This is a story about rambling...

I'm self-censoring. I've written entirely without a filter for well over a year, but now I'm holding back. I'm watching my words. As a wise friend advised me, I'm writing as if my girlfriend's mother was reading this... almost. I'm certainly writing with a certain amount of self-consciousness that I haven't had for the best part of a year.

When I wrote my book, it was easy. I was in the land of fiction, so I could therefore always say "I made that up" if something didn't go down too well. However, my blog has always been a mad blend of 'stream of consciousness' stuff, unflinchingly honest biographical accounts of mental illness, homelessness, addiction, sex, masturbation and all the other gory details that we repress as deeply as we can possibly can. I'm struggling to switch modes.

I'm starting to build up a list of things that I want to write about again, but I'm a bit bored of it to be honest. I've wound myself up and stressed myself out. I've wailed at the moon and yelled at the top of my lungs... and then the world fractured anyway. The bleeding-heart liberals -- who care about social justice, equality, fairness and preventing the regression of the human species into some kind of disgusting bestial form -- have been beaten by the populists, the racists, the bigots, the xenophobes, the sexists, the chauvinists. Basically, the hand-wringing appeals to human decency have reached a cul-de-sac. I'm bored of being reasonable, rational, measured, fair and even-handed.

The other thing that's fun to write about is the stuff that challenges assumptions and prejudice. I like being polite, well-mannered and well spoken enough to lull people into a false sense of security. "It's OK, he's one of us" they say, and then I unleash the punchline: "Ha! Ha! I'm actually a mentally ill homeless bum benefits-scrounger junkie addict unemployed loser". To be honest, it's the kind of joke you can only do once, and then it's not funny anymore.

I know what I've written to date has been horrifically repetitive. I've laboured some of the same points over and over again. I had open wounds. I was hurting. My self esteem, confidence, self-worth: they were all destroyed. I was caught up with ethical conflicts and I wanted to burn bridges that led back to anywhere I shouldn't go. I was bitter and angry. I found a platform to vocalise my side of the story, and put some balance back into the world. I was like a little yapping dog, barking "don't tread on me" as people who sat in idle comfort and security ganged up on me when I was sick and vulnerable. Writing was my megaphone, to shout down a mob of bullies.

I've ended up with a few things worth preserving, by good luck or good judgement. Most of the former rather than the latter, I think. I don't want to screw up a relationship that's going really well. I've started to reconnect with friends and have some stability. I've got a lovely apartment and I've managed to offload a third scrounger twat who thought they were going to live on my dime, not paying rent and bills. I'm well positioned to be able to get another couple of contracts that should bring me the financial security that I deserve.

Deserve??!? So entitled!

Where do you want to draw the line? Am I entitled to oxygen, water, food? What about shelter, warmth? If you think that kids should be grateful to their parents for having sex, you're a special kind of stupid, aren't you?

Oh God, I've really taken this "rambling" thing to heart, haven't I?

I think I understand why people write fiction now. Having a fictional outlet allowed me to deal with a load of shit that was bothering me, while also demanding that I fit it to a narrative. I was able to write with structure and express concepts that I'd written about at length, but it was much more cohesive and coherent than trying to write these [supposedly] single-topic blog posts that often go off-piste.

Anyway, I don't know why I'm yapping on. My writing serves me well as a kind of heartbeat to let my friends know I'm still alive and kicking, but I need to think about why else I'm writing. Am I a social justice crusader? Am I lifting the lid on mental health and addiction treatment? Am I campaigning for housing reform? Am I a fiction writer?

I guess if I get another job I'll be writing because I'm bored as fuck.

Tags: #writing

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

30. Wish You Were Here

Leaving Exeter on a dual carriageway, Lara, Colin and Matthew zoomed along at 70 miles per hour. The countryside was fairly flat and uninteresting with roadside scenery flying past them at high speed until they turned off and joined the main road going East. The dual carriageway went North from that junction, towards Somerset and they were headed into the heart of rural Devonshire. The terrain grew hilly and their progress was slowed by trucks and tractors, crawling up the steep hills. There were few places to overtake.

The motorway journey to Bristol and down to Exeter had been bland and monotonous, with little to look at other than the bright blue signs displaying the distances to major towns and cities on the route. Now, the road they were driving on passed through small towns, villages and hamlets. There were pretty country houses and inviting pubs, fields full of cattle, rivers, as well as the exciting twists and turns of the road as it traced the contours of the hills and valleys. Lara found she was working through nearly all the gears in her gearbox and having to use her brakes as the car climbed, descended and tackled sharp corners.

Emerging from a thickly wooded area where the ancient trees leaned over the road from both sides - making it almost dark enough to require headlights - the woodland thinned out and a large flood plain opened up.

"We're not far away now" Matthew said.

A sign said they were crossing the River Harmyn as they went over a bridge. Soon, they started to gently climb out of the valley bottom, curving right in a long sweeping corner that they could not see around because of the slope of the hill. They drove past a petrol station and a few other buildings. There was a small shop that doubled as a post office, a pub and a small garage forecourt selling second hand cars. Beyond the roadside hamlet there was thick woodland and the road continued up for several miles before it plateaued at the top.

"OK, turn right here" said Matthew.

"Where?" asked Lara. She could see nothing but a ditch, thick hedgerow and trees beyond.

"Slow down."

She slowed the car.

"OK. Here."

A tiny single track lane revealed itself. Although it was tarmacked, it was in a poor state of repair. They reached a crossroads with some faded road markings indicating Lara had to give way. There were no signs.

"Straight over."

The road dipped down and all they could see was tall hedge on either side. Occasionally they would pass a gate into a field. There was no other traffic on this quiet country lane. They reached another crossroads.

"OK, go left."

The road dropped sharply and then started to climb gently. At the top of the hill the road forked.

"Stay left."

The road now traced the side of a valley, dropping away to their left and descending into murky darkness at the bottom. Across on the other side of the valley were fields and woodland. They drove through areas of thick trees where their view was obscured. There was a long right hand bend.

"OK. Take this right."

"Where?" Lara asked again.

"Up that track."

The road was slightly muddy with tyre marks and a gravel track forked off to the right. The track led up into a forest with two dark brown grooves worn deep by vehicles in the grey stone chippings. Weeds sprouted out of the middle of the track. Lara stopped on the tarmac for a moment, engaged first gear and drove into the forest.

Passing through a wooden gate that was open, the track went uphill and then plateaued in an area where huge piles of logs had been stacked up.

"OK, go right here."

"Up there?" Lara asked.

"Yep." said Matthew, pointing up a steep side track that was covered with dead leaves and twigs. It looked muddy and slippery.

"Will we make it in this car?"

"You'll be fine. Just try not to spin the wheels."

"Do you mind driving the last bit? I doubt you're going to get in trouble for driving without insurance here" Lara said.

Matthew drove them up to the end of the track. The forest and the tracks all looked the same. It was like a maze. A maze of trees.

"We're here" he said at last.

Colin got out of the back of the car and stretched his legs, looking around in all directions.

"We have to scramble up here. I did say to bring sensible footwear" said Matthew, leading the way up to the top of the ridge. Following him through the trees, Lara and Colin forced their way through the undergrowth and into the clearing.

"Why didn't you say it was a caravan?" Colin asked.

"Well, it's not like you can drive it anywhere. It hasn't got any wheels and you couldn't get a car up here."

"How do you think it got here?"

"I thought that the foresters might have craned it in from the track below. Neil reckoned that a farmer brought it through the fields the other side on an tractor trailer, when the forest was being planted up here."

"There are fields the other side?"

"Yeah, behind us. The other side of the hill from where we parked. Just rolling fields for miles and miles."

Colin went to open the caravan door.

"Hold up there a second" Matthew said, putting his hand out to stop him. "Look at that" he said, pointing to something above the door. Attempting to peel a square of dirt-covered duct tape off, he found that it was stuck fast. "That's funny" he said.

"What is?"

"Well, Neil and me used to stick duct tape over the door frame like that at the end of every winter so we'd know if anybody had been using the caravan, but it won't come off."

"Let's have a look" Colin said, pulling hard on the tape. The top part ripped off leaving two lines of the sticky underside on the door and the frame above. "It looks like somebody glued the tape on. Why would they do that?" he asked.

"Well, I guess the dirt makes it look like the tape has been there for a long time, but we have no way of knowing how long it's been glued there for."

Matthew opened the door and stepped inside.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed.

"What?"

"Come in. Have a look."

Matthew stood by the bedroom doorway. Lara and Colin stood by the dining room table.

"What? What is it?" Lara asked.

"Well, it's nothing like I remember it" Matthew replied.

The dark maroon carpet had been replaced with slate grey lino. The pink floral cushions had been re-upholstered in white fabric with a navy blue stripe. The dining room table and the kitchenette storage units had been painted a glossy duck-egg blue. The whole interior had been painted white and the walls and ceilings were smooth: the textured wallpaper was gone. Stepping into the bedroom, the bed was neatly made with bright bedclothes. Everything smelled clean and fresh.

Lara reached for the bathroom door handle.

"I'm not sure if you want to look in there" said Matthew.

Inside, the chemical toilet had been replaced by a comode. Underneath the wooden toilet seat, there was a clean empty bucket. Hanging from the ceiling in the shower was another bucket with holes in the bottom.

"A shower!" Matthew chuckled with surprise. "Well, a primitive one anyway."

"How do you heat the water?" Lara asked.

"You don't" Matthew replied.

