Her Greatest Mistake by Sarah Simpson (9)

Cornwall 2016

Over time, despite my ever-watchful fight-or-flight response, my memory system very effectively boxed, then filed away, specific experiences. These boxes altered my perspective on both a conscious and subconscious level. They remain intact, undisturbed, until something you do, hear, smell, taste, touch or see triggers the opening.

I couldn’t sleep last night for tossing and turning, listening for alien sound either outside or in. My eyes were heavy but my mind held me on alert. Then, at the rise of the sun, my mobile alerted me to two missed calls, incoming withheld calls at 03.08 and 03.12. What were you doing up at such an ungodly hour? Were you outside, watching? Did you really think I would pick up, or were you anxious for me to know you were thinking of me, even during sleep? I forgave Jack for his frustrating morning behaviours; I missed him not being with me. I couldn’t run from the house quick enough. Whichever room I was in, whatever I was doing, I could feel you breathing down my neck.

Now, I draw up outside Lemon Street Clinic and peer down the street. No sign as yet of our overzealous traffic warden. I can’t even use the old one of being on call. He knows who I am; I can’t be on call at my own clinic. I’ve already tried. I’ve probably about ten minutes of safe time. He’s on the larger size – it will take him a while to climb the street from the market area.

I burst through the clinic door.

‘Hey. What’s the rush? Could have made me jump, if I wasn’t so knackered.’

‘Traffic warden, I’m on borrowed time.’

‘Running late this morning, by any chance, are we?’ I squeeze past Ruan hovering in Reception and head straight for the filing cabinets.

‘Slightly. Been stuck in the roadworks for the last twenty minutes. I wouldn’t mind but as usual the workmen are invisible. I now have…’ I glance at the clinic clock ‘… yep, twenty minutes before my next appointment in Mevagissey. I forgot to take the blasted files home with me last night, didn’t I? All because I switched my briefcase yesterday for a lighter bag, then forgot my usual routine when I left last night, didn’t replenish my stock of files.’

‘That’s not like you.’ He smiles. ‘Talk about cutting it fine.’ He rubs tanned hands through his fair waves. ‘Here, let me help. You’re dropping stuff out the middle. I only sorted them for you yesterday. And it took me most of the afternoon.’ He hurries to me as I juggle all the silly open-ended A4 files in search of the only one I need. ‘You’re so going to be late.’

‘Thanks.’ I pile his open arms with files. ‘It’s fine. I’ll make it, kind of, so long as I can just find this – oh, where is it? Why is it always the only one missing? I had it out before I left last night.’ I continue to empty the entire contents of the filing cabinet.

‘Wait. You mean the one for Milly Sanders?’ Ruan quizzes me.

‘Yes. Have you seen it, then?’

‘You should’ve said. I’ve got it, haven’t I?’ He graces me with another childlike smile before casually wandering towards my room.

‘Jesus, Ruan, are you trying to test me or what?’ I follow him, half relieved, half exasperated. Ruan doesn’t seem to have the words ‘in a hurry’ in his vocabulary. Is this a male thing? Between him and Jack, I’ll end up with tachycardia.

‘Hmm, no,’ he utters slowly. ‘You asked me to do some background work on it, remember? You know, the social media stuff.’ His eyebrows rise.

A horrible sinking feeling – how did I forget this? It was only yesterday. Should I even be allowed out? ‘Oh, God. I did, didn’t I? How did you get on with it? Did you find anything interesting?’

‘I’ve printed the relevant stuff off. You were right. Can you believe self-harming has its own clubs and signed-up members, the full monty? When did this become such a big thing? I mean, why would you?’

‘It’s complicated. A form of control, punishment, perceived relief, peer pressure. Also, one downside of public awareness: as much as we need to bring issues to people’s attention, sometimes it can promote the condition, desensitise it in another twisted way.’

‘There’s literally so many websites, YouTube videos about it.’

‘Hmm, somewhere along, it unbelievably became a with-it act, for some. Almost allowing them to feel part of a family. A cult-like membership. Not everyone obviously, but some. Those posting pictures online especially.’

‘No shit. How come this stuff doesn’t get taken down from the social media sites? Surely, it’s policed?’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But you’ve seen for yourself. The “how to do it” guides are there for all to see. Exclusive memberships, the lot. Disgusting.’ I flick through the papers. ‘Thanks for looking into it for me. You know, I’m intending on contacting local schools with this. But the problem is, will they want to be involved? I mean, why open up new problems, to stretch the resources even further? Pop it back on my desk, will you? I’ll take a look at it properly tomorrow.’

