Into the Darkest Corner (12 page)
The doctor’s office was busier than it had been a few nights ago, more people waiting, more noise. I sat in the corner, knees clamped together, trying to remember why I was doing this to myself. Directly across from me, a man kept coughing without putting his hand over his mouth. A baby wearing a grubby sleepsuit was throwing blocks from the toybox at his brother, while their mother ignored them both and talked to the woman next to her about fibroids and
The X Factor
. More than once I thought about getting up and walking out. After all, I wasn’t exactly ill—there were many people in here clearly in a far worse state than me. Surely I was wasting their time?
“Cathy Bailey?” The voice came from a side corridor and I looked up to see a man peering around the corner.
I leapt up as if I’d been stung.
I hurried down the corridor with Dr. Malhotra, into a room that had that unfortunate smell of disinfectant, alcohol-based hand sanitizer.
“You’re a friend of Stuart’s?” was the first thing he asked.
“Yes,” I said, wondering how he knew that.
“He’s a good guy.”
Sanjeev Malhotra was slight, nattily dressed in dark pants, pink shirt and tie, a neatly trimmed black beard and funky-looking glasses. “What can I do for you?” he said.
I told him about the checking, and the panic attacks. I told him about them getting worse. He asked me if I ever thought about hurting myself. I told him I didn’t. He asked me if something had happened to trigger these attacks and I told him about Robin. Then of course I had to tell him about everything else, as well. I kept that part brief. I told him I was trying hard to put all that behind me.
He clicked on the computer a few times. Just as Stuart said, he told me he’d refer me to the Community Mental Health Team for an assessment. He said it would probably be a few weeks before I’d get seen.
That seemed to be it.
“I hear Stuart’s out of action at the moment,” he said, at the end.
“He dislocated his shoulder.”
“Shame. Still, at least it means we’ve got a chance of winning on Sunday.”
I caught the bus back to Talbot Street. I felt strange, as though I’d dreamed the whole thing, and a little queasy. Already all I could think about was getting home so I could start the checking. I had a feeling it was going to be difficult to get it right.
The last Monday before Christmas, late-night shopping, the final push toward the great two-day festive shutdown.
It was six-thirty and the town center was still mobbed. I got changed at work, dressed up for a night out with the girls, and went into the town to look for a present for Lee before meeting them in the Cheshire. He’d been working this week, not at the River but at this other, unnamed job that took him away from me for days at a time and spat him back out the other end, exhausted, and occasionally bad-tempered.
In Marks & Spencer I browsed through the men’s shirts, looking for something I could see him wearing, something that would bring out the blue in his eyes.
I was completely away with the moment, dreaming about Christmas, humming along to “Santa Baby,” which was playing just about audibly, when a figure appeared in front of me and stopped.
I looked up and it was Lee, looking triumphant.
I squealed as he grabbed me into a bear hug, then treated me to a long, long kiss. He tasted minty.
“I thought you were working,” I said, when we were sitting at a table in the coffee shop a few minutes later.
“I am working,” he said, “just having a bit of a break, that’s all.”
The coffee shop was quiet, just us, a young couple sitting near the door and an elderly couple with a pot of tea and two fish suppers over by the big picture windows that looked out over the Christmas lights on High Street. Behind the counter, the staff were wiping surfaces and wrapping things in Saran wrap.
“I missed you last night,” he said. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And your wet cunt.”
I felt my skin flush and looked around. Nobody was near enough to hear, but even so, he hadn’t dropped his voice.
“Are you wet now?” he asked, not taking his eyes off mine.
I couldn’t help myself. “I’m getting there.”
He sat back in his chair and glanced down into his lap. I was starting to feel a bit queasy. Leaning forward, across the table, I followed his glance and saw what I’d expected to see.
“Lee, seriously. Not here.”
For a moment I thought he was going to object, push me into putting my hand under the table, but instead he sighed and sat straight again. “Where are you off to, then, dressed up like that?”
“I’m meeting Louise and Claire in the Cheshire.”
He continued looking at me and in the end I laughed. “What? What is it?”