There was a hiss as Colin turned one of the knobs on the two-ring gas cooker. "I guess you just heat it up on the stove?" he said, with a raised eyebrow.

"This is not like it used to be. It was a shithole. It used to keep us dry and that's about all".

The skylight and the windows on the side of the caravan opposite the door had been cleaned and it was bright inside, lit by daylight. Colin flicked a lightswitch and the lights came on.

"No way!"

Matthew was absolutely gobsmacked. Lara and Colin didn't know what to make of it, having no idea what it was like before.

Upon closer inspection, a gas bottle, a leisure battery, a small solar panel, rain collection and water filtration systems had been installed. The original gas and 12 volt electric installation of the caravan operated as normal.

The trio started opening cupboards and cubby holes. There were plates, mugs, glasses, cutlery, pots, pans and other kitchen utensils. In one cupboard there was some tinned food. There were no personal effects anywhere. Closing the exterior door, there was a cork-board behind it.

"What's this?" Colin asked.

"I don't know. Looks like... postcards" Matthew replied.

Pinned to the cork-board were bright glossy pictures of the Great Wall of China, Terracotta Army, Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square. Taking one down, Colin looked at the back.

"They're postcards all right" he said, handing the one he was holding to Lara.

She gasped.

Mr Romet Kukk

POSTE RESTANTE

Post Office, 12 High Street

Harminster

DEVON, EX27 9LR

UNITED KINGDOM

There was nothing else on the postcard except for the name and address.

THE END.

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

27. The Syringe

"FRL-V4" was an act of desperation. He had exhausted every prescription drug that he could buy from overseas. He then tried every research chemical that he could find. The Internet revealed a world of "psychonauts" conducting drug experimentation on themselves. He felt like a human guinea pig anyway, having had a cocktail of different medications prescribed to him by his doctors, all of which had terrible side effects. He was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired.

When he received his first delivery from Frog Eye Wares, he assumed they had accurately weighed out half a gram: 500 milligrams. He poured out the contents of a small plastic bag labelled "TOXIC: NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION" onto a dinner plate. Then he divided the pile of powder into two equal piles of 250 milligrams each. He divided one of those piles in two, which he assumed must approximately weigh 125 milligrams. Scooping up one small pile of powder, he transferred it to a second dinner plate. Then, he made five lines of powder, each of the same length and width. All of this was done by eye. By his estimation, a single line weighed 25 milligrams.

Taking a rolled up bank note, he snorted half a line up his right nostril. This was the first time he'd insufflated something since the one and only time he'd tried cocaine, at a house party 8 years earlier. The cocaine gave him a feeling of numbness in-between his eyes and down the back of his throat. He could taste a drip from his nasal cavity, but it was not unpleasant and the numbness spread around his mouth in his saliva a little. The "FRL-V4" powder made his eyes water with pain. There was an extremely bitter taste and the smell of solvents filled his nose.

His face flushed, his pulse raced, he needed a bowel movement. In the bathroom, dropping his trousers, he noticed his penis had shrunk as if it was freezing cold. Washing his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror. His pupils were gigantic and jet black; he was sweating. Panicking slightly that he had taken too much of the drug, he rinsed his nose out with some cold water and tried to spit out the residue that seemed to coat the back of his throat.

He'd spent the day feeling productive. He had cleaned the house and had then started playing a computer game until he noticed that it had got dark. Then, he started to feel a sense of panic. 9 hours had elapsed since he had taken the drug and he worried that the effects weren't wearing off. He looked at his watch; then he looked at his watch again. Time was passing incredibly slowly. He started to stare at the face of his watch; the second hand was barely moving. He could feel his heartbeat starting to race. He started to feel like he couldn't breathe; as if there wasn't enough oxygen in the air and he couldn't catch his breath.

That was when he decided to snort the other half of the line.

He'd done a lot of research on the Internet and he knew that some of the drugs he was likely to encounter were "fiendishly" addictive. Most of the negative things that he read seemed to be associated with people having long sleepless binges. It seemed logical to him that the thing to do was to avoid "re-dosing". He would limit himself to a fixed daily dose and that way he would avoid the dreadful binges and the path to addiction that he had read about. However, he hadn't been able to calm down and was feeling really awful. He half considered going to hospital, but instead, he decided to double down.

Snorting with his left nostril, the pain brought tears to his eyes again. Soon, he felt a lot better. The panic attack subsided.

He hadn't eaten all day and he thought he should try and force some food down. Making himself a sandwich, it seemed incredibly dry. He hardly had any saliva to swallow. Everything tasted really strange and unpalatable. He had absolutely no appetite. Realising he'd hardly drunk anything, he gulped down some orange juice, which was pleasant enough. His stomach hurt and he retched a little, but the nausea quickly passed.

The night passed with more computer games and he was surprised to see morning light. Trying to avoid looking at his watch for as long as possible, he knew that there was panic rising in him again. What was he going to do? He hadn't slept in 24 hours. This was quickly turning into a binge. He decided to snort another half a line, to get through the day and then sleep at his normal bedtime that night.

The passage of time was so much accelerated during the segments where he was under the influence of the drug that, whatever he was doing, he found that he was still doing it hours and hours later. He wasn't normally a big fan of computer games, but he had almost completed the one he had been playing. On the pretence of completing the game, he snorted another half a line.

Feeling a little sleepy in the small hours of the morning, he decided to doze. He slept and then suddenly awoke feeling hyper alert. He was acutely aware of the sound of his own breathing, his heart beating, every noise in and outside the house. He could hear the ticking of his watch and time had slowed almost to a crawl. His pulse raced and he was terrified that he was going to have a heart attack. He lay perfectly still on the sofa and tried to calm himself down, controlling his breathing. He fought rising panic for what felt like an agonisingly long period of time before deciding that he had to distract himself. He decided to go out for a walk.

It was a bright morning, still quiet before the commuter rush. He turned left out of his front door and walked 50 metres before deciding that there would be too many people on the main road. He headed the other way, past his house and got halfway down his road before he panicked that he was getting too far away from home if he needed to hide himself away or wait for an ambulance. He walked slowly back at first and then worried that his neighbours were probably watching his strange behaviour, so he hurried back home. Inside, he paced around downstairs, unable to settle himself.

Sitting down at the dining room table, he started to scribble a note explaining what he had done. Screwing up that piece of paper, he started to write down all the medications he had taken without a prescription: dates and dosages. Grabbing more sheets of paper, he wrote a whole set of notes, explaining every doctor's appointment, outpatient visit and inpatient admission that he could remember, along with diagnoses and medications he had been prescribed. On a final sheet of paper he explained that he had bought a research chemical called "FRL-V4" from the internet, but he didn't know what the active ingredient was. He wrote that he feared he had overdosed, damaged his heart or had some kind of allergic reaction. He wrote: "I've had an unplanned binge and I think I'm getting addicted."

Neil knew the idea that you could become addicted the first time you ever tried a drug was ridiculous. There was no such thing as something that was instantly addictive. However, he knew that he'd jettisoned his plan to only take a fixed known dosage and never to binge. He knew that he wanted to take more of the drug, but he also didn't want to take any more because it obviously caused him to have massive panic attacks.

At some point while he was writing, he had calmed down. He now felt quite good; he was flooded with a sense of relief. The feelings of dread and the near-certainty that he was going to die - or at the very least be rushed off to hospital - had dissipated and he spent the afternoon having a shower and eating a little. His appetite and tiredness returned that evening and he slept for nearly 14 uninterrupted hours. When he awoke he felt mostly normal, hungry and a little depressed. However, the drug played on his mind more than he was comfortable admitting to himself.

Having had such a scary experience with the panic attacks, he wanted to flush the remaining powder he had left. Strangely, the memories that stuck in his mind most clearly were how much relief he felt when the panic attacks were finally over, as well as the relief he felt from the panic when he snorted another half a line. Fatefully, he did not flush the powder.

He managed to delay almost a week before he took the drug again. Addiction did not become a daily habit. He seemed unable to snort half a line and then put up with the panic attacks. His binges would last two or three days, until the panic would be accompanied by enough sleep deprivation to bring sleep. As he got more and more tired, he would sleep through the worst of the comedown. In a way, he was functional, because he would eat and sleep to catch up in-between his binges. However, he knew that his life now revolved around taking drugs and addiction had taken hold.

Taking to the Internet to research the unknown chemical that had its hooks in him, he discovered a thread of discussion where people were speculating what the active ingredients in "FRL-V4" were. There seemed to be consensus that it had to contain one of the most feared and notorious 'designer' drugs. Searching online, there were no shortage of horror stories about this chemical, nicknamed "Peony". News stories reported one man had chewed off a tramp's face and a Dot Com billionaire had murdered his girlfriend, while under the influence.

Unwittingly, he was committing the names of these chemicals and where they came from - Chinese laboratories - to memory, while he struggled with addiction and also tried to find information about some less harmful substitute that would help him escape his predicament.

To obtain the pure chemical form of "Peony" would be incredibly dangerous, because it was so potent, but he could try to substitute it with similar drugs that were less addictive and caused fewer side effects. It would take a couple of weeks for deliveries from China to reach him. In the meantime, his addiction raged and he started to go on binges lasting four or five days.

When his weighing scales and the first of his Chinese orders were delivered, things did not improve. He was exhausted and sloppy with his measurements. He had become used to estimating his doses by eye. Snorting a big line of "FRL-V4" and a medium sized one did not make much difference. The difference between 5 milligrams and 10 milligrams of something that was 99% pure made a huge difference. His binges started to last for over a week, because he would be kept awake for days at a time when he snorted a single line of the potent chemicals.

