This is a story about parasites...

Everybody has to work, right? There's a social contract that we implicitly signed up for when our parents had sex on our behalf. In return for our parents' selfless act of having unprotected sex, we agreed - before we were born - to a life of wage slavery and paying bills.

The other way of looking at things is to ask what would happen if you didn't work.

A big hole in the ground was dug to make the foundations of your house, where you live. You dug that hole, right? What about the concrete that was used to fill the foundations? I presume you slaked the lime to make the mortar and you dug the aggregates to make the mix that was poured into the hole you dug. I mean, that's only logical.

Bricks were laid to make the walls of your house. I presume you collected the clay, shaped it into bricks and baked them in a kiln that you made. That's only logical.

Joists and beams were needed to make the floors you walk on and the roof that keeps you dry. I presume you chopped down those trees and milled them into the straight timbers that were needed. That's only logical.

Slates were hung to make your roof able to divert rain into your guttering. I presume you quarried those slates. That's only logical.

Nails were forged to join the wood. I presume you collected the iron ore and blacksmithed the nails. That's only logical.

Sand was melted in a furnace at incredibly hot temperatures to make the glass that glazes your windows. I presume you gathered that sand and kept the fires burning in order to make those panes of glass that adorn your house. I mean, that's only logical.

Meat, vegetables, kernels, pulses, herbs, salt, oils and other condiments were combined to make delicious meals to keep you going while you were doing all that hard work. I presume you farmed the edible things to make those meals. You harvested the corn, milled the flour and baked the bread. That's only logical.

Water was raised from the underground aquifers. I presume you dug the wells and winched up the buckets of water. That's only logical.

How are you doing so far? You can say that everything you've benefitted from has been a product of your own hard labour, right? You can show directly how your contribution to society means that you deserve your slice of the pie, of course. That's only logical.

"Actually, I'm much more important than that."

Right, let's test that hypothesis.

What do you actually do?

"I go to meetings in a big fancy office."

Alright. Let's go.

Coffee beans were picked, dried and roasted. The coffee was ground and infused in boling water. I presume you were there in South America, harvesting the crop. I presume you roasted your beans and ground them yourself. That's only logical.

Spreadsheet software was crafted from binary ones and zeros. Microsoft Excel was created from nothing, using computer programming. I presume you wrote Excel. That's only logical.

Companies were incorporated with memorandums and articles of association. Laws were made. Everything was written down on paper. Paper was made from wood pulp. Ink is made from pigments and dyes. I presume you made the paper and the ink, and you wrote down all the laws that govern your company. That's only logical.

Cotton was picked. Thread was made. Thread was woven into garments. Fancy shirts and suits of clothes were made so that the people in the offices could look powerful and important at their meetings, sipping coffee and putting made-up numbers into spreadsheets. You made all those things. That's only logical.

How are you doing now? Are you with me so far?

"You just don't understand. I paid for all those things."

Oh you PAID did you? Let's see how that stands up to cross-examination.

Gold was panned or mined out of the ground. Gold was melted down into bars and coins that were assay marked to vouch for purity and weight. I presume you were down in the mines with your pickaxe, or in the river bed with your panning bowl, plucking gold nuggets out of the ground. I mean, that's only logical.

Banknotes were printed and coins were minted. Banks held ledgers and reserves. Payments were recorded. I presume you made the currency that was hard to counterfeit. I presume you created the payment systems that were hard to defraud. That's only logical.

How about now? Keeping up?

"For fuck's sake. You just don't get it. I did my job and I got my salary. That's how I paid for my house and my food."

Oh, right. I get it now. What exactly did you do for your job? What exactly was your contribution?

Tags: #capitalism #economics #career

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

20. Segmentation

When Lara was working her day shift, she would get home at around 7:30pm and have an hour where Neil was vaguely compos mentis. He would take his medication at around 8pm and by 8:30pm his eyelids were heavy and he would be slurring his words.

"Time for bed, Neil."