“Find anything you want? Shopping?”
“That’s for me to know.”
“Been in enough of them. Burton, Principles, Next, and now here.”
“Have you been following me?”
He shrugged, but suddenly his cheeky smile was back. I wasn’t sure if he was winding me up. “Let’s just say I’m one of many men who’ve been letching over you in that skirt this evening.”
“Well, at least you’re the lucky one who gets to play with what’s inside,” I said.
He drank the last of his coffee and stood. “I’ve got to get back to work,” he said, dropping his head and kissing my mouth hard. “Don’t be late home.”
The elderly couple by the main window got to their feet, scraping chairs and sorting out bags and bags of shopping, just as a woman in the coffee shop uniform came over and offered to take their tray.
I sat for a second, cradling my coffee cup, wondering whether I really wanted to go to the Cheshire after all, when suddenly he reappeared, standing like a brick wall between me and the rest of the coffee shop.
“Take off your underwear,” he said.
I looked up at him. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking. Take them off. No one will see.”
Making as little movement as possible, I hoiked up my skirt and wriggled my underpants down to my knees, pushed them down to my ankles and stepped out of them as quickly as I could, balling them up into my fist.
“Let’s have them,” he said, holding out his hand.
“What for?” But I handed them over anyway.
He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, then kissed me again, gently this time. “Good girl.”
I sat very still, knees pressed together, staring straight ahead until I was sure he’d gone, then I slid to the edge of the seat and stood. I felt light-headed, afraid, and aroused, all at the same time.
I’d had enough of shopping. I reached for the nearest blue shirt, took it to the counter and paid.
All the way up High Street toward the Cheshire, dodging my way through the shoppers, squeezing around behind lines of people waiting for buses, feeling the chill of the night air under my skirt—a nice feeling, in different circumstances—all the time thinking that he was probably still watching me, I wondered if this was a test. Was I supposed to spot him? I tried not to look obvious, glancing through the faces, looking in stores, in alleyways, but I must have been. Despite how odd it felt, how wrong, to be out here in December in a short skirt and no underwear, I was still feeling undeniably frisky at his unexpected appearance and was half wishing I’d taken hold of him under the table when I’d had the chance.
I’d been home an hour and a half, and the checking was going badly wrong. Every time I thought I had done it, the uncertainty was there, the fear. There was no point doing it if I didn’t do it properly. By that time my hands were shaking and I could hardly see through the tears, and I hadn’t even made it beyond the flat door.
I heard the footsteps this time, I heard his flat door upstairs open and close, and I stood still, holding my breath, trying not to make a sound.
He knocked gently, but it still made me jump. “Cathy? It’s me. Are you okay?”
I couldn’t reply, I just gasped and sobbed.
I thought I heard a sigh.
“You’re not okay,” he said. “What happened?”
I took a deep, shuddering breath. “Nothing, I’m all right.”
“Can you open the door?”
“No. Leave me alone.”
“I just want to help, Cathy,” he said.
“You can’t help me. Go away.”
I cried harder, angry now as well as afraid, furious at him for being there, for not letting me fall apart.
He wasn’t going to go away.
At last I tried to stand, pulling myself up on the door handle. Through the peephole, I could see him, his face distorted. There was nobody else in the hallway.
My hands were shaking. I pulled back the bolt at the top, the key took longer. The mortise lock took longer still. By the time I got everything open and the door was unlocked my knees gave way and I dropped to a crumpled heap on the floor.
He pushed open the door from the other side and came in, bringing with him the chilly air, the smell of winter. He closed the door behind him and sat down next to me. He didn’t come too close, just sat there with me.
I couldn’t look at him at first.
“Try and take a breath and hold it,” he said quietly.
I tried. There was just a lot of gasping. “I’m so—I’m . . . I’m so tired. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t do it . . . couldn’t check.”
“I know,” he said. “Try and think about your breathing, nothing else. Just your breathing, for now.”
I tried. My fingers were tingling. The skin on my face, tingling.
“Can you hold my hand?” He held it out across the gap between us, steady.
