A Voice in the Distance (5 page)

At first, Rami said they might have to section him. I
imagined him tied down to a bed, his body in spasm as
they fed electric currents into his brain. I wasn't really
thinking straight at the time. I'd travelled in the
ambulance with him. They had hooked him up to a
heart monitor and kept asking me what recreational
drugs he'd taken. The journey to the hospital was awful.
It was taking all three paramedics just to restrain him.
He kept thrashing about, screaming at them to get off
him. I think he was just afraid, but he wouldn't quieten
down enough to listen to what they were saying to him.
They injected something into the back of his hand.
Seconds before we arrived at the hospital, his kicking
became more half-hearted. By the time they were
unloading him he had stopped moving altogether and
they had to lift him into a wheelchair.

While they were examining him in A&E, Harry and
Kate arrived. Shortly after that, Rami appeared. He
calmed us all down and went to talk to the doctor and
took us up to the ward to see Flynn, who by this time was
fast asleep. He looked pale and almost childlike against
the hospital pillows. Rami told us that Flynn had been
injected with a powerful dose of tranquillizer and said
he would be out for the night, so Harry, Kate and I went
home.

The next day, Rami picked me up before breakfast.
When we arrived on the ward, Flynn's bed was empty. A
nurse told us he was being seen by the psychiatrist.
While we waited for him to return, Rami bought me
coffee. I sat on the chair beside the empty unmade bed,
sipping my coffee and trying to keep my hands from
shaking. Rami had a stab at polite chit-chat but he
looked like he hadn't slept. When Flynn finally
returned, I didn't recognize him. I just saw a dishevelled
guy with blond hair on end, wearing a creased T-shirt
and boxers. His face was white, properly white, and he
had violet smudges beneath his eyes. My first thought
was,
God, I wonder what's wrong with that guy?
My second
thought was,
God, that guy is Flynn
. He seemed to be
moving incredibly slowly, as if the earth's gravity had
dramatically increased.

Rami left, and Flynn and I had a short, painful conversation.
I kept saying to myself,
For heaven's sake don't
cry
. It was so hard. Flynn sounded like a stroke victim. I
knew it was the effect of the tranquillizer but it was
somehow horrifying. There were long pauses between
each of his words and his speech was slurred. I tried to
make a joke about the whole painting episode, but it
massively backfired and almost had him sobbing. I left
feeling useless and scared and, for the first time since
we'd been going out, totally alone.

Now that he is home, he is different. He won't talk
about what happened. Looking exceedingly uncomfortable,
Harry informed me that Flynn had written
him a letter of apology along with a cheque for the
damage. Harry said he didn't know what to do. I said,
Just cash the cheque
. There is a silent agreement between
us not to tell anyone else at college about what
happened. Flynn only missed a couple of days of
lectures so no questions have been asked and we are
straight back to the normal routine. It's almost as if the
psychotic episode never occurred.

Except that Flynn is different. He is subdued. He is
sleeping again. A lot. He says it's one of the side-effects
of the increased lithium dose. He is on 1200 milligrams
now, seeing the psychiatrist twice a week and constantly
having blood tests. He doesn't tell me about any of this,
of course, but I read the dosage on the packets in the
bathroom drawer. I see the purple and yellow bruises in
the crooks of his arms, on the backs of his hands.

Rami calls – frequently. Flynn is monosyllabic with
him too and uses the excuse of practice to get away from
the phone as quickly as possible. He seems so drugged
up and slow. I miss his laughter, his impulsiveness, his
wacky sense of humour, even his obsessive practising. It
makes me wonder who he actually is. If the old Flynn
was ill – courtesy of a chemical imbalance in the brain –
is this lithiumed Flynn the real McCoy? Or perhaps both
characters are just facets of a hidden, deeper soul that I
have yet to meet. I just don't know. Sometimes I fear
that the drug-free Flynn – searingly manic, then
catastrophically depressed – is who he really is. But
because in that form he is not acceptable to conventional
society, he has to be drugged so that his
emotions are tempered and his behaviour controlled.
Perhaps we are blindly living in an Orwellian society
where individualism is feared and the biggest pressure is
the one to conform. Perhaps Flynn is sane and the rest
of the world is mad. The thoughts go round and round
in my head.