‘Kids are selling and buying drugs and smokes on these sites too, you know?’

I nod. ‘Yep, prescription drugs, so-called brain-damaging recreational drugs, weed. At the hit of an emoji or a hashtag, I read about it.’

‘Yeah. My niece was telling me, someone in her class has been suspended for handling drugs, weed.’ Ruan says. ‘She’s thirteen.’

I shake my head. ‘I can’t tell you how often I hear these stories. It’s a dangerous world for our teenagers. Suspension is hardly going to help, though, is it?’

‘Not really. Only in pushing them further to the dark-side?’

‘Exactly. These emojis; there’s a fair amount of research out there about them. Teenagers are using them to communicate emotions, rather than use words. When we look at emojis, the same area of the brain is activated as if we’re looking at a human face.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Nope. So-called social intimacy.’ I say. ‘Helpful sometimes, for those who are struggling alone. But while there are emojis and hashtags – which are just as bad for self-harming, suicide and cyberbullying – we have a problem.’

‘A proper problem.’ Ruan adds.

I nod. ‘Hidden coded languages, hidden dangers away from the eyes of the parents.’

My next client is Milly; eleven years old, referred for self-harming. I asked Ruan to check out any obvious links between her profile and online networks. I’m receiving frequent requests for help as self-harming and other similar problems become more common at such incredibly young ages. Some of these Internet sites have cult-like followings. Milly is one of the many I’ve seen; she isn’t the youngest. Our previous case opened up an entire chamber of shocking shenanigans being channelled through various social media sites. Girls and boys in their teens and younger, actively scouting for followers as they demonstrated acts of self-harming.

Ruan moves away from my desk, hovering with something on the tip of his tongue. Looking at me in a fashion I keep noticing just lately. I brace myself.

‘I’ve been thinking.’

‘Go on.’

‘I reckon you need a break.’

‘Couldn’t agree more. Just not possible, I’m afraid.’

A mock concerned frown creases his face. ‘You should, you know. What is it they say? All work and no play makes Eve a dull girl.’

‘Who are they, anyway? I often wonder who these voices of wisdom are, don’t you? So-called experts on our well-being and life, clueless to context. How often do people use these unknown oracles to back up personal arguments? They say…’

He turns and walks away, wagging his finger at me. ‘Just saying. I’ll make you a coffee to run with,’ he calls over his shoulder.

I finish putting together all I could possibly need. I could do with a break from my life in general. Perhaps even start again all over. I hear Ruan singing away; what would I do to spend a few weeks in his head? He dallies back with a flask of much-appreciated coffee.

‘It’s strong, I hope?’ I ask.

‘Yep, three heaped and a bit. I’ll leave it on the window sill next to the front door. By the way…’ he wanders off again ‘… you’ve had a referral come through from the PTSD charity.’

‘Oh, yes?’ I’m half listening, half concentrating. I really need to get going. Let me think, do I have everything? ‘Can you just check out the window for me, Ruan, make sure our trigger-happy parking man isn’t looming? What kind of a person is a traffic warden? Have you ever wondered? Where did it all go wrong?’

‘Nope, you’re okay.’

‘One point to me, then, he’s such a miserable guy. But I’d probably be too if everyone hated me for doing my job. Or does he enjoy the power, do you think?’ Definitely the power. Ruan doesn’t oblige me, he’s still muttering about the new referral whilst stretching his neck to see further down the road.

‘Where did I put those worksheets? Filing cabinet?’

‘Yeah, so this referral, an ex-soldier or something similar. Sounds like he’s in a bad way from what they told me – said they’ll email you the details. He’s been stationed out of the country for the last few years, I think they said, Pakistan, maybe? Retired now, though. I think so anyway. You can’t fathom it, can you?’ he continues.

‘What?’ I indulge. I really need to be more organised; this chaos drives me insane. My working memory is so stretched at the moment, stress, the ultimate memory enemy.

‘That he’s been out there, protecting us, fighting for his country, gets back and, well… nothing. Absolutely zilch! Dumped to get on with it. And—’ Ruan continues. ‘—I know, it’s outrageous. They’re not offered any support really, our servicemen, expected to simply slip back into normal life. Too many of them are abandoned to deal with PTSD alone. Very sad.’ It is so very wrong.

