With that in mind, in order to satisfy my fan(s), I have decided to post another snippet of the story I am working on right now.
So! Without further ado, behold!
Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~
Conversations With Him.
Chapter
1.
It
started with blood.
I was
surprised, I think. In the back of my mind, I had had this notion – that I had
tried to force out of my brain before it became a notion – that if or when my
brother decided to kill himself, it would involve pills. Drugs. Co-codomol or
something like that. Something meant to kill pain; taken in a large enough
quantity to kill the pain for good. Or something.
The
policeman was kind.
He found me somewhere to sit – I forget exactly where, or
what on – and put his hand on my shoulder in a friendly, sympathetic kind of
way.
I wasn't
sure that he was allowed to, actually. I’d an idea in my head that it was
frowned upon; this kind of intimate touching. That it might of left him
vulnerable to some sort of charge, if I were that sort of person. I mean, I'm
not – and I wasn't then, either – but he wasn't to know that, was he?
Anyway, right of wrong, he did it, and in amongst all the
muddle and jumble in my head at the time, I was glad.
He was in
the bedroom. That’s where they’d found him. I hadn’t seen him. There was the
blood; that was all over the sink and sideboard in the kitchen, and some drops
and dribbles on the floor, but that was all. They wouldn’t let me into the
bedroom so I could see him.
I was glad about that, too.
*****
Of
course, I saw him later on.
When everything was ready.
It was just like you see on the television. A person led
into a little room with a big window in it; the view obscured by a dark
curtain. The policewoman - it's always a woman for a woman. This method has
been tried and tested – asks you if you are ready (“no rush”, she assures you,
though). When you say that you are, the curtain is pulled aside and there is
your brother, lying in front of you. Or sister. Or aunt, of uncle, or whoever.
But in my case of course, it was my brother. And there he
was (or wasn't). Lying there. In front of me. My brother…
While this goes on, of course, the policewoman stands in
stoic silence, waiting for your reaction, whatever it is (tissues ready in one
hand, the other within leaning distance of a chair).
In my case, the reaction was a swallow, a hoarse croak of a
voice that didn't really sound like mine saying “that’s my brother” and a hand,
pressed against the glass.
He looked…how to describe it? Not ‘peaceful’, as is
sometimes described. But then again, he didn’t look particularly distressed or
tortured either. He looked… Amused.
Yes, that
was it. He was amused. His eyebrows were raised and even with his eyes closed,
there was an air of great irony in his expression. Topping it all off; his lips
were pursed, with the corner of one side turned up ever so slightly, as though
even now, he were suppressing the urge to laugh.
My
brother. Smirking in death.
I’m not certain how long I stood there. Both at the time
and when I look back, everything is blurred. One minute I’m stood with my palm
flat against the window looking at him; the next, I’m in an interview room
answering a few questions.
“Just
routine”, they said.
They asked everything I’d expected them to. When was the
last time I saw or heard from him? And how did he seem then? Any sign of his
behaviour being different, out of the ordinary?
And then
the big one. The one that I had been dreading…
“And how –” the appropriately respectful and glum faced
interviewer paused for a second, thinking how to word it before he asked; “–
how was his mental state in general? Did he suffer from any problems?”
I wanted to hit him then.
Unfair,
perhaps, but this story is about truth, and the truth is that at these words, I
wanted to hit him, because of course he knew. It was all there on record; all
there in the innocuous looking brown file that was laid neatly out on the table
opposite me. They all knew. And here this man was, deadpan, asking anyway,
because…why? To be cruel? To rub salt into the gaping wound and dig the knife
in a little deeper?
The thought of my brother, of the knife; flashes up in my
mind before I quickly shoo it away.
The reasonable side of my nature piped up – as it does,
annoyingly – to warn me that I was being unnecessarily harsh. That they had to
ask; there was a procedure, a process that had to be gone through. It wasn’t
this man’s fault. It wasn’t anybody’s.
I accepted
the logic of this, with a mental roll of my eyes.
It didn’t
stop me wanting to slap this man who may or may not have been being snide right
across his carefully expressionless face, though.
“My brother has paranoid schizophrenia,” I explained,
tightly.
At my words, I felt a slight change in the atmosphere. It
was barely perceptible, but there nonetheless. I was used to it, by now. Even
in the most professional and unflappable of people, the effect was there and I
could feel it; the sense of unease rising. It was like an invisible, inaudible
sort of hum.