Feeling his life was totally out of control and it would not be long before an overdose meant death or hospitalisation, Neil decided that he was a lost cause. The idea of running away to the caravan started to obsess him. He wanted to spare Lara and his family the distress of finding him dead from his addiction.

He had promised himself that he would never cross one line with his addiction: he would never inject drugs. It was a strange thing to have decided, but everything he'd read suggested that injecting drug users were generally in their death throes. However, he had taken a syringe with him to the caravan.

By dissolving chemicals in half a litre of water, he had an exactly one milligram of drug per millilitre of water. Sucking up the chemical solution into a syringe, he could measure a dose quite accurately without his weighing scales. He didn't even need a hypodermic needle: he could simply swallow the liquid. His stomach acid would destroy about 50% of the chemical, but half of it would reach his bloodstream.

Desperate for something to drink, Neil now reached for a glass bottle that he had dissolved drugs into. The water had reacted with the chemical and seemed to have destroyed it. He took a couple of big glugs from the bottle.

Without any means of measuring the weight of his doses accurately, Neil had been playing Russian Roulette with his life. A small dose could have no effect at all and a large dose would leave him with stimulant psychosis for days, as well as putting incredible strain on his heart. It was miraculous that he had survived so long.

In a state of drug-induced insanity, every bit of powder in the caravan had been consumed, accidentally spilled or destroyed. Neil had been clean for a few days, but he was in such a damaged state that he hadn't had the energy to limp to his van or to the country lane where he might be discovered by a passing driver.

Now, he felt a sharpness return to his mind. His injuries hurt less. His back and joints didn't seem to ache so badly. He felt his limbs start to get lighter. The water had reduced the potency of the drug, but it hadn't destroyed it altogether. Neil was able to sit up and move around. He felt like he could get to the van.

Next chapter...

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

24. Jailbird

Her little car was buffeted by strong winds as she drove up the busy motorway towards Manchester. Steely grey skies drizzled just enough rain that her windscreen wipers juddered annoyingly as they swept the few droplets of water away. Huge lorries overtook each other, filling the inside two lanes. Lorries were speed limited to 60 miles per hour, but there would be 1 or 2% difference between the fastest and the slowest. Motorists sat in an endless miserable queue of traffic in the outside lane, travelling only marginally faster. The sheer number of vehicles meant it was bumper to bumper all the way from the Midlands to the North of England.

Night brought an orange glow: illumination from the lights above. Headlights reflected in the puddles and off every vehicle. Heavy goods vehicles threw up huge plumes of blinding spray, with the red lights of the driver in front as the only point of reference to keep on the road. Lara was in a trancelike state, just following in procession, watching out for brake lights as traffic ground to a halt.

Reaching the junction she needed, Lara pulled off the motorway and into the service area. A sign directed traffic to the right for fuel, straight on for refreshments and left for a hotel. She turned left. The car park was filled with shiny new fleet rental vehicles used by sales representatives and other businessmen and women who travelled all over the country, touting their wares. Row after row of medium-sized family cars from respected German manufacturers, in sensible colours: black, silver, grey and navy blue. Some had suit jackets hanging in the back, ready for business in the morning.

Parking her cheap French car that was nearly 10 years old, it looked worse than ever now that the spray from the long drive had given the white paint a thick coating of dirt up the sides. You could hardly read her back numberplate and her hands got covered with filth when she opened and closed the boot to get her overnight bag out.

After checking in to the hotel and finding her way to her room, she looked at herself in the mirror. She wouldn't need to do much to pretend to be exhausted and in a bit of a state tomorrow. Rounding off a long drive, the rooms had paper thin walls: a man snored loudly on one side while a woman made over-enthusiastic unconvincing sex noises on the other. She would have thought that it was somebody watching porn on TV except she could hear the bed thudding into the wall.

Dropping her key-card at the reception desk in the morning, there was no need for her to check out. The bland chain of traveller's hotels had no room service, minibar or other services for their guests. There was no bill to settle as she'd paid for her stay in advance.

Tired, hungry, stressed, without make-up: she was looking perfect for the day's goal.

Punching an address into her sat-nav, she was directed to an industrial estate on the outskirts of Greater Manchester, near a large satellite town. Many large corrugated metal sheds were spread over an area of several square miles, served by a warren of private roads. This was one of the largest warehousing and distribution hubs in the UK, handling stock for many national retailers as well as much smaller businesses too.

Lara knew precisely where she was going, having consulted a map of the estate at the entrance, but she left her car and continued on foot. She passed several bus stops and made a mental note of their route numbers and the bus company that provided the service. The large estate was divided into several different parts, with side roads allowing access to the units that subdivided the enormous sheds. Each unit had its own loading bay and a door into the reception and office areas.

Finding the unit she was looking for, the loading bay was deserted but there was a light on in reception. The red LED on a keypad showed the door was locked and there was an entryphone. A dog-eared piece of paper in the window of said: "Post/courier: *81#". Lara typed it into the keypad. The LED flashed green and the door lock buzzed. She stepped inside and there was a 'beep-bop' electronic noise.

She approached the unmanned reception desk. Part of the desk could be lifted up to get behind it and through to a short corridor with 3 doors. The door at the far end was open, but she couldn't see any further inside. One of the other doors opened and a man stepped out. He closed the door behind himself and walked up to the desk, looking quizzical.

"Can I help you? We weren't expecting anybody today." he said.

"Yes, I'm hoping you can help me. I've travelled a long way." Lara replied.

"Oh? Where have you come from?"

"London."

"You must have set off very early."

"I stayed in a hostel in Manchester last night and then got the first bus out to the estate this morning" she lied.

"You must be very keen to see us about something."

"Yeah, it's about an order."

"An order? We haven't sold anything for months."

"I know. That's why I'm here."

"Look. I'm very sorry but we've ceased trading. We haven't even got any stock any more. I'm just here doing some administrative work."

"My boyfriend and I are desperate. We've been going through hell since you shut down."

"You do know why we shut down, right?" the man asked.

"I heard something."

"What do you want?"

"I want to buy FRL." Lara replied

"That was a special order item." the man said, his eyes narrowing.

"Randy! I'll take it from here" said a female voice at the end of the corridor. A woman came from the left hand side of the open doorway, stirring a spoon in a mug. She walked down the corridor and set her drink down on the front desk, lifting up the part to allow access.

"Follow me, my love." the woman said, giving Randy a long look as she walked past him and down the corridor. She turned left into a kitchen with a metal sink, water-cooler and a round table with 3 chairs around it. "Take a seat" she said, gathering a few papers that were on the table and putting them upside down under a blue notebook. "I'm Pauline. Who are you?" the woman asked.

"My name's Lara."

"Lara what?"

"Lara Sutton."

"Do I know you?"

"You might know my boyfriend's name. He bought from you regularly."

"What do you want?" Pauline asked, firing off quick blunt questions with a blank impassive expression.

"FRL."

"You know all my stock has been seized. It's all been tested. My solicitor has got a copy of the results. You've got everything you need. What more do you want?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Look. I need to speak to my solicitor. I've already been co-operative and everything is in my statements. I think it's time for you to leave."

"You think I'm a policewoman?" Lara asked, shocked.

"Or a journalist. I don't know. Either way, I'd like you to leave."

"Look you fucking bitch. My boyfriend's dead, OK. He's fucking dead. I want to know what the fuck FRL is and where you were getting it from." Lara yelled, anger suddenly surging up from deep inside. Her eyes blazed with rage and she stood up so fast that the chair she had been sitting on crashed over backwards. Randy leapt out of the office and stuck his head around the corner.

"It's OK, Randy" said Pauline. "Sit down and be quiet" she said with a smile curling up at the corners of her mouth. She looked like a predator toying with its prey.

Lara slowly pulled the other chair round the table without breaking eye contact, scraping the legs noisily across the concrete floor. She sat down and folded her arms, glaring ferociously back at Pauline.

"You're really clueless, aren't you?" Pauline asked rhetorically, chuckling to herself. "Is your boyfriend really dead?"

"You don't seem to care."

"That's not true. Everything we ever sold was marked 'not for human consumption' with a big skull and crossbones, but yet I'm probably going to end up in jail."

"Yes, but it will be for conspiracy to supply a controlled substance, not for manslaughter."

"Oh, so you do know something" Pauline feigned a shocked face.

"All I know are the charges brought against you. I don't know what FRL is or where you were getting it from."

"Ha!" Pauline suddenly laughed. "Nobody knows what FRL is. That's the fucking point. Do you want to know the little joke we had in the warehouse?"

"Tell me" Lara said, gritting her teeth. She desperately wanted to punch this woman in the face but she knew that she had to bottle her feelings or else she wouldn't get a single bit more information until the trial.

"Fuck Real Life. That's the joke. Do you know what the V part is?"

"No."

"Version. Whenever we used up a batch, we'd make up another lot using whatever we had in stock. A cocktail. We didn't know what we were selling any more than the junkies knew what they were buying."

"So you knew you were selling to addicts? You knew people were taking the drugs you were selling?"

"If an addict's not buying from us they're buying from a street corner or direct from China. I'm just a middleman. Supply and demand" said Pauline matter of factly.

"Your drugs killed my boyfriend."

"You don't know that though, do you? Be honest."

Lara's eyes betrayed her. She broke her stare for a fraction of a second and Pauline saw a flicker of doubt cross Lara's face.

"He stopped ordering from you 6 weeks before he disappeared."

"How much was he taking?" Pauline asked.