Uncomplaining and compliant Neil would be led to the bedroom where Lara would help him undress and get under the covers. It was as if he was blind drunk: barely able to comprehend where he was or navigate the short distance to the bedroom on his own. It was alarming to see how heavily medicated he was, but Lara trusted the judgement of the doctors and had confidence that his health would soon improve.

During her night shift, Lara became aware just how little of the day Neil was awake and active. Sleeping until nearly 11am, he pulled on some clothes and lolloped down the staircase where she heard him collapse on the sofa. The sound of daytime television could be softly heard from the bedroom, but she knew he was half-dozing with glazed eyes, not taking anything in. Before she left to go to work in the evening, his mind seemed a little less cloudy, but he had little more than an hour before he had to take his 8pm dose of medication.

The change from his depressed demeanour was unmistakable. When he was depressed he was present, but also cold, withdrawn and a little passive-aggressive. He was hostile towards the world, fatigued, but his mind was still sharp. Now, he was a shell of a man: he shuffled around, slept and ate, but there was no living spirit within him. He was dead behind his eyes, which seemed more sad than the expression he wore when he said he didn't want to live anymore.

It was pretty clear when Neil skipped his medication. He would be wired: wide awake with manic eyes and an electric energy, restless.

"Did you take your meds?" Lara asked.

"Whose prescription is it? Mine or yours?"

"It's yours."

"OK. Good. You worry about your medications, I'll worry about mine."

He wore a fierce expression. He was upset, defensive, offended that she would question whether he was taking his drugs. It was obvious when he hadn't, but she couldn't press him further on the matter without an explosive argument.

At first, he only skipped doses sporadically. It was as if he wanted to occasionally remind himself what it was like to be unmedicated.

Returning home one day, Neil was not in the snug or in the bedroom. Looking in the box room and the spare bedroom, Neil didn't appear to be in either. As she walked through the hallway towards the kitchen, she heard a sound come from the cupboard under the stairs.

"What the hell, Neil? What's wrong?"

He was in the cupboard completely naked with a bright red mop bucket on his head.

"Get away from me! Shut the door!"

"What's wrong, Neil?"

"Don't let those bloodsucking bastards get in here. Keep the fucking bats away from me" he shouted, with his hands flailing in the air.

"What's wrong with your arms? They're covered in scratches."

This seemed to stir some memory in him that he had forgotten. He started attacking his skin.

"Insects. Ants. Under my skin. Look at them crawling under there!" he picked at something unseen on his arm. A little blood appeared where his fingernail dug in.

"Neil you're seeing things. There aren't any bats. There aren't any insects."

"Fuck off. Fuck off. Fuck off." he shouted, cowering in the corner of the cupboard and pulling the bucket down over his head as if it could protect his whole body.

"Please come out from there. You're covered in scratches. You're hurting yourself."

"Leave me alone. You're a liar. You're a fucking liar."

"What am I lying about, Neil?"

"You know what it is."

"What is it?"

"You know. You all know. Fuck off and leave me alone."

The crisis team convened an assessment with Neil's doctor, a psychiatrist, a social worker and a mental health nurse. Two police officers stood in the hallway. Lara hovered in the doorway of the snug looking extremely anxious. Neil was sat at one end of the sofa in his dressing gown.

"We know you've stopped taking your medication, Neil. You should have refilled your prescription a week ago."

"I told you. The side effects were intolerable."

"Yes, but the medication was controlling your illness. You need the medication to stay well."

"I wasn't unwell before I started taking it."

"That's not true. Your notes say you were very unwell. The crisis team have been in contact for quite a while now."

"I wasn't hearing things. I wasn't seeing things."

"That was because the medication was working."

"The problems started when I stopped taking the quetiapine."

"There you go then, see! The medication was working. Why won't you start taking it again?"

"I told you. I'm OK. I can't stand the side effects. I don't need the quetiapine."

"But you had a psychotic episode. You got very sick without the medication. You need the medication to control your illness, Neil."

"What illness? I was depressed. That was all."

"Neil. You're very sick. You're exhibiting all the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia. We're all very worried about you. You're not safe if you're not taking your medication."

The social worker from the crisis team got up and took Lara into the dining room.