Leaning forwards slightly, the interviewer licked his lips a
little. The tension was making them dry, I guessed. In any case, it gave him a
few seconds to think how to phrase the next question.
“His illness,” he said slowly; “did it cause him to suffer
from depression?”
“Yes.” My voice was still tight.
The urge to scream was biting at the back of my throat. The
urge was there to scream at the man, at the policewoman beside me, at the wall,
at the people on the other side of it, probably listening, at everything and
everyone.
But
especially him: the one that was not there, who had promised that I would never
be sitting here, having this conversation…
“And had he ever tried to hurt himself before?” he pressed.
“Yes.”
It had been pills that time.
The
hospital had been kind. Everybody always was, generally. To me, that is. He was
regarded with suspicion, with fear. With contempt, even. But me; hardly ever.
It was as though, unable to cope with or understand him, they turned away and
focussed all their energy on the other sibling instead. The ‘normal’ one...
I was staring at the table, breathing slowly, fighting back
the desperate need to start shouting.
My palms were spread out flat in
front of me. I started counting my fingers.
“Could you –” the interviewer’s voice asked, breaking into
my thoughts: “– tell me what it was that he did?”
…Still counting. 1 to 10. Over and over…
“It was an overdose,” the policewoman said hastily, before I
could reply. Her hand, which had been laid lightly on my arm since we had sat
down, tightened it’s grip in a reassuring manner, as she added firmly: “it’s
all on file.”
I saw the look pass between them. Him: an enraged, how-dare-you-challenge-me? glare. Her: a
stern, don’t-you-reckon-she’s-suffered-enough-you-unfeeling-shit?
stare.
In the end,
the one to back down was him.
“Well, I think that’s enough,” he said coolly. “We’ll leave
it there. Thank you for your time, Miss. Fielding.”
The answer to that was a toss up between a nod or another
curt “yes”.
I chose the
former.
Next minute
the chairs were pushed back and me and the policewoman were making our way out
of the room and back into the lobby.
There was
more room to think out here. More room to breathe.
As she escorted me to the desk and I waited in the queue to
sign out, the policewoman talked about what would happen next. There would be a
post-mortem examination, of course, as was always the case in circumstances
like this. Then, there would be an inquest, if necessary. Then, if all went as
expected – with or without the inquest – my brother’s body would be released,
along with any personal effects, and I would be able to make the “necessary
arrangements”.
“Necessary arrangements”. What a horribly, misleadingly
mundane phrase that sounded…
When it was finally our turn at the desk, a few murmured words
between policewoman and the sergeant on duty explained why I was there without
my needing to say anything and he held out a pen with a smile that was both
sympathetic and genuine.
I
recognized it immediately, that smile. It wasn’t the same kind that I would
usually get. It was different. That smile wasn’t saying; oh, poor you! How awful and incompressible, at the same time. It
was saying; yep! been there, done that.
Understand.
My usual response to this unspoken acknowledgement of
solidarity would have been to ask what his story was – “Brother.
Schizophrenia”, I’d say, then; “you?” – but numb as I was I couldn’t bring
myself to. So, I simply smiled back, thankfully. Then I took the pen and hunted
for my name on the list, which although I couldn’t remember putting it there logic
dictated must have been, because I must surely have signed in when I arrived.
Finding my familiar scribble a
few lines from the bottom of the page – logic also dictated that I should’ve
started there rather than the other way around, but this time I had refused to
listen – I put pen to paper, then as a thought occurred, I stopped, and turned
round to ask:
“Can I see the note?” When the policewoman looked confused,
I added; “the note. My brother’s note. The one he wrote before he…”
I can’t say it. I mean to, but my voice peters out of its
own accord.
There is a
pause.
I note that
the policewoman, for the first time, looks awkward.
“I mean, I know it’s evidence, and everything –” I
explained, twisting the pen around in my fingers. “– so I won’t be able to have
it, not yet, but I thought I could at least just look at it. Just for a minute.
I mean, it’s mine, anyway, isn’t it; he’s written it for me.”
Now the policewoman looked really awkward, and I am confused
myself.
I blinked a
little.
Then:
“Please?” I say.
My voice was pathetic, I knew it was. That was unfair, and I
knew that too. It wasn’t her fault. If there were rules, that wasn’t her fault,
and it wasn’t fair for me to put pressure on her. But I did it anyway.
I needed to see the note.
His note. My note. Just for a
minute. I needed to see it.