"I don't know. He was spending £25 each time."

"Different things cost different amounts. I don't remember all the prices of everything we sold."

"I've got an invoice here" said Lara, producing a photocopy with Neil's name and address redacted.

"Half a gram." Pauline said.

"Where does it say that?"

"Right there. 0.5g. That's 0.5 grams."

"Enough to kill him."

"I couldn't say. I'm not a doctor. But it's not enough to last a junkie for 6 weeks."

"He could have quit and relapsed."

"Well if he did, he didn't get his drugs from me. By your own admission he hadn't bought anything from us for 6 weeks when he disappeared. When did he die? What drugs did he have in his bloodstream when he died?"

"You'll find out when you're put on trial, murderer!" Lara spat. "I bet you've never had to look your victims in the eye, you heartless bitch."

Pauline sat calmly with icy coldness, looking at Lara, considering her.

"If your junkie boyfriend bought drugs directly from China, as I suspect he did, cutting out the middleman, then he would have been getting 99% purity."

"What do you mean?"

"We would add an excipient to the products we sold, to bulk it out. If your boyfriend was buying half a gram from us, that would be the same as buying 5 grams direct from China."

"So you're saying what you can get from China is 10 times stronger than what you sold?"

"At least. The Chinese chemists are always coming up with new stronger drugs too. He could have ended up with something a hundred times stronger than anything we were selling. A completely novel compound unknown to anybody here in the UK. He was a human guinea pig. If he only wanted half a gram, the Chinese labs would send him a free sample of their latest creation to get him hooked."

"You disgust me" Lara said, her eyes filling with tears. Her head swam with all this new information and she was overwhelmed. She didn't know who to be angry with, who to blame. It was all too much to process.

She'd had thoughts that she wanted to hurt Pauline, or at least scream abuse at her. She wanted her to know how much damage she'd done. She wanted justice. Lara couldn't think about that at that moment. She stumbled to her feet and out of the warehouse. Outside she sucked in gasps of cold air, hyperventilating.

The unit opposite was a garage and had its loading bay door open. Two cars were lifted up on inspection stands and were being worked on by mechanics. A man in dirty overalls came over.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

Lara looked at him but couldn't quite hold herself steady enough to speak.

"Do you need an ambulance?"

"No. I'll be OK. I just need to get away from here" she said, starting to walk off in the direction of where she parked.

The mechanic went back to the workshop, taking off his oil-stained gloves. A moment later, he emerged from the garage driving a car.

"Do you need a lift?" he called through the passenger window.

Lara stopped walking and thought about it for a moment.

"My car isn't far. Just by the entrance to the estate."

"Jump in anyway. It'll save you 5 minutes walk."

There was a moment of silence as they pulled away. The mechanic was sat on a clear plastic bag that protected the driver's seat. He kept his eyes on the road.

"What was that all about?" he asked as they pulled up behind Lara's car.

Lara looked at him, but she didn't reply.

"I work opposite. I've seen the police in there quite a few times, pulling out loads of stuff bagged and tagged as evidence. Everybody on the estate knows they're scumbag drug dealers. There are housing estates in Manchester where they beat the living shit out of any heroin dealers they catch. These 'legal high' places selling on the Internet seem to be getting away with murder."

"You're not wrong about that. Thanks for the lift." said Lara.

Next chapter...

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

23. The Box

At the house, Neil's dad, Colin, was going through his son's stuff. There was a winter coat folded up at the bottom of the wardrobe on top of a pile of jumpers. Colin took the coat out, put it on a hanger and hung it up. He found some space in the chest of drawers and started to re-fold and put away the thick wooly jumpers. At the bottom of the pile, there was a shoebox shoved right to the back of the wardrobe. He took the shoebox downstairs and sat down with it at the dining room table.

The shoebox was nearly full to the brim with medication boxes. These were not plain white cardboard boxes that pharmacies gave out prescriptions in, but glossy retail boxes with logos of the pharmaceutical companies and drug brand names emblazoned on them in bright colours. The medications had smarmy names like Abilify and Effexor, suggesting they would confer abilities or be effective.

Some of the boxes had text that was predominantly in Arabic or Cyrillic script, and it was hard to tell exactly what the medication was.

As well as the boxed medications, there were also pills in blister strips that had their ingredients and dosage printed on the silver foil. Some of them had pharmacist's instructions printed in purple ink directly onto the unboxed strips, along with the price, in Indian Rupees.

Finally, there was a big plastic bag filled with mixed loose pills. Some pills were round, others were lozenge shaped, a few were in capsules and others were diamond or triangular shaped. All the pills and capsules had letters and numbers stamped or printed onto them. The pills were mainly white, blue, pale yellow, pink and aquamarine. The capsulses were half green and half yellow or half red and half white.

In a notebook Colin started to write down all the names and dosages of the boxed and blister packed medications. The boxed medications all had two names, but the pills in the strips mainly seemed to only have one ingredient printed on their foil. He then wrote down a description for each of the loose pills: "Round, light pink, GG925".

There were nearly 30 different medications in that shoebox, none of which looked likely to have been prescribed by Neil's doctors.

Going into the box room, Colin now located a small filing cabinet where Neil kept his old bank statements and credit card bills. He returned to the dining room table with a stack of paper that was dated within the last year. The bank statements mostly had recurring direct debit payments for things like mobile phone and Internet. A quick scan through the credit card bills found a few transactions in foreign currencies. It was wholly unclear what the payments were for from the various merchant names.

He went back to the filing cabinet and pulled out all the credit card bills for a two year period, ensuring he had every single one. Then, he found all the bank statements and credit card bills in a big pile of unopened mail. It was no surprise to find that there was no money spent on the credit card after Neil's disappearance.

Putting everything in chronological order, he marked any suspicious transactions on the statements. There were one or two foreign currency transactions on every statement for 6 consecutive months. Immediately after that, some payments to "Frog Eye Wares Ltd" caught Colin's eye. The transactions were all for the same amount - £27.90 - and there were 3 on one statement and 4 on the next: 7 in total.

The credit card transactions ended 6 weeks before Neil had disappeared. Going back to the bank statements, there were two payments to Western Union of circa £150 and daily spending that seemed to always be just over £55, as well as regular cash withdrawals for £50. In a little over a month, Neil appeared to have siphoned off nearly £2,500 from his current account, either getting cashback at local shops and pubs, or at an ATM.

Doing some quick calculations, Colin estimated that his son had spent about £1,300 in foreign currency transactions that he assumed must have been to buy medications from overseas. Neil also seemed to have diverted approximately £3,000 somewhere else, over a 6 week period. "Any problems with drugs or debts?" Lara and the family had all been asked by police officers and private investigators when he went missing. There was no way that this paltry sum of money suggested either. Neil's parents weren't rich, but they would have lent him a couple of thousand without a single question if he'd asked. Besides, Neil's bank account still had money in it and he only had a few hundred pounds of credit card debt.

When Colin was opening Neil's post, he'd made a pile for Lara, but he'd spotted another pile on a sideboard that Neil must have stacked up before he disappeared. Looking through the first few letters, they were all addressed to Lara, but he decided to go through the pile in case there was anything for Neil mixed in with it. He was questioning the futility of the exercise when he found a single piece of paper folded in half.

INVOICE

...

FRL-V4-0.5G £25.00

Postage £2.90

TOTAL: £27.90

Paid in full, with thanks.

...

A credit card card receipt for £27.90 was stapled to the invoice, with "customer not present" printed on it. There didn't seem to be a telephone number or an address anywhere on the invoice, just a website: For all enquiries go to www.frogeyewares.co.uk.

Back at the filing cabinet for a third visit, Colin pulled out Neil's mobile phone bills. Some really old ones were itemised with every number and how much the call cost, but the ones from recent years simply showed the amount for line rental and the total amount for call charges.

Unplugging Neil's laptop which was sat charging on a desk in the box room, he coiled the cables and took it downstairs. Returning the shoe box to the wardrobe upstairs, he turned off all the lights and left the house with the invoice tucked into his notebook, the laptop and its charger.

Back at the family home, Colin booted up the laptop and managed to log in using a password that Lara had suggested. She had suggested several of Neil's possible passwords, as well as some variations, but the first one on the list worked. Colin was no computer expert but his job in the civil service had required him to be reasonably IT proficient, so he was able to search for any documents on the computer, check Neil's email inbox and Internet browsing history. The laptop was completely blank, as if it had never been used from the day it was bought.

Using his own computer, Colin now started searching the Internet. The first thing he tried to do was to visit the website from the invoice.

"This website is now closed." was displayed in plain white text on a green background. Nothing more, nothing less.

Searching for "FRL-V4-0.5G" produced no results. Shortening the search terms to "FRL-V4" the Internet suggested a website about a seaport in France. This seemed unlikely to have been sold 7 times, and for less than £30. The acronym "FRL" turned out to have a multitude of uses, none of which offered any promising leads. It was a dead end.

Finally, searching for "frog eye wares" turned up two hits: one was a County Court website and the other was an article from a local newspaper from that area. The court website would not show the result when it was clicked on, displaying instead a "page not found" error message. The newspaper said that a local businesswoman and two of her associates had been arrested and were standing trial in connection with the frogeyewares.co.uk website. There were no details except the date of the article, which was 3 months old.

It was getting late and phoning the court or the newspaper would have to wait until Monday morning.

Now, searching for each of the names of the medications in his notebook, Colin found that the boxed ones were a mixture of antidepressants and atypical antipsychotics with antidepressant effects. The pills in the blister packs were medications more commonly prescribed for narcolepsy and attention-deficit disorders.