I try talking to Flynn about these things but he isn't
interested. Or else he just doesn't want to talk. He seems
to be restricting our conversations to uni, essays,
lectures, the contents of the fridge. I want to grab him
by the shoulders and shake him and shout,
Tell me what
was going through your mind when you covered Harry's living
room in black paint! Tell me what's going through your mind
right now as you sit hunched over your plate, staring at
the kitchen wall!
I don't understand, but what really hurts
is that Flynn doesn't even seem to
want
me to
understand.

I come back from rehearsal and almost fall over Harry's
cello case in the hall. Harry is sitting alone in the
kitchen, drinking coffee. I suddenly remember why he
is here – to practise the Martinu for the chamber music
exam. I am so pleased to see him, it worries me. I dump
a couple of supermarket bags on the table and give him
a quick peck on the cheek.

'Are you staying for dinner?' I ask.

'Depends what you're making.'

'It's Flynn's turn to cook.'

'Perhaps not then.'

I laugh. 'What have you done with him?'

'He's having a shower. I told him he smelled.'

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome. Not looking too good, is he?'

I finish stocking the fridge. 'You've noticed?'

'Kind of hard not to, Jen.'

Flynn comes in, hair wet and tousled, puts on some
more coffee and adds some jacket potatoes to the fish in
the oven. He turns round and glares at Harry and me,
still sitting at the kitchen table.

'Right, so are we going to rehearse this shitty concert
piece, or what?'

'That's the spirit!' Harry chuckles.

'And hello to you too,' I say to Flynn with a smile.

Flynn ignores us both, turning on his heel and
striding into the living room. Harry and I exchange
looks.

'I guess that's our cue,' he says.

'Has he been in this mood since you arrived?'

Harry nods. 'I have a feeling he'd forgotten about
the chamber music exam. He'd certainly forgotten
about our rehearsal tonight. I think I woke him when I
rang the bell.'

I get up reluctantly and turn down the oven. 'I suppose
we may as well get started.'

In the living room, Flynn is sitting on the piano stool,
slouched forwards over the closed piano lid, his head
resting on his arms. There is a long silence while I set up
my music stand and assemble my flute and Harry
fetches a stool and erects a makeshift stand for himself
on the top of the TV. Harry takes his score out of his bag
and tries to put the pages in order. Then he attempts to
get the pages to stand up against the mug placed
strategically atop the TV. It doesn't work and the sheets
scatter onto the carpet. I pull a heavy lever-arch file
from the shelf.

'Try this.'

'Thanks. I think I'm missing one of the pages
now . . .'

'It's here.' I retrieve it from behind the TV.

The score finally in place, Harry lifts his cello out of
its case and starts adjusting the spike. Flynn has his eyes
closed. I play a tentative A on my flute. Flynn doesn't
move.

Harry has his cello set up now. We both look across at
Flynn. 'Do you feel like giving us an A?' I ask him, a
touch of sarcasm creeping into my voice.

He opens his eyes and straightens up with a longsuffering
look, as if we are irritating children pestering
him for sweets. He bangs open the piano lid. Plays a very
loud A.

Harry and I tune up quickly.

'Shall we play it through once, to start with?' Harry
suggests.

Flynn doesn't say anything.

'Sounds good to me,' I reply. I look over at Flynn. He
is rummaging through the piles of scores on the
piano top, sending a great many of them shooting
down the back. 'I don't even have the fucking music,' he
says.

'Don't you know it by heart?' Harry asks. Flynn is
renowned for learning new pieces in the blink of an
eye.

Flynn gives up his hunt and sits back down. 'Fine, I'll
just make it up as I go along.'

Harry glances at me and rolls his eyes. I flash him a
sympathetic grin. 'All repeats?' I ask.

'Yes,' Harry says.

There is a pause. I raise my flute to my lips and Harry
picks up his bow. Flynn glances round at us briefly,
inhales the upbeat and we are away.

It is far from brilliant. We are sorely out of practice
and this is not the easiest or the most tuneful of pieces,
but our unusual instrument combination means that
our repertoire is limited. Harry is sawing grimly away at
his cello, wincing whenever the piece rises to a
particularly unpleasant crescendo. Flynn is playing
shockingly badly – like a robot, devoid of any
expression. I am stumbling over the quick succession of
complicated harmonics as we claw our way painfully to
the end.