I reached out, touched it, withdrew, touched it again, and he took hold of me. His hand was cold, icy. “Sorry, cold hands. Now try again with your breathing. Can you look at me?”
I tried that too. The breathing was still all over the place. If I couldn’t get the breathing calmed down I was going to keel over.
“Just think about your breathing. Breathe with me. In—hold it. Keep holding. That’s better. And out. Good, come on, do it again . . .”
It seemed to take forever, but in the end it got better. I started to get some feeling back in my hands. The breathing slowed, I got it back under control. I gripped his hand as though I were drowning.
“Well done,” he said, quietly, “you did it.”
I shook my head, still not quite ready to speak. The tears kept coming. I looked up at him and his eyes, kind eyes, looking at me completely without judgment. I shifted a little, toward him, and he moved and stretched his legs out, sitting with his back against my front door, and I moved closer and then he had his good arm around me and I had my face into his chest, where it was warm and smelled of him. He put his hand on my head, stroking my hair.
“It’s okay, Cathy,” he said, and I felt his voice rumble in his chest. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re all right.”
I felt so tired I could have almost slept there, on the floor next to him, just as long as he kept hold of me and didn’t let go. I opened my eyes and I could just see blue cotton, his shirt, and the way it moved as he breathed. I thought I should move. Everything was starting to ache, and the fear had been replaced with a gradual, crippling embarrassment.
At last I lifted my head and he eased away from me, gently. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”
He stood and helped me to my feet, then led me to the sofa. I sat down and folded myself into a ball. I wanted him to sit down next to me. If he had done that I would have snuggled up to him again.
“Can I make you a cup of tea?” he said.
I nodded, shivering. “Thanks.”
I listened to the noise of him filling the kettle, the clinking of mugs. Opening cabinets looking for the tea. Opening the fridge. The kettle roaring into life. It felt strange, having him here. I’d never had another person set foot inside the flat since I’d lived here, apart from that plumber the day the stupid pipes burst.
By the time I heard him putting the mugs down on the coffee table in front of me I’d been dozing a little.
“Will you be all right now?” he asked.
I sat up, putting my fingers around the mug. My hands weren’t shaking anymore, but my voice was hoarse, my throat raw. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Thank you. Thanks for the tea.”
He watched me while I drank. He looked bone-tired too.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes,” I lied. “How’s your shoulder?”
He smiled. “Painful.”
“I’m sorry about all this. How did you know?”
“I heard you crying.”
“You should have left me to it.”
Stuart shook his head. “Couldn’t do it.” He drank some of his tea. “Are they getting worse, the panic attacks? More frequent?”
“I think so.”
He nodded. “Was that a bad one?”
I shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”
He was watching me steadily, appraisingly, like a fucking doctor. That was exactly the way they used to look at me in the hospital, as though they were waiting for me to do something, say something, demonstrate some symptom or other so they could finally agree what was wrong.
“I’m sorry, I thought you’d be okay. Sanj—he’s all right really. He can be a bit casual sometimes. What did he say?”
“It was okay. He was fine. He’s going to refer me for an assessment, or something. What did he mean when he said with you out of action they’ve got a chance of winning on Sunday?”
He laughed. “Cheeky bugger. I’m in the NHS Trust’s rugby team. Sanj seems to think I’m some kind of handicap.”
I finished my tea at the same time he did.
“Anyway, you did it,” he said, looking at me. “You took that first step.”
“Yes,” I said. I’d caught the eye contact and now I couldn’t look away.
“Will you tell me about it?” he said it so quietly I almost didn’t hear.
“About what?”
“About what started it all?”
I didn’t answer.
After a while he said, “Do you want me to stay here while you sleep?”
I shook my head. “Really, I’ll be all right now. Thanks.”
He left, a bit after that. I felt more awake and I wanted him to hold me again, if I’m honest, I wanted him to hold me tightly and stay with me, but it wasn’t fair to ask him to do that. So he left, and I locked the door behind him, and went to bed.
Now I need to think about carrying on with all this. Facing the rest of my life. One day at a time, one foot in front of the other. I can’t do this for much longer. I can’t keep doing this.