Finding out what the loose pills were was a much harder challenge, but there was a website with an excellent search facility that allowed the shape, colour and any markings on the pill to be input. For white round pills, the results were reliable, but for pills that were pinkish or greenish, or of more exotic shapes, there weren't any results. Searching for the markings alone found a lot of results, but Colin ploughed through the pages and narrowed it down to a likely set of candidates.

With a list of active ingredients from the pills, he then searched the Internet to find out what kind of medications they were. There were anxiety drugs, sleeping pills, painkillers, analgesics and more ADHD medication. There were also treatments for fatigue, lethargy and the promotion of weight loss through appetite suppression. A significant number of the active ingredients were listed as controlled substances.

Perhaps Neil did have a drug problem, but if so, why had he left these precious pills behind and how had he managed to hide and pay for an addiction so cheaply? Neil would have lied, cheated, stolen and gone into debt before he disappeared without a trace. Drug problems spiralled. The evidence was undeniable: Neil had been illegally in possession of a number of controlled medications with abuse potential. However, he didn't appear to have been buying them or taking them in great enough quantity to suggest drug abuse.

Not wanting to upset Lara and family with incomplete theories, conjecture and inconclusive evidence, Colin decided to keep quiet over the weekend and pick up his investigation again on Monday morning. He was frustrated and confused, but he was a patient and methodical man, calm and stoical in a crisis.

Next chapter...

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

21. The Cell

"If you don't mind, please empty everything out of your pockets into this plastic tray."

Neil put his wallet, mobile phone, house keys, loose change, used tissue and a folded piece of paper into the grey plastic tray, which had a sticky label on it with "Neil - Room 8" written on it in red marker pen.

"Do you have anything sharp in any of your pockets that could hurt me? I'm afraid we have to check we've got everything."

"No."

The nurse patted Neil's clothes down and checked the waistband of his trousers and underpants.

"OK, would you mind taking off your belt and your shoes, please. Just pop your shoes down on the table here next to the tray."

Neil complied.

"We have to keep your belt, sorry. I saw you brought a dressing gown and we have to keep the cord from that too. We're also going to have to take the laces from your shoes. We'll go through your bag from home in a minute but you can't have necklaces, cables - such as mobile phone chargers - razors, scissors, keys or anything else sharp."

"OK."

"If it's alright with you, we'll hang on to your mobile phone and keep your wallet safe here at the nurse's station. If you need something for any reason, you can ask one of the staff to get it for you, but we'd really like you to try and relax and get used to the ward for the first few days, so we'll be keeping your phone right here."

The nurse was now coiling the dressing gown cord and putting it in the tray, as he went through rest of Neil's belongings.

"We have to keep aerosols here. If you need your razor you can have it while somebody supervises you shaving."

"I'm not feeling suicidal" Neil said.

"OK, that's great, but there are other patients here who might be. The bedroom doors aren't locked so we have to keep all these high risk items here for everybody's safety."

The nurse showed Neil to his room. The door had a window with a blind which could be opened and closed from the outside. There was a single bed with a foam mattress, a writing desk, a plastic chair, an open wardrobe with drawers at the bottom, a sink and a plastic mirror screwed to the wall. A big window was secured with a wire tether so it could only be opened a few inches. There were no curtains. Across the hallway there was a wet-room with a shower. There was no shower curtain. There were no locks on any of the doors.

"Get yourself settled and then come and sit in the lounge. We try to encourage patients to not spend time in their rooms during the day."

Neil sat on his bed with his bag next to him for a few minutes. He thought about unpacking but he really didn't want to give the impression that he was OK about being detained in hospital against his will. He'd been told to bring a few essential clothes and toiletries. Visitors could bring him anything else he needed once he'd settled in.

In the main part of the ward, there was a lounge at one end with several sofas arranged around a big TV which was hung on the wall. At the other end of the room were a number of tables and chairs. There was a nurses' office and two rooms with sofas in, which had big windows so you could see in and out. There was a doctors' office and an examination room which were private. There was a door leading to the male bedrooms and another one leading to the female bedrooms. A recreation room had a pool table, table tennis table and books in it, as well as a number of patients' artworks displayed on the walls. There was also a small kitchen for the patients to be able to make their own drinks and snacks.

A noticeboard displayed a timetable of the week's events, which had many of the same things that Neil was familiar with from day hospital: art therapy, music therapy, drama therapy and community meetings. A whiteboard had the first names of the 18 patients who were staying on the ward, with their allocated nurse's name written next to it in green marker pen. The ward was at its maximum capacity, with 9 men and 9 women.

There was a dispensary hatch where patients would queue up to get their medication several times a day. There was a door that led out to a small courtyard surrounded by high walls on all sides. That was both the smoking area and the only place that patients were allowed outside without staff supervision.

CCTV cameras were everywhere, except in the bedrooms and bathrooms. The ward was secure but the patients were considered low risk. There was only one locked door between the ward and the main corridor of the hospital that led to the other wards and facilities. For a few days, Neil had to stay on the ward, but then staff members were allowed to escort him to and from the drama studio, art studio and music room.

Some of the patients had obvious scarring on their arms where they had cut themselves. A girl's neck was bandaged. Other patients had problems that were more subtle. A man with a big beard smelt of pooh and always wore pyjamas. Many were quiet and withdrawn and a few would shout randomly, talk or sing to themselves.

"BBC one, BBC two, ITV" a man started. "Channel four" he said, raising his voice an octave higher. He repeated this same phrase over and over in a lyrical and rhythmic way, like he was chanting a mantra. It was quite catchy and Neil found it stuck in his head too.

"I just want to be dead."

This is what Michael said loudly every single morning before breakfast. Neil was a late riser, but he could hear his fellow patient shouting all the way down the corridor.

"OK, Michael. Time for your morning medication" a staff member would coo, coaxing him towards the dispensary hatch. Michael would shuffle along in his slippers. By the time Neil got up for breakfast, Michael would be sat quietly at a table with a vacant stare and a half-eaten bowl of cereal in front of him.

"NEIL! What are you having for breakfast?" Nicole shrieked with excitement.

Nicole was young but some developmental disorder meant that she was even more childlike. Her eyes were always half-closed with her bottom lip protruding. Saliva dripped liberally from her mouth. However, despite her tenuous grasp on almost all aspects of reality, she had latched onto Neil, much to his annoyance.

"I don't know. I might have toast."

"I was going to have toast."

"Actually, I might have corn flakes." he toyed with her.

Nicole hesitated for a moment, looking crestfallen. Then her face lit up.

"I'm going to have corn flakes."

Neil swiftly poured himself some rice crispies and dashed out of the kitchen to find a table with only one spare seat.

"Those aren't corn flakes, Neil." said Nicole, coming out of the kitchen and looking with dismay at her own bowl. "Sit here with me" she gestured, standing by an unoccupied table.

"How's it going?" Neil asked a patient who he didn't know, sat at the table next to him, ignoring Nicole's entreaties.

"Not great" the man replied.

Nicole huffed and sat down to eat her breakfast. A staff member rushed over to join her, fearing there would be an upset outburst if the poor girl felt too overlooked.

In his first three weeks in hospital, Neil saw the psychiatrist three times. He had a few meetings with mental health nurses and a physical health check-up, but his life was one of ordered institutional hospital routine: medication, mealtimes, planned activities and lots of time spent watching TV.

Suddenly losing his liberty had been terrifying and his natural instinct was to yell for lawyers, demand his human rights and to complain about the arbitration that had led to him now being held under lock and key. However, he also feared the power of the state institutions. The police, the National Health Service, the government, the law: he was no match for these massive entities and he knew that he would only make things worse for himself if he made a fuss.

He now deeply mistrusted the system and regretted seeking medical help at all. He felt betrayed by his doctors, he felt that the medications had made him sick, he felt that the crisis team and Lara had conspired to lock him up. He was angry that the police were used for his "welfare" when he really felt they simply provided the muscle to drag him away from his home if he tried to fight for his freedom.

Neil's faith in medicine had been completely shattered, but now, as he lay contemplating his wrecked body he knew he urgently needed medical help. He was dying.

The can of cola that he had found in the shopping bag he'd left outside the caravan had worked its way quickly through to his bladder and he needed the toilet. Grabbing a half-full glass from a nearby shelf, he urinated into it. His urine had been getting more and more cloudy and smelled terrible, but now there was a copious amount of blood present.

His organs were failing. His lungs were flooding with fluid that he couldn't cough up. His chest was tight and his breathing was laboured. His ankles were swelling up as his heart struggled to pump blood around his body. His dehydration and malnutrition had reached the point where his body had start to eat itself and his muscles were wasting away. He was so fatigued that he struggled to move and he blacked out from low blood pressure if he raised his head too quickly.

Death in the filth and darkness of the caravan was nearly upon him.

Next chapter...

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

16. Self Inflicted

"I should be upstairs saving lives and instead I'm here wasting my time here talking to you" the consultant harshly chided. "I'm needed in surgery helping patients who don't deserve to be here" he continued.

"We're picking up the pieces of your self-inflicted mess and that's not fair."

The staff and patients within earshot of the ward could not help listening in to the consultant's angry tirade. They cringed with embarrassment on behalf of the petite and ghostly white girl who looked the angry doctor straight in the eyes with a contemptuous stare. She seemed completely unmoved, which only enraged him further.