"Look, we're going to have to take him into hospital to look after him and to assess him."

"OK, when? How long for?"

"I think we're going to recommend that he stays for 28 days. He's really sick and we need to get to the bottom of this. He's clearly not coping at home. You've been doing a great job, but he needs to be looked after in hospital."

"So, you're sectioning him?"

"We need to make our final decision, but it's likely that he's going to go to hospital under section two. He's not well and it's the best thing for him right now."

"What happens next?"

"We'll find a bed for him at a local facility and then he'll be admitted. Once he's settled in you'll be able to visit. He might not have to stay for the full 28 days, but we need to make sure he's in a safe place where the doctors can properly assess him and help him get better."

"He's angry with me. He was furious that I called you guys."

"You did the best possible thing you could. He was a danger to himself. It's really great that you called us and we can start to get Neil the help he needs."

Lara wasn't able to get to the ward during visiting hours until the weekend. Neil didn't want to see her and refused to come out of his bedroom.

"I'm sorry Lara, he doesn't want to see you right now" a nurse explained.

After 3 weeks, Neil appeared back at the house.

"I didn't know you were coming home."

"They let me have some leave. Time off for good behaviour" Neil chuckled darkly. He avoided eye contact and he scowled.

"Are you OK?"

"Would you be OK if you'd been forcibly removed from your own home, bitch?"

Lara drew her breath sharply, as if she had been physically struck.

"Neil!" she sharply rebuked at the harshness of his language, but she was more hurt and shocked than anything.

"It wasn't like that" she said with a concillatory tone. "You were really sick. Do you remember what you were like? Do you remember? You were under the stairs with a bucket on your head. What was I supposed to do?" Lara asked, reaching out to touch his arm. Neil pulled away from her baring his teeth, his eyes flashing with rage.

"Stay the fuck away from me."

She knew she sounded patronising and he felt betrayed. He had been brooding in hospital and the situation was highly charged, but she wanted him to know that she hadn't meant to hurt him. It was painful to see so much anger and mistrust directed towards her.

"Look. I love you. I care about you. I just want to see you get better."

"You got all those people ganging up on me. You turned my own doctor against me. What right do you have to do that?"

"You were having a crisis, Neil."

"Stop using my fucking name. It's just me and you here. There's nobody else here. Fuck."

Neil stormed off. Lara heard the sound of shattering glass and then a yell of pain. She hesitated and then started to walk upstairs. Neil crossed the landing and went into the bathroom. Tentatively, she poked her head in the doorway.

"Fuck off. Fuck off and leave me alone."

Neil was wrapping tissue paper around his hand. There were blood spots on the grey tiles all over the floor around his feet.

"Why the fuck are you still stood there? Fuck off. FUCK OFF" he screamed.

Lara went into the bedroom where a full-length mirror was shattered. The glass was mostly clean but large dark red blood spots were soaked into the carpet, trailing through the hallway and into the bathroom. Neil emerged and walked into the spare bedroom.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

He slammed the door closed.

"FUCK OFF!" she heard him yell, muffled inside.

On Sunday evening Neil left the house without saying a word. Lara waited until about 9pm and phoned the hospital.

"Is Neil back?"

"Yeah he came back a couple of hours ago."

Lara was relieved. She had been torn, not knowing whether to phone the crisis team again or not, knowing that Neil would feel even more betrayed. She sunk into the sofa and convulsive sobs hit her before she'd even put the phone down.

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

19. The Hospitals

His first day in a psychiatric hospital had been spent as a day patient. The crisis team had arranged for Neil to get out of the house and see a different psychiatrist. They'd picked him up in a minibus from home and driven him to another local hospital that Lara had never heard of. It was surprising how many institutions there were in town, dealing with mental health patients.

A breakfast of toast and cereal was provided at the hospital in a large canteen with a huge bay window looking out onto a garden filled with mature shrubs and trees. The hospital itself was an imposing red brick Victorian building, originally built as a sanatorium. There were parquet floors and a grand staircase in the foyer. Otherwise, the hospital had been institutionalised, with fire doors painted glossy pale green, linoleum floors and lots of blue signs with white lettering.