There is a heavy silence.

'Good God,' Harry says at last. 'Bohuslav Martinu
would turn in his grave.'

'I can't believe we're supposed to have this ready by
the end of next month,' I groan.

Flynn plays a horribly dissonant chord with his
elbows and starts rubbing his eyes.

Another silence. Harry and I are floundering.
Normally Flynn takes the lead in rehearsals – mainly
because he is, quite simply, the best musician out of us
three. Tonight, however, he seems determined not to
play ball.

'Okaaay,' Harry says slowly. 'Let's just focus on the
first page, shall we?'

We start playing again. Harry breaks off. 'Ouch,
ouch, ouch. We have to come together more on bar
eleven. Jen, have you got
avante
there?'

'Yes, d'you want me to
avante
it more?'

'Try it.'

We go again. 'Better, but we need a darker colour on
bar nineteen,' I say. 'It's too bland.' I look pointedly at
Flynn.

Harry shifts uncomfortably. 'OK, a darker colour,' he
says, picking up his bow.

'Not you,
you're
dark enough already,' I say.

We pick up again. There is little improvement.

'It still needs a bit more – um . . .' Harry glances
nervously at Flynn.

'Are you going to start doing some phrasing or do
you just want to program it into your keyboard and stick
it on repeat?' I suddenly snap.

Harry examines the tip of his shoe with great intent.

'I wasn't the one who chose this turgid crap,' Flynn
remarks coldly. 'I doubt very much it'll make any
difference whether I phrase it or not.'

'It's a bit late now to start arguing over the piece,' I
point out.

'From bar nine?' Harry suggests brightly.

'Seeing as I don't have the music, I haven't the faintest
idea which bar you're talking about,' Flynn retorts.

'Sorry, sorry,' Harry says hastily. 'From the C sharp?'

'There
is
more than one,' Flynn points out.

'The first one,' Harry says with barely measured calm.
'Or else we could just continue bickering and simply fail
the whole module.'

I catch Harry's eye. 'Well said,' I mutter to him.

Flynn has heard me. He wasn't meant to. He turns
from the piano to glare at me, face flushed with fury.
Then he slams the piano lid down, jumps up and stalks
out of the room.

Harry and I stare at each other. There is a long,
drawn-out silence and then we hear the bedroom door
bang.

Harry hoists his cello across his lap and begins to
release the spike. 'God, Jennah, he's being a real little
shit.'

I lay my flute on the carpet and pull my knees to my
chest. 'What the hell's got into him? I can't believe he's
behaving like a two-year-old! He was just looking for a
fight!' I take a deep breath and rest my chin on my
knees. Suddenly my throat feels tight.

Harry places his cello in its case and looks at me carefully.
'He's obviously feeling crap at the moment, but
that doesn't mean he can take it out on you,' he says.
'D'you want me to try and talk some sense into him?'

I shake my head. 'He won't listen to anyone when
he's like this. Christ, what are we going to do about the
chamber music exam?'

'We'll try again when he's in a better mood,' Harry
says. 'Don't worry about that, Jen. If the worst comes to
the worst, Flynn will pull a sickie and you and I will dig
up an old Mozart duet.' He closes his cello case and
gives me a long look. 'Well, if we're not going to
rehearse, I should get back to Kate. Are you going to be
all right here tonight?'

I nod.

'Are you sure? You can stay over at ours if you want.'

'Thanks, but I'll be OK.' I sigh. 'Oh God, Harry, I just
don't know what to do.'

Harry zips up his music bag and looks at me. 'Have
you ever thought . . . ?'

'What?' I ask hopefully.

Harry hesitates. 'That maybe there's nothing you
can
do?'

It is not the answer I'm expecting. I stare at him.

'I mean, maybe – maybe this is what it's going to be
like when he gets ill,' Harry continues doggedly. 'He'll
have an episode – either of mania or depression – his
meds will be tweaked, therapy will be stepped up, and
everyone will wait for it to pass. Which, of course, it will
do.'