The consultant briskly walked off. Everybody in the vicinity had stood spellbound, watching the scene unfold and there was a moment of hesitation before anybody started to move around. It was deathly quiet before people resumed talking again. A male nurse who had been hovering near the girl's bed now came over to replace an empty drip bag. He studied her face.

"He doesn't know what he's talking about. I didn't choose to come here" said the girl.

"He's very good at his job. He's very respected in this hospital" the nurse replied.

"I don't dispute that. But I didn't want to come here and take up anybody's valuable time" she said.

The nurse stopped what he was doing and looked at her.

"The police brought me here. It wasn't my choice. I didn't want to come."

The nurse wanted to tell her to keep her voice down, but he knew that it would be hypocritical, given that the consultant had launched a loud verbal assault on the silent girl. She hadn't spoken a word to contradict him. In fact, they had never spoken. He had read her notes and marched into the ward to give her a lecture. The other staff were quite sympathetic towards this fragile creature who had been so apologetic that she had ended up in hospital.

Lara had to put two canulas into the girl's pale skin when she arrived on the ward. Inside the crook of her arm and down the length to her wrists, there were scarred track marks and pus-filled abscesses. Lara searched the back of the girl's wrists but couldn't find a single vein that hadn't collapsed.

"I'm sorry. That hasn't worked. We'll have to try again" Lara said as she pushed the thick needle of the canula into a vein in the girl's ankle.

"It's fine. Don't worry. I'm sorry it's so hard. I'm used to it" the girl said.

Lara knew that it must hurt, but the girl didn't make a sound, even when she slightly flinched with pain.

"I bet she can't feel a thing" muttered one of the other nurses to Judy, the ward manager. They were watching through the glass from the corridor.

"She detoxed in intensive care. She's probably in a great deal of pain and discomfort" said Judy with a stern look at her colleague.

The hospital was a fairly nonjudgemental place. Even when the radiographers would gossip about the strange objects that they had seen on X-rays, that had been inserted into mens rectums, there was still a lot of sympathy amongst the staff and sensitivity for the feelings of the patients. "Imagine shitting that out" Anne cackled, talking about a toy car that a man had "accidentally sat down on" and had been unable to remove himself.

On a general ward, those who stayed for any considerable length of time were the geriatric patients. The patients Lara looked after either got better and were discharged, or they got worse and were rushed off to surgery or intensive care. The old people took a long time to recover and had multiple health problems as their aged bodies slowly shut down and died. Young people were a relative rarity on the ward and there was something shocking about seeing somebody unwell when they had their whole life ahead of them.

The young girl on Lara's ward had been admitted with pneumonia, septicaemia - blood poisoning - as well as a number of infected abscesses. She had hepatitis B and C. She was HIV positive. Her blood borne diseases were not affecting her health but would severely shorten her life expectancy. This shocking prognosis was at odds with the defiant and beautiful patient who seemed so strong despite being critically unwell.

As an emergency admission, the girl was still wearing the same clothes that she had been when the police had brought her to hospital. Her thickly applied make-up was still plastered to her face. Her short skirt, boob tube, mascara, black eyeliner and bold lipstick unmistakably identified her as a sex worker. Her uncovered arms betrayed the fact that she was an injecting drug user, but the men who picked up street walkers wouldn't notice or care about such things.

"Do you want me to find you some pyjamas?" Lara asked, trying not to stare at the small scars all over the delicate flesh on the underside of the girl's arms.

"Only if it's no trouble" the girl replied with a grateful smile.

Rummaging in one of the store cupboards, Lara managed to locate some pale green pyjamas and a pair of beige disposable slippers wrapped in cellophane.

"Here" said Lara. "I'll put these on this chair and we'll get you unhooked from all this stuff when that drip bag is next empty" she said.

A drip fed into the canula in the girl's ankle. She had a blood pressure cuff and oxygen level monitor attached to her arm. A machine pumped fluids into her body. A catheter bag hung below the bed, half full of urine. The tentacles of cables and tubes spread out from the white sheets of the bed where she lay, to the surrounding machines and equipment.

Changed out of her clothes and into clean hospital-issued pyjamas, the girl had managed to quickly clean her face in the bathroom. Her complexion was unhealthy but she was clearly very young. Without her makeup, she was just a helpless sick child.

"Are you OK in there?" Anne asked. "Lara, is that you?"

Anne was stood outside the ladies' staff toilet. She had heard somebody sobbing inside. Lara emerged sniffling and dabbing at her eyes with toilet paper. Anne looked around to make sure nobody had noticed them, while Lara fussed with her handbag and tried to walk away as if nothing had happened.

"Whoa there girl! You're not going anywhere. We're going to mine. No arguing" said Anne.

Lara had stifled her sobs as they exited the building and headed to the nurses' accommodation block. It was the end of their shift but Lara had obviously been locked in the toilets for some time because the rush to leave the building had quietened down.

No sooner had Anne closed the front door of her studio apartment behind them, Lara burst into tears again.

"What's wrong? Is it that girl in ward D?"

"She.. she... she's so young" Lara snivelled.

"Yeah. Heartbreaking" said Anne in a flat tone.

"But she's got nobody. Did you hear the way Osborne spoke to her?"

"Well, he's got a point. Nobody forced her to start taking drugs" Anne said, pouring out two large glasses of white wine.

This made Lara sit up and stop crying, although her eyes were still filled with tears.

"That's such a cliché. You think she's to blame for her own problems? You think she chose everything that's happened to her?" asked Lara.

Anne sat down on the sofa next to Lara and handed her a glass.

"No. I'm sure she was abused as a child. I'm sure she was raised in foster care. I'm sure she's had a hard life. I just mean, some kids turn out alright and some don't. They're not born with a crack pipe in their mouths" said Anne.

Lara knew that her friend wasn't being harsh. It was no use for them to wallow in misery over every tragic case that crossed their path. Anne was being supportive and kind by looking out for her and giving her space to talk about this girl away from work, even though she was challenging Lara's sympathetic stance.

"I don't think it's as simple as Doctor Osborne makes out" Lara said, taking a gulp of wine, still unable to look her friend in the eye.

"He shouldn't have spoken to her like that. He was shouting. Everybody heard him."

"Yeah" said Lara weakly.

"I bet he feels bad about it now. He was just mad because it's so tragic that she's messed her life up so badly at such a young age."

"He's not her dad" said Lara.

"Yeah, but he probably feels a bit protective, like a parent. Like you say, she's got nobody."

"There were people from social services, the police, addiction support workers. They're all worried about her. Lots of people want to see her get better. She doesn't seem at all afraid about how sick she is."

"You know this is her third hospital admission this year? Doctor Osborne is as worried as anybody" said Anne.

"You can't lecture somebody like that" said Lara, catching her friend's eye now.

"You can't get so personally involved. I bet that's why you were crying, wasn't it? Because you didn't want to leave her and go home"

"Yeah. Everybody is judging her. Because she's a junkie and a prostitute" replied Lara, starting to cry again.

"It's not your battle. You can't save her. All you can do is make her as comfortable as possible while she's on the ward"

"During my shift" said Lara.

"Yes, that's right. During your shift. You have your own life too."

"Can I sleep on your sofa tonight? I want to get drunk" asked Lara.

Next chapter...

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

15. The Chase

Ten days had elapsed since he'd collected his first envelope from the post office. He'd slept twice, eaten all the food and drunk all the water. He needed to restock but his mind was fixated on collecting one of the other two envelopes.

Checking his appearance in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door, Neil decided that he would look OK if he wore his baseball cap to hide his dirty hair. Giving himself a liberal spray of deodorant and donning his clean clothes, he set off for town.

In a convenience store, he bought a few snacks and some bottles of drink. The post office handed over his letter with minimal fuss and Neil started his journey home. He had planned to stop at a village shop on the way home, in order to buy more supplies, but he was in too much of a rush to get back to the caravan.

While he had been staying in the caravan, he had felt exposed with the gaps in the curtains and the lack of window coverings anywhere else. He wanted privacy when he left the bedroom. He started to make a mental list of things he needed from a hardware store in order to better obscure him from prying eyes.

He hesitated for a moment before opening the second envelope. Was he already too sleep deprived and hungry? Had he been careless in not drawing attention to himself on his visit to the other town? He felt perfectly awake and alert. He didn't feel hungry. He'd made a reasonably rational appraisal of his appearance and ability to drive, to interact with people. However, he knew that the small worries would soon mushroom as he got more tired and hungry. He knew that he should have taken the time to buy more food and drink, as well as making the caravan feel more private.

Feeling slightly nauseous and nervous, he tore open the envelope and pulled out a leaflet advertising soldiers made of pottery. With absolutely no interest in or ability to read the Chinese text, only the vacuum sealed foil packet sellotaped into the back of the leaflet was of interest to him. Tearing the foil, there was a resealable plastic bag inside. He grabbed a bottle of drink from the kitchenette worktop, went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Minutes later, he was flooded with worries that he might have been followed back to the caravan. He started to worry that there was no way to lock any of the doors and an intruder could walk right in. He picked up a pair of tracksuit bottoms and tied one of the legs to the bedroom door handle. Now where would he tie the other end? He was afraid to release the tension that he was applying on the door handle with the tracksuit bottoms, as if somebody was about to attempt to try and open the door at any moment. He fumbled in the darkness, trying to find something at the right angle to secure the door closed.

There was a small amount of hanging space in an open wardrobe on one side of the bedroom and Neil tried to make the untied leg of the tracksuit bottoms stretch to the flimsy metal rail, but it was just too far away. He could tie the leg onto the curtain rail, but it was only made of plastic. Neil wanted the handle to be pulled upwards, so it couldn't be depressed, as well as pulling away from the door so it couldn't be opened.