After breakfast, the patients were corralled into a circle in the canteen. Tea and biscuits were served as a support worker went through the day's activities and asked who would like to do what. There was music therapy, art therapy and drama therapy. Neil said he would do all three.

There were long periods of time where nothing seemed to be happening and there was no sign of any staff members. Patients were hanging around in two rooms: the canteen and a lounge. The lounge had an array of different size and shape sofas around the edge of the room and a vending machine in one corner. A tall sash window offered a view out to the gardens on the opposite side of the building from the canteen. Nobody was talking to each other. Some patients sat completely still with glazed eyes, as if in a trance. Other patients paced around nervously, avoiding all eye contact and distancing themselves from others.

After a seemingly interminable wait - there were no clocks anywhere to be seen - a woman appeared asking for Neil.

"Are you joining us for music therapy?"

"Yes, I was going to."

"Well we're starting right now."

Neil followed the woman through a door. She seemed irritated as if he should know where to go and when. The music room was nearly full with about 20 patients holding instruments, sitting around a large square table. He didn't recognise anybody from breakfast. The room had a high ceiling and it was quite dark. The walls were covered with blue fabric covered cork-board and there were many crude paintings and drawings pinned up.

"Choose anything you want and we can start" said the music therapist, gesturing to a corner filled with an array of percussive musical instruments.

Neil picked up a tambourine and sat down in a free chair at the table. The music therapist sat at a piano and began to play a simple melody. Tentatively, a patient started to tap a bongo drum in a staccato rhythm that was not in time with the music. Another patient shook a pair of maracas at random intervals. Neil started to gently jangle the tambourine in time with the woman on the piano and she started to sing, presumably to amuse herself as nobody else knew the words or the tune. Everybody else in the room held their instruments motionless, except for sporadic flurries when they became emboldened enough to briefly make a noise.

Eventually, Neil got bored and started to beat time on the taut skin of the tambourine quite loudly. Following his lead, more and more patients started to join in with the rhythmic bashing of instruments. The sound built and built and the music therapist played louder and wailed badly out of tune. Finally, she stood up and gestured that everybody should calm down, gently shushing.

"We could wake the dead with that racket" she said, laughing at her own joke.

"OK that was a brilliant session. Please help me tidy away the instruments. Thanks everybody. I really enjoyed that."

The patients all disappeared in different directions and Neil made his way back to the canteen. Most of the people who he'd seen earlier were still there. Spotting the patient who had been shaking the maracas, walking through the foyer, Neil intercepted her.

"What happens now?"

"Well I'm just going outside for a cigarette. Get yourself a drink and have some cake. Then it'll be lunchtime."

A table in the canteen had been laid out with large plastic jugs of blackcurrant and orange squash. There was a chocolate cake and a victoria sponge that had been sliced into small portions on paper plates. Neil took a plastic beaker from a stack and was about to pour himself some squash when one of the catering staff rushed over.

"I'll pour that for you, dear."

"It's OK, I can do it" said Neil.

"No I have to pour it for you."

With his drink and a plate of cake, Neil sat down at a table with a girl who was fiddling with her phone. She looked up.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

"Yeah. Bit confused about what's going on. You alright?" he replied.

"No. I'm not good at all" she said, suddenly looking very worried. She studied the floor.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

She looked up momentarily, made a little half-giggle and then started fiddling with her phone again.

After about an hour of awkward milling around, a servery hatch was opened in the canteen and a trolley with knives and forks on it was wheeled out into the room. Patients started to line up at the hatch, where there was a hot plate and the catering staff were taking off the foil lids on a number of plastic containers. Neil took his place in the queue. There were a number of dishes to choose from including pasta and a meat pie. Neil chose meatballs in a tomato sauce, mashed potato and green beans, which were dolloped onto a large white plastic plate by a lady in a hairnet with a long serving spoon.

"Gravy?"

