulls away easily, leaps onto the
back of the sofa, then starts climbing onto the bookshelves.
He pulls out a handful of books and hurls them
down into the growing pool of black paint. 'It's art, it's
art!' he whoops. 'Can't you see? It's modern art!'

Harry is pulling me back by the arm towards the
open door.

'No, Harry,' I protest. 'We've got to—'

'They're coming, the ambulance is on its way.'
Harry's grip on my wrist is like iron as he forces me out
into the corridor. He closes the living-room door and
holds onto the handle.

I try to force my way back in. 'No, Harry, no!' I
protest frantically. 'The window – he might jump!'

'He's getting violent!' Harry shouts back. 'We've got
to stay out here!'

My knees give way and I sink to the floor. Harry is still
hanging onto the door handle. From inside the living
room, the crashing continues.

'We've got to try and help him!' I beg.

'Believe me, this is the kindest thing we could do,'
Harry says quietly. 'The last thing he'd want would be to
hurt you.'

And so he restrains me until the wail of the
ambulance rises from the street.

There are bright lights and busy corridors. Lots of
corridors, lots of people. Everyone is tall. The people
around me are green. One is pushing this chair, the
other is walking. I am gliding along in this magic chair.
The speckled lino keeps disappearing under my feet.
The ambulance was tiring. Everything is tiring. All these
corridors, all these white lights, all these people.
The corridors are very long. At the end of each one
there is another. And another. And another. And
another.

Finally we stop. There are lots of voices but no
people. There's a bed. Curtains drawn around me and
the bed. The first green man says, 'I better stay with this
one till the doc comes round.' The second green man
says, 'I'm going to head back. I'll catch up with you
later.' The second green man disappears through a gap
in the curtains. The first green man sits down on the
edge of the bed. I close my eyes.

There is a hand on my arm. A woman in a white coat
is sitting opposite me. She has curly hair. 'Hello,' she
says. 'I'm Doctor Stanton. Do you know where you are?'

I look at her. I blink.

'What's your name?' she asks.

I look at her some more. I say my name in my head,
but no sound comes out. My lips have been glued
together.

'You're at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital,' the
woman says. 'You were brought in by ambulance
because you'd been acting strangely. You've been given
a large dose of sedative, which is why you're finding it
difficult to talk right now. But I want you to try. Can you
remember what happened?'

Her eyes are green. With little flecks of gold. Just like
Jennah's.

'Flynn, open your eyes a minute.' Her voice is very
loud. 'Open your eyes. That's it. What's all this black
stuff on you? Is it paint? Do you remember the paint?'

Her eyes are like Jennah's. But her face is not. Her
face is nothing like Jennah's. Even her hair is different.

'Right,' says the woman. 'The nurses are going to
clean you up. Then we'll get you into bed.' She puts a
hand under my chin and shines a light into my eyes. My
head hurts. Jennah, where are you?

My skin burns. The nurses keep rubbing with foulsmelling
liquid and cotton wool. One is doing my hands
and my arms. The other is doing my face. My eyes sting.
It takes a long time.

They take off my shirt and jeans. They are covered in
some kind of black stuff. I have to stand up but my legs
aren't working. They make me get into a white bed. The
sheets hurt my skin. I am so tired. I want to sleep. But
the bed starts to move. Strips of light flash past overhead.
More corridors, more people. I close my eyes.

Rami is here. He is talking to a man in a white coat.
We are in a long room with lots more beds. People keep
coming and going. One man is attached to a bag on a
pole. There is the smell of school dinners. Sunlight
streams through a wall of windows. There are flowers in
vases. Cards. Balloons. Is it my birthday?

Rami is sitting on a chair close to my bed. He is holding
a clipboard and reading intently. He looks at me. He
smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. 'Hey, buddy,' he says.
He squeezes my arm. I open my mouth. Something
warm and wet trickles down my chin. Rami's eyes water
and he turns away.

The windows are full of night. The lights are dim.
Someone is groaning loudly in the bed opposite me. If
I turn my head to the right, I can see into the corridor.
There is a big desk. People behind the desk. On the
other side there is another long room just like this one.
There is somebody crying out, 'Help me, help me.'
Help me too. I'm lost and I'm falling.