After a considerable amount of time battling with the different angles and options, the knot on the handle came undone and Neil tumbled back onto the bed. The caravan rocked slightly and made a loud creaking noise.

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" he whispered to himself.

"Stupid. Stupid. Stupid."

Then, he reattached the tracksuit bottoms with a double knot - making them even shorter - and reapplied pressure to keep the handle pulled upwards. His heart raced and he was sweating profusely. Spying the tracksuit top, he tried to reach it while awkwardly trying to maintain tension on the handle. With his left hand held aloft while his right hand reached down to pick up the other garment, his muscles were tense and his body contorted as he struggled comically with a task that he had needlessly overcomplexified.

At the limit of his strength and endurance, his arm weakened and buckled and he accidentally pulled the handle down with the tracksuit bottoms. The handle sprung back up with a loud clunk. He picked up the tracksuit top. His muscles ached and he was breathing noisily.

"Stupid fucking idiot" he whispered very loudly.

"Shut up! Shut up!" he whispered more softly but with a very angry tone.

Now he knotted the leg to one arm of the tracksuit. The other arm he looped around the rail in the wardrobe and started to pull. The rail sprang from its mounting and there was a a metallic crash as a pile of coat-hangers tumbled onto the bed. Neil was suddenly unbalanced and stumbled backwards, having to steady himself on the opposite wall and disturbing the curtains. The caravan rocked, creaked and groaned.

"STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT" he breathlessly whispered, fussing over the curtains to make sure they were still closed. He returned to the bedroom door and held the handle, as if somebody was about to burst in at any moment,

Neil's heart was thumping in his chest with his pulse throbbing at his temples and in his throat. He was breathing rapidly and wheezily. Sweat was running down his forehead and into his eyes, stinging them. He tried to calm himself down while still holding the door handle with a vice-like grip. His legs and back ached from standing awkwardly. He was shaking.

He lay down on the bed and held the door handle up with his foot. He was more relaxed and comfortable than he had been and the change of position gave his aching muscles some respite. He started to relax and calm down a little bit, even though he maintained pressure with his foot to make sure that nobody could press the bedroom door handle down.

After a while, holding his leg in that position started to hurt. He moved his foot so that his heel was on the door and the underside of his foot was supporting the handle underneath. Then, his heel slipped and his toes pulled the handle down. The bedroom door banged open with considerable force.

"SHIT."

Neil leapt up, slammed the door closed and lay on the bed with fear coursing through his veins. He tried to calm himself down again. It was dark now but shadows danced on the ceiling above him, where the curtains didn't completely block out all the light. He was hyper-alert now, hearing every tiny noise of the forest and studying the shapes that he could see moving in the darkness.

As time wore on, he was convinced that there was a bluish tinge to the light he could see and it was flashing. He felt rising terror. The police had either followed him back from town or his noisy exploits in the caravan had alerted somebody to his presence.

There was nothing in the caravan to connect him with his real identity. He needed to hide.

Quietly he unknotted the tracksuit and put it on. Then he opened the bedroom door and slipped on his trainers. There was no sign of blue lights but he was now intent on escape. He was convinced that police officers were now fanning out in the forest, trying to find him. They had probably switched off their blue lights so that he didn't see them and try to run away.

Opening the caravan door there was an awful creak which panicked him. His pulse started to race again and he was breathing heavily as he pushed through the branches of the trees out of the clearing. He wasn't being quiet at all, because he was so terrified.

Sprinting through the trees, he realised that he had been heading towards the edge of the forest where it thinned out. He could see open fields lit up by moonlight. Hiding behind a tree trunk, he surveyed the landscape and tried to calm himself. Dark shapes seemed to be hugging the hedgerows and making their way towards the forest from that side of the hill.

Now with more self-control and purpose, Neil moved soft-footed between large trees and paused to put his back to the thick trunks while he caught his breath and decided which tree he would move to next. Making his way back deeper into the forest, it became darker and darker as the trees were more densely planted. He found a tree that had branches that almost reached the ground and made his way to the trunk, hidden in the gloom.

At first, he held his breath and tried to move noiselessly around the tree, checking all angles to see if he could see anybody. He couldn't see anything moving in the forest, but he decided to try and be as still and quiet as he could, and silently observe.

He intently watched the trees around him for any movement and listened for any sounds. He saw torches flashing and saw men wearing black uniforms, sweeping the forest several hundred metres away. Then, behind him, he heard twigs breaking as a man walked right past his tree. He tried to keep his breathing as shallow as possible and stood as still as a statue. He knew that it would be very unlikely that somebody would see him unless they approached from precisely the right angle. He turned his head away from the man so that his pale face would not light up in torchlight and closed his eyes so they didn't shine in the darkness.

Standing so still and tense became extremely uncomfortable and his muscles started to cramp, but he was calm and patient. The sounds and movement seemed to subside, but Neil was still very afraid. He decided to climb the tree.

The tree that he was stood by had a thick trunk and lots of branches that would support his weight. Climbing was easy and relatively quiet because most of the foliage was at the end of the branches. Provided he kept his weight close to the trunk, he didn't cause the branches to sway too much. The sound of his clothes brushing the rough bark was the loudest noise, so he would climb and then pause for a few minutes before resuming.

In the darkness he had little way of gauging how far up the tree he was, but he climbed until the branches felt dangerously thin. He imagined that the canopy would give him excellent cover and anybody searching for him would be likely to be looking at ground level anyway.

He was worried about falling to his death if he fell asleep, but he was wide awake and it started to get light sooner than he thought it would. As dawn broke, it became apparent that he was not particularly well hidden in the treetops and he was much higher than he had imagined. The climb down was going to be terrifying and he could barely bring himself to begin. Reaching the ground became a much bigger concern than evading police capture.

Neil's descent was noisy and destructive. He was exhausted and had little strength to lower himself down from each branch. His choice of where to put his feet was much harder going down and he snapped several dead branches, sending them crashing to the ground. If there was anybody within earshot, they would be in little doubt where he was, but he was concerned that he might lose his grip completely.

Dropping to the forest floor at last, he was covered with bark, moss and tree sap. His body was bruised and grazed; his hands were scratched and sore.

There was a thick mist of low-lying cloud making everything damp and cold. Not a single animal or bird stirred throughout the forest. Neil stumbled through the undergrowth and soon he saw the trees that surrounded the clearing. He was surprised at how little distance he had covered in the night. Everything looked very different in daylight and he wasn't sure if there had been any police at all.

In the caravan, he collapsed in bed and managed to fitfully doze, relieved to have made it back in one piece. He resolved to buy the things he needed to make things secure and private, when he went to the third town for his remaining envelope. For now, he had everything he needed. He just needed to be more careful so that his own mind didn't get the better of him.

Next chapter...

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

14. Unsuitable Friends

He would always be in a different mood when she turned up. Sometimes he would be locked away in the darkness and would have to be coaxed out. He could be sleepy, so sleepy, struggling to keep his eyes open. Other times he would be on edge with his eyes wildly casting around and not seeing her, biting on his nails and pacing the room. Sometimes he would make it clear that he wanted her to leave; he wanted to be left alone. Other times he looked so content and peaceful. She thought he looked so angelic when he was like that, but the other moods were also intriguing even though it was a wholly confusing and upsetting experience to see his emotional state shifting so rapidly.

Lying with him, stroking his face or just holding him, she studied the ceiling. Painted white, it was streaked with rust where iron girders ran across it. Industrial lighting hung on chains with fluorescent tubes. There were black cobwebs caked in dirt in the corners of the room and thin wispy ones that clung to the ceiling and to the lights. Draughts blew dust from the top of the grey metal trays that held the lights and the sun would illuminate the individual particles as they swirled in the air.

In the day, the room was brightly lit by windows that ran the entire length of one wall. The glass was re-inforced with wire mesh. The windows were divided into a grid of squares by a sturdy metal frame that was painted gloss black. The windows were dirty because it was impossible to clean them from inside. The middle panes of glass had been frosted for privacy and the lowest ones had been painted gloss white.

The walls were unplastered and painted matte white like the ceiling. The texture of large concrete blocks contrasted with the smooth cement in-between each brick. Pipes and wires were attached to the surface of the wall, and their path could be traced to the sink, bathroom, light switches and electrical sockets. There were red wires that connected a point where you could break the glass to set off the fire alarm and a shiny red plastic siren. The pipes and nozzles of a sprinkler system hung suspended a few inches below the ceiling, crossing the huge room three times.

In one corner of the room there was a part that had been partitioned off with unpainted plasterboard walls. A half open door showed that one of the small inner rooms contained a toilet and a shower. There was a second door that was closed. That was where he slept, but she had never seen inside that room.

There were no soft furnishings anywhere. No carpets, no curtains. The only comfortable items were an armchair and a double futon which was laid out flat like a day-bed in the middle of the room. There were big cushions and several quilts and blankets, which were necessary to snuggle underneath in winter. There was a gas heater, but the bottle was empty and it could do little more than take the chill off the cavernous space. The floor was cold polished concrete painted glossy blue, scratched, gouged and flaking in places.

The one door into the room was painted battleship grey and had a huge shiny metal door handle. There was a bright green sign above the door that said "FIRE EXIT" and had a picture of some steps leading down. The sign had special paint on it which glowed in the dark.