It seemed an unusual question, but the dish could certainly be improved with some kind of sauce. The lady poured thick brown liquid all over his food from a big aluminium jug. Lunch reminded him of school dinners, but not in an unpleasant way. There was a stodgy pudding with lashings of thick yellow custard to finish the meal and it was all washed down with tap water in tiny plastic tumblers, poured by one of the catering assistants.

As he was finishing his meal, Neil was approached by a camp man with a bright happy smile who almost danced into the canteen. Half lowering himself to table level but not sitting down, he laid his hand gently on the middle of Neil's back.

"You're joining us for drama today. Is that right?"

"Yep" said Neil, covering his mouth which was still half-full of food.

"OK perfect. There's only a few of us but we always have a lot of fun. We'll be in the drama studio in about 30 minutes, alright? Wonderful" he said, answering his own question.

Neil wanted to ask where the drama studio was but the man had skipped away before he could swallow his mouthful and call out to him.

"Oh good. You're here" the drama therapist said when Neil finally located the right room. There were four patients, arranged in a semicircle facing the therapist. Everybody was seated in the middle of a large polished wood floor. Around the edges of the room were chairs stacked up, boxes with hats, props and clothes rails with various costumes.

The session began with some icebreaker exercises where each patient had to say the name of another patient before throwing them a ball to catch. They then re-enacted the story of Goldilocks and the three bears several times, rotating the roles so that everybody played each character. The therapist prompted them with questions while they were doing this.

"How do you feel that your porridge has been eaten, baby bear?"

"Uh. Hungry?" Neil replied.

With more tea and biscuits there was a community meeting where everybody sat in the canteen and somebody asked a sequence of questions about whether anybody had any problems with the facilities or could think of any service improvements. The nurse and support worker who ran the meeting were met with stony silence.

Art therapy comprised colouring in with pencils or felt tip pens. Neil chose a picture of an orange tree and meticulously shaded every leaf. He had almost completed it when a man appeared at the door of the art room.

"Neil. Can I borrow you please?"

Led up two flights of stairs, the man knocked on a door.

"Come" came a voice from inside.

Opening the door, a young doctor held out his hand.

"Neil isn't it? Good to see you. Take a seat please" he gestured towards a plastic chair. "I'm Doctor Akinbole, a registrar psychiatrist here at the hospital. I'm hoping we can do something to help you today."

"Oh.. kay..."

"Now, I come across quite a lot of cases of young men. Fit and active. Productive and happy. Sometimes problems can materialise in your twenties. It's nothing to be ashamed of and I'm sure we can help you get back on your feet."

"Alright" Neil tentatively offered.

"So you've been working full time, you're engaged and you've been in a long term relationship with this lucky lady?"

"Yes, that's right"

"That's great. Great" the psychiatrist said, smiling.

"Well listen, there's a medication that's helped a lot of my patients in a similar situation to yours. It's an atypical antipsychotic, but it's very good with depression too and a whole host of mental health issues."

"Antipsychotic?"

"Atypical."

The psychiatrist reached for a book on his shelf and leafed through the pages.

"OK, what we're going to do is start you on 200 milligrams today, 400 tomorrow and 600 the day after. Then you'll be taking 600 milligrams every night. This medication is great because we can ramp up the dosage really quickly."

"What about all my other medications?" Neil asked.

"Well, we'd better keep you on those for now. We don't want you to have any nasty withdrawal effects. We can taper you off those gradually in future."

The psychiatrist was now scribbling in his prescription pad.

"Here you go" he said, standing up. "Any problems, just phone the hospital and leave a message for me."

"Thanks" said Neil, taking his outstretched hand and shaking it again.

"I'm sure you'll be feeling much better soon. All the best" the psychiatrist said, ushering Neil out of the door.

Descending the stairs and standing in the foyer, Neil felt very lost and shellshocked. After a slow and relaxing day, his consultation with the psychiatrist had been a whirlwind affair and he was shocked at how quickly he had now received a prescription for a third medication. There was also something scary and unpalatable about the word antipsychotic.