It's morning. Sunlight streams in through the wall of
windows. It's busy; people are walking about with
trolleys. There is that food smell again and the
clattering of plates and cutlery. I have never needed to
pee so badly in my life. But it's an effort just to move.

I sit up slowly and lower my feet to the floor. I'm only
wearing a T-shirt and boxers. The floor is cold. My legs
are tired. I try to stand up. I wobble. I am walking
through thick soup. It's an effort not to fall. Someone
touches my arm. 'Where are you going?' they ask.
'Toilet,' I answer. 'Last door on the right,' they say. I
keep on walking. I'm not moving very fast.

I reach a door that says TOILET. I go inside. It takes me
a very long time to lock the door. I pee for ages. When
I've finished, I go back to my bed. I want to lie down.

There is a table over the bed. They want me to eat
cereal. I take one mouthful and feel ready to throw
up. I lie back down. They pat my arm. They say I have to
eat. I ignore them.

A woman in a white coat is standing by my bed. She
asks me how I'm feeling. She shines a light in my eyes.
She asks me to follow her finger. She asks me lots of
questions – my name, my age, the date, the season,
where I live, where I am now, why I came to hospital.
Sometimes I answer, sometimes I shrug. When she
leaves, I close my eyes.

The nurse says I have to get up. She says the
psychiatrist is ready to see me now. She takes me down
the corridor to a little room. There is a man with a
beard who stands up and shakes my hand. He is smartly
dressed. He has a badge. I can't read what it says. We sit
down on brown chairs. He asks me lots of questions
about the bipolar and the lithium. He says I have to take
a stronger dose now.

When I return to my bed, Rami and Jennah are
there. Jennah looks frightened. There are purple halfmoons
under her eyes. My heart squeezes. 'Nice to see
you a little more vertical, old man,' Rami says. 'I'll be
back in a bit.' He winks and walks off. I get into bed and
sit up against the headboard.

Jennah is sitting on the plastic chair. She is nervously
tucking her hair behind her ears and trying to smile.
'You've still got paint in your hair.'

I look at her. 'Oh.'

She looks away and bites her lip. Her eyes glisten.

I want to touch her but I don't dare. I don't even
know if she's mine any more.

'Are you feeling a bit better?' The words catch in her
throat but she smiles. 'Did you get any sleep?'

'Yes,' I say.

'Flynn, what happened? Did you stop taking your
lithium?' Her voice shakes.

'No,' I reply truthfully.

She stares at me, her eyes registering first shock, then
disbelief. 'What did the psychiatrist say?'

'I've got to go onto a stronger dose.'

'I–I should have seen it.' Jennah is stumbling. 'You –
you started being different, you started getting really
hyper, and – and really agitated. But I just thought you
were in one of your annoying moods . . .' She bites her
lip and looks away.

'I'm sorry about yesterday,' I say.

She reaches out and touches my hand. I take her
hand in mine. Something starts at the back of my throat.
I bite my tongue. My eyes feel hot.

'Harry and Kate's living room does actually look as if
it belongs in the Tate Modern,' Jennah says with a smile.
'You weren't far off the mark with that one.'

A hot tear escapes down my cheek. I swipe at it.

'Perhaps you're in the wrong profession.' Jennah
tries to smile again. 'You're even more creative with
paint than with music. Who needs paintbrushes when
you can just throw paint at the walls? You could start off
a whole new trend in interior design.' Her voice has a
desperate edge.

I try to laugh, but it comes out as a sob. Jennah gets
up and sits on the edge of the bed. She strokes my arm.
'Flynn, it's going to be all right. You got better before,
you're going to get better again, OK?'

I rub the corner of the sheet over my face and make
foolish gasping noises.

Jennah strokes my leg. 'So what d'you think? Should
we enrol you at the Chelsea Arts College?'

I manage a laugh this time. 'What are they going to
do? A-about the mess?'

'Harry's already found a decorator,' Jennah tells me.
'And we'll pay for it as a present.'

'I – I kicked Harry . . .'