“Please,” I say again. “Please.”
The policewoman breathed in, then took my arm and led me
across to a seat.
Sitting me
down, she took another breath before she spoke.
“I’m sorry –” she said; “– there’s no easy way to say this.
I’m afraid we can’t shoe you the note because there isn’t one.”
It took a moment for those words to sink in, and a moment
more to comprehend them.
When both had happened, I blinked
again, then shook my head.
No note? What was she talking
about?
There had to be a mistake.
“There has to be a mistake –” I said out loud; “– there is a
note. There is. There must be.”
The policewoman shook her own head.
Her hand
was still on my arm.
I shook it
off, and stood up.
There had to be a note. Just as with counting my fingers, my
brain was repeating this over and over again. Reassuring itself, myself;
because there was always a note. You commit suicide; you leave a note. That was
what happened. That was how it worked…
“No,” I said. Despite the repetition inside my head, agitation
was rising, I could feel it; a sick bile in my throat. “No. No…there’s a
mistake. There is a note. He will have written a note. You just haven’t found
it. You need to go back and keep looking.”
At this, the policewoman gave me another one of her stoic,
reassuring smiles.
Before, it
was comforting.
At that
moment in time, however, it infuriated me.
“I mean it!” I snapped. It came out louder than I’d
intended, which caused everybody to look at me, as I continued with; “you need
to keep looking. It’s there somewhere. You just need to find it.”
The policewoman kept smiling as she assured me gently that
she understood that I was upset – hey, she would be upset too, if our positions
were reversed – but that they had carefully and thoroughly taken the place
apart, piece by piece. There was no note. They were certain of it.
She knew
that wasn’t fair, she told me. But that was how it was. They couldn’t show me
something they didn’t have.
“But it has to be there –” My voice was getting louder. I
was ending each sentence with an exclamation mark now; unable or unwilling to
accept it. “– it has to! You haven’t looked hard enough! My brother wrote me a
note! He did! You need to find it! Hell, you can stay here and I’ll go
and find it! Actually, that’s exactly what I’ll do: I’ll go and find it!”
I was pacing. I could feel that I was pacing. Back and
forth. Up and down.
At some point, two big, burly policemen
had appeared from somewhere and seeing that my agitation was growing out of
control, they began walking towards us. The sergeant had also come out from
behind his desk and was stood a little way off, ready to act if necessary.
Out of the corner of my eye, I
saw the policewoman move.
She didn’t move much. She just
made a small gesture with her hand.
It was a gesture I recognized.
“Please”, the
gesture said: “Back Off. I’ve Got This.”
Faced with that, the policemen paused, and so did I. In
fact, it stopped me in my tracks.
I had used that gesture myself,
so often, to help my brother.
It had proven an invaluable tool
helping me to diffuse incidents involving my brother before matters exploded. I
had used it so many times that I had actually lost count. And now here was
someone else using it to diffuse an incident involving me. An incident of
people being unnerved and wary due to me: due to my behaviour.
Unbelievable! Hilarious, even!
I found myself biting back another
urge; sudden and wholly inappropriate, to laugh, but it passed by very quickly,
leaving a sense of hollow melancholy in its place. Either way, the wind had
been knocked out of my sails.
“I’m sorry,” I said. My voice was small, sad, as I repeated
it: “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
The policewoman smiled another smile, and now it was
comforting again rather than infuriating. Leading me back to the chair, we sat
for a bit, in silence, listening to the sounds going on around us.
Show over,
the lobby returned to normal very quickly. The sergeant returned to his desk
immediately. The two burly policemen hung about for a few minutes before
leaving, satisfied that all was calm again and they weren’t needed after all.
When I was ready, I stood up and took my place at the back
of the queue again, then once it was my turn, I signed the book and the
policewoman walked me to the door.
“You’ve got the numbers we gave you, haven’t you?” she asked
once we reached it. When I told her I had, she nodded, adding; “the top one is
best: I’ve put a ring around it. And we’ll be in touch with your liaison
officer anyway – that’s Nina. Her details are on the top sheet – to keep you
updated on how things are going, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
One last smile for me.
I didn’t manage to smile back,
but I squeezed the hand she offered to show her my thanks. Then I opened the
door, and clutching the wad of papers in my right hand, I set off into the
night.
The fact that it was raining was the cherry on the top of
the occasion.
Or at least, that’s how it seemed to me at the time.
~~~~~~~~~
B.C.B.F.L.B x