‘Yeah, they mentioned PTSD. He’s not from round here, apparently. He’s from somewhere up-country. Warwickshire, I think it was, and he—’

‘Aha, here they are. Right, love you and leave you, sorry, Ruan, got to fly.’ I grab my magnificent hot coffee, push the front door open with my pointy impractical shoes, as always forgetting how heavy and solid it is. I run out onto the street, smiling to myself as I hear Ruan’s voice fade after me.

‘Oh, cheerio, Eve, have a great day! You too, Ruan. Oh, thank you, Eve. I much appreciate your interest. Let me—’ he shouts before the door closes, rudely cutting him off mid-flow.

I precariously pile everything onto the passenger seat. Turn on the Bluetooth, so as to listen to voicemails from this morning as I drive. My car is becoming another version of my office. With each stretched to the maximum minute. But then, it’s best this way, prevents my mind from wandering into dangerous territories. By the time I climbed out of bed this morning, my stomach was already gyrating around the room ahead of me. Vile familiar fluttering. Urging me to remember. You. I jumped out of bed as if it were on fire, busying and distracting myself as quickly as I could. But it never works, trying to push things from the mind; the imagination will not hear of it, insists we keep revisiting. A stretched elastic band, smacking you in the face, the further you attempt to push it away. I appreciate more than most, the only way is to grab it by the neck and deal with it. Reconcile, negotiate, or destroy.

Before I could stop myself, I texted Jack at his friend’s too.

Exactly, why wouldn’t he be? How can he be normal, when I behave in neurotic ways? He was twenty minutes down the road, for goodness’ sake.

I texted Jack because I am scared. You will never let us go. Of all the decent men in the world, why the hell did I marry you?

But it’s not cool, is it, Jack? Something tells me, you know – it’s not. My little sponge. You’re scared like me; neither of us wish to say. Speaking makes it real. I will not let him get to you, I promise. The hum of a 911 meanders through my mind. The sound of your breathing, the silent calls creating so much noise. Then the kitchen-door incident – no, that was fine; it was locked after all. I needn’t have worried.

I flick through contacts on my dashboard computer. I’ll have to call ahead; I’m going to be late. How do people manage to be so organised? Is it only me forever running around like the phantom headless chicken? I hear the other mums at school functions, talking of coffee, gyms, lunch dates and so on. How do they do it? How do they fit everything in? Are they up at 04.00? Not that I would do these things anyway: too many questions, too much gossip, not enough left-brain balance. I find myself slipping away from school gatherings of any kind. I like to keep my distance. Idle chit-chat, what’s the point? Why would I want to know what Judy is hiding behind closed doors, what Sally has divulged to Julie? What Ann has manipulated out of Philippa. But what Philippa has over Ann, Julie, Sally and Judy? I can’t be bothered. But it would still be nice to know how they manage their time.

‘Good morning, Dr Fellows’ surgery.’ The super-efficient voice answers my call. Oh, God, what is your name? Think.

Got it. ‘Sandra, hi, it’s Eve Sands. I’m supposed to be with you, well, in truth – by now. Can you please let my client know I’m afraid I’m running a little late? Should be with you in about fifteen minutes, all being well.’

‘Oh, hi. Of course. She’s here but don’t worry, lovely, no problem. I’ll tell her for you,’ she soothed.

Sandra goes on to mention something about a recent enquiry. Her voice shuffles to the back of my mind, a mottled voice in the background. I cut her off as quickly as I can. It’s become an annoying noise. I’m not even sure if I said goodbye. I take my foot off the accelerator and let the car drift forward.

Warwickshire?

Ruan, definitely said the PTSD referral guy was from Warwickshire. He said he was from up-country somewhere, Warwickshire. I should have paid more attention. But thousands of people are from Warwickshire. Am I just being paranoid? No, someone has been following me, then last night someone was asking about me, knew where I live. Drove past my house, probably does so every day. But then, my details are all over the Internet. I advertise, encourage people to make contact. How stupid, careless. Maybe I’m just fusing one coincidental factor with my ugly past, and completely blowing it out of all proportion. It’s not as if I’ve any hard evidence. Just a twisted version of reality. I’m looking for symptoms, so I’m finding them; every single ache and pain, inhalation and espying is attributed to the panic condition.

But deep down, I know the truth. My heart is telling me. My waiting is over. Time is never a true divide.

Ruan definitely mentioned Warwickshire.