'Yeah, well, he'll kick you back when you're feeling
better,' Jennah says. 'Now budge up, there's room on
this bed for two.'

I move over and she pulls herself up against the head-
board. She puts her arms around my waist and snuggles
up against me. I bury my face in her hair.

The next morning, at breakfast, I ask the nurse for my
clothes. She tells me they have been thrown away. I call
Rami on his mobile from a pay phone in the corridor
and tell him to bring me a pair of shoes. He says he's
working. I tell him, fine, I'm discharging myself and
walking home barefoot. He tells me to hold on. Fortyfive
minutes later he arrives with a shoebox and a
tracksuit. I put on the new trainers while Rami goes off
in search of a doctor. Ages later he returns with one – a
fresh-faced medical student, who gives me a final checkover.
I have a key worker – a lady named Joy – who I have
to meet with every week. Her job is to keep me
'functional', whatever the hell that means. I also have to
start group therapy. Sometime around noon, I am
finally discharged.

Rami drives me straight over to an appointment with
Dr Stefan. He tries to get me to talk about the painting
episode. I stare out of the window and don't reply. He
reviews my lithium increase. He agrees with it and
prescribes me a short course of sleeping pills as well as a
daily course of benzodiazepines to take if I start feeling
manic again.

After the appointment, I want to go home to Jennah,
but Rami insists on taking me out to lunch.

'You've certainly started off the academic year in
dramatic style!' he exclaims, tucking into a large plate of
carbonara. 'Let's hope the rest of it isn't quite so
eventful.'

I look at him. 'Very funny.'

Rami wipes his mouth on his napkin and munches
rapidly. He is so used to having lunch on the go that he
doesn't know how to eat at a normal pace. 'Sophie and
I would really like it if you would come and stay with us
for a bit.'

'No thank you.'

'Seriously, Flynn. This is the worst manic episode
you've had. The first doctor at the A&E wanted to
section you – have papers signed to hold you in hospital
for as long as they see fit. It was only because you reacted
so well to the tranquillizer that they would even
consider discharging you. And it took some
persuading.'

'I said, no thanks.'

'Why don't I drive you home to Sussex then?'

'You told Mum and Dad about this?' My voice begins
to rise.

'No, I haven't,' Rami says. 'I figured that Dad's blood
pressure could do without the news. But the only way I
got you out of the hospital so quickly was by telling them
that I was a doctor and would take full responsibility for
you. You can't just slot back into your life as if nothing
happened. It was pretty scary and even dangerous.'

'I'm fine,' I say quietly, trying hard to keep my voice
even. 'They've cranked up the lithium so high I can
hardly see straight. I feel like a robot, my feelings have
completely evaporated and I couldn't even say boo to a
goose. I'm no danger to anyone.'

'I'm not thinking you're a danger to anyone.'

'I'm no danger to myself, then.'

Rami stops, spaghetti-laden fork halfway to his
mouth. There is a long pause. 'Are you sure about that?'

I glare at him. 'Oh, for Christ's sake.'

'All I'm saying is, I would feel better if you came and
stayed for a while.'

'I'm not putting my life on hold just so you can feel
better!' I start to shout. A woman sitting at the next table
looks round in alarm.

Rami's voice is thick with carefully controlled calm.
'That's not what I meant and you know it. Manic
episodes are often followed by periods of deep
depression – which, along with the stronger dose of
lithium and the potential side-effects of the
tranquillizers, means you shouldn't be on your own
right now—'

'I'm not on my own! I live with Jennah, remember?'

Rami picks up his fork with a sigh, defeated. 'OK. Just
remember that Jennah has her life too. And the offer
of a bed in Watford is always there.'

We finish our meal in silence.

I go back to lectures the following morning. Kate and
Harry are overly friendly, overly cheerful. I wish I knew
what they were thinking. Jennah keeps saying that they
understand but I don't see how they can, when even I
don't. In the afternoon, I start group therapy and
spend the whole hour practising the fingering to
Rachmaninov's Second Piano Concerto against the
sides of my chair as a succession of listless individuals
recount their life story in excruciating detail.

I want to die.