She was fascinated by the objects that filled the room. In one corner there was a drum kit, a red electric guitar and big black amplifier. There was an acoustic guitar leaning up against a round stool with chrome legs. Sheets of music, hand-written lyrics and songbooks littered the floor nearby, along with a broken drumstick, used guitar strings and some colourful plectrums. Along the length of one wall was shelving that had many bottles and tins containing turpentine, thinners, white spirit, lots of different paints, varnishes and other things. Glass jars were filled with paintbrushes, some of which were turned so their dry bristles were upwards and others were soaking in murky liquid. On top of the shelves were various tools and half-finished, discarded or drying pieces of artwork.

On the opposite side was a large sturdy table with a glossy worktop. Stencils lay scattered and huge pieces of paper had been stuck down with masking tape: works in progress. An enormous green cutting board was criss-crossed with a white grid pattern and three steel scalpels lay on it along with offcuts which spilled all over the table and onto the floor.

Several paint-splattered stools and collapsible steps were sat around the large table. The stools were made of a bright yellow wood and had blue leather seats. The steps were made of dark wood and had a shiny metal tube bent as a handle above the top step.

An easel with a canvas attached to it stood with the picture facing towards the windows. Sack cloth had been draped over it so the picture underneath couldn't be seen. A mixing board hung on the back of the easel, covered with a bright array of colours and thickly textured with paint. On the floor nearby there was a jar filled with long-handled brushes.

Near the door there was a small bookshelf, writing desk and some shelves with a record player and retro hi-fi system. Large wooden speakers sat on the floor. The only comfortable seat - a Chesterfield armchair - had battered brown leather and a deep imprint in the seat cushion. Sheaves of paper with pencil, charcoal and ink drawings were scattered nearby, along with many leather-bound notebooks of various sizes, some of them with their pages open displaying row upon row of neat handwriting, as well as sketches and diagrams.

Over by the windows, there was a two-plate electric hob, a toaster, a kettle and a microwave. The opposite side of the door, near the bathroom, there was a small sink with a single tap which dispensed cold water. Milk, sugar, tea and coffee were on a tray on the floor along with the other appliances. Several jam jars were arranged near the tray as makeshift mugs for hot drinks. There were some cereal boxes but not much other sign of any food or cooking activity.

A number of modern angle-poise and antique lamps filled the space with harsh and warm patches of light. The room was zoned, so that the art table was lit with bright white clean light, while around the futon daybed and in the snug corner with the Chesterfield, there was much softer and yellowish lighting.

She hadn't dared to disturb the art, the instruments, or the vinyl, but after some time she had figured out how to operate the cassette deck and play some of the compilations of music that had been recorded onto blank 90 minute tapes.

She felt it would take her a lifetime to explore all the wonderful things in that big loft space and she adored spending time there with him, even if he was sleepy and absent or increasingly anxious and cranky. How could anybody live like this? This mysterious alien environment was so intriguing.

"Should I go?" she would ask. When he was sleepy and content, he would open his eyes and tell her to stay. He would reach out for her hand, put it on his face and put his own hand over it. He liked her being there. He found it comforting. When he was growing uncomfortable and restless, he would distractedly say "Yeah. Whatever" but she didn't feel rejected. There was clearly something that bubbled up inside him that he was dealing with. Sometimes he would have to go out and he didn't seem to mind if she stayed or if she went. When he was gone, she didn't dare to get up and nose through his stuff, but she liked being there, spending time in that place.

Lying next to Neil in bed on a Saturday, Lara could remember every sight, sound and smell of Sam's loft. Her present environment was so familiar, so unstimulating, so boring.

The plain cream curtains, the simple modern light fitting on a smooth white ceiling. The walls were painted a tasteful neutral pastel shade and their bedroom furniture was practical and affordable Scandinavian flat-pack, with bland doors. Her bedside table was neatly arranged with a glass of water, an alarm clock and the book she was too stressed and distracted to read. Neil's bedside table was crammed with several dirty glasses and a stack of plates and bowls. Neil's side of the bed had become a no-man's land, littered with food wrappers, newspapers, unopened post, various electronic items and half-eaten meals. Lara would occasionally collect the crockery when there were only a few clean items left for her to be able to use.

Neil was present, but cold and passive-aggressively hostile. He would sleep with his back to her and he seemed to recoil from her touch. Just switching her bedside light on or rummaging quickly in her wardrobe for clothes seemed to cause him to toss and turn in bed, hiding his head under the covers and making little sighs of frustration. When she came into the bedroom, she could sense him stiffen and hold his breath.

Sam had been affectionate in a strange way. He had been grateful that she was there in his life, even though his moods were so unpredictable, so volatile. Neil and Lara hadn't made love in weeks, but it was the small displays of affection that Lara missed more than anything. Neil no longer seemed to want to hug and kiss her, to squeeze her, to spoon, to caress her skin and tickle her with his nose. She often used to fall asleep on Neil's chest in bed or watching TV together, but now they lived completely separate lives.

She started to feel unwelcome in her own home. She listened to the TV at low volume, worried about Neil in the bedroom above. She worried about the noise she was making when she left in the morning, or when she was doing housework. She wondered what she was even doing, watching crap TV series that they used to enjoy together. Many things were less interesting without another person to share the experience with. It started to feel as though she was making things worse, not better, by being around him.

Next chapter...

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

12. Enough Rope

"We could lose the house."

"You're getting hysterical. Calm down."

"You're jeopardising everything. Don't tell me to calm down. It's so patronising."

"I'm not well."

"Well, why don't you go back to the doctor and get another sick note then?"

"Now who's telling who what to do? Now who's being patronising?"

"Don't be so ridiculous. I've been so supportive of you while you've been unwell."

"Yes, and now you're acting like I'm doing it on purpose. Like it was deliberate."

"I know you didn't mean to get sick. I am sorry. I am sympathetic. But you have to be responsible too."

"I can't face it. I can't do it."

"You don't have to go back to work yet if you don't feel up to it, but at least see the doctor."

"What am I going to say? I feel the same as I did a couple of weeks ago."

"Say that. You need a sick note if you're going to keep your job."

"It's such utter bullshit."

"What is?"

"Everything. That job. This fucking treadmill. Our whole pointless existence. Working until we die."

"You know I can't pay the mortgage on my salary alone. How are we going to avoid reposession? How are we going to pay the bills?"

"I can't think about that stuff at the moment. I can't deal with it."

"All you need to do is go and get signed off work for another couple of weeks."

"I can't do it anymore. When's it going to end?"

"We can't do anything if you don't play by the rules. You'll get fired and you won't even be able to claim benefits."

"I don't want to be on benefits."

"I know, but how are we going to pay the bills if you're not working?"

"I don't know. Don't you think I worry about this stuff too?"

"It doesn't seem like it if you can't be bothered to go and see the doctor."

"It's not that I can't be bothered. I just can't face it. I can't face anything at the moment."

"Look, I'm sorry you're sick, but you're going to have to man up over this. It's already been two days since your sick note ran out and they're expecting you back at work."

"They shouldn't expect me back. I'm not well. I feel terrible."

"Well go and tell that to the doctor."

"How ridiculous. Expecting me to have to go to the doctor when I'm not well, to get these stupid pieces of paper to send to work. How can you expect that of a sick person?"

"That's the way the system works. Deal with it."

"I dealt with it for years. I kept this roof over our heads while you went off to university. I've been responsible. Now I'm sick. Somebody else needs to be the responsible one."

"I phoned in sick for you didn't I? I've had to answer all the questions your boss and your work colleagues keep firing at me. I'm sticking up for you. You just need to do this one thing."

"I can't do it."

"Fine" said Lara, storming out of the snug and up the stairs to the bedroom.

Neil slumped back down onto the sofa. They had both risen to their feet in the heated exchange. Neil thought about switching on the TV, but instead he just sat slowly stroking his eyebrows and staring blankly into space. His mind was locked on a single thought: "I can't".

Everything had ground to a halt at home. Neil barely washed, he never cooked, he never cleaned, he never left the house, he had switched his phone off and avoided all social contact. Lara didn't resent having to do everything on her own, because Neil was quite neat and tidy, but she couldn't understand why he wouldn't go and get another sick note from the doctor.

"He's driving me mad, mum" Neil overheard Lara say loudly from the bedroom above the snug.

"He's not well my love" Lara's mum said at the other end of the phone.

"I know, mum, but he's going to lose his job pretty soon" said Lara.

"Try to be supportive. It must be hard for him."

Lara made a noise of annoyance.

"I have been SO supportive" Lara replied through gritted teeth.

"Look dear, it's late. Let's speak another time" said Lara's mum, sensing that the conversation would soon descend into an unpleasant argument.

"OK mum. Bye."

Lara hung up her mobile phone and let her arm flop down to her side on the bed next to her. Her grip relaxed and the phone slipped from her hand and dropped onto the bedroom floor. Lara's eyes remained glazed and impassive, fixed on the ceiling with an unfocussed stare. She exhaled very slowly, letting the air noisily blow through her lips as if she was deflating.

It would be impossible to force Neil to do anything, but why would she have to? It was obvious what he had to do. The rational course of action was indisputable. The negative consequences of inaction were inevitable.

He hadn't come to bed by the time she fell asleep but when she woke up in the morning, he lay next to her fully clothed, asleep. She wanted to wake him up and resume the discussion but she couldn't; she had to get up and get ready for work.

Before she left, she looked back into the bedroom at his face. At that moment he seemed so untroubled, calm, relaxed. It was infuriating, enraging even, that he appeared unperturbed by a threat to their financial security, that he could easily solve.

What did he even do all day, when she was at work?

Next chapter...