On the first day with his new medication he woke up with a very dry mouth and was very sleepy until late morning. On the second day, he struggled to brush his teeth and get into bed because he was fighting to stay awake. On the third day, he needed to go to the toilet during the night and found that he was confused and staggering like a drunk. The dry mouth was terrible, he felt tired all the time and his appetite for chocolate biscuits became insatiable.

After some weeks, the side effects had not abated. Neil's life consisted of taking his medication at 7 or 8pm at night so that he could be awake for a few daytime hours, where he sat semi-comatose watching trash TV. Phone-calls to the hospital and messages had not managed to raise any response from the psychiatrist but eventually he spoke to another doctor. He was told not to reduce the dose, but he could split it into two or three doses throughout the day. This meant that Neil was half-asleep the whole time and barely conscious of what was even happening from one day to the next.

Two months elapsed and Neil was comfortably numb but there was no change or improvement. There was no way he could ever work while so heavily medicated. He booked an appointment to see his GP and halved his dose the night before he was due to see the doctor.

"I want to come off the quetiapine."

"Ok, but you can't just stop taking it until I write to the psychiatrist and ask his opinion."

"I can't stand the side effects and I have no quality of life."

"I understand, but we have to be very careful when you stop taking medications like these."

"It's not helping me. The side effects are awful. I'm just drugged all the time. It's like a chemical straightjacket."

"Let me write to the psychiatrist. I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

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

17. The Holiday

"What do you mean you're not offering the service anymore?" Neil asked as courteously as he could, although he was aware that his question was put through gritted teeth and a fake smile that looked more like a grimace.

"It's not something this post office is doing anymore."

"But when we spoke, you said you were able to receive my mail."

"Yes, but then I discussed it with my manager and he contacted the regional manager and we decided that our branch was too small to offer the service."

"So what's happened to my mail?" asked Neil.

"We had to return it to the sender."

"OK. Thank you" Neil said curtly, tapping the counter top lightly as he turned and left. There was no way he could conceal his annoyance but he knew there was no sense in kicking off, creating a scene. He knew that if he pressed the matter further it was likely that the other post offices in the area would be told they couldn't accept poste restante mail.

It wasn't a complete disaster but having to wait a couple of weeks for two envelopes to wing their way around the globe would be agonising.

"Why didn't you deal with this earlier?" he muttered to himself under his breath on the street outside.

The town was filled with market day traders and shoppers and he was drawing unwanted attention to himself as he walked slowly along the pavement. His cheekbones stood out prominently on his face and his eyes were sunken in dark hollows. He'd been able to do little more than smear dirt around his face with a wetted rag and his baseball cap did little to hide his greasy matted hair. Now back in the open, his odour wafted away in the breeze, but the person who had queued behind him in the post office had left a considerable gap because Neil desperately needed a wash.

Neil had not planned on buying more than a plastic bag full of food & drink as soon as he had collected his third envelope. He hadn't really got a plan B. He'd been worried that there would be a problem at one of the post offices, but he was also desperate for things to go his way. Today, they hadn't. He was still dealing with his disappointment and annoyance. He wasn't thinking clearly.

Walking all the way back to the van, he cursed under his breath.

"Fucking hell. What a fucking shit. What a fucking pain in the arse. Shit. Fuck. Piss. Bollocks."

He'd started to walk more briskly now that he knew what must be done, but he had none of the energy and sense of urgency that he would usually have when returning with his envelope. He stared down at the pavement a little way ahead of him, blinkered to everything around him, lost in a world of his own.

"What an absolute shit. What a total fuck up" he muttered.

Finally reaching the van, he opened the back doors and got out a small blue rucksack. He slammed the door closed and locked it. He raised his eyes momentarily, realising he was drawing attention to himself on the quiet residential back street where he had parked. There didn't seem to be anybody around.

Jumping in the driver's seat, he got his laptop out and powered it up.

"Fuck. Fucking idiot country bumpkins. Fucking backwards cocksuckers" he said to himself, hitting the steering wheel and slamming the lid of the laptop closed.

Stepping out of the van and locking it, Neil now walked back into the town centre.

"What a waste of fucking time. What a waste of fucking energy" he muttered over and over again. He was passing people on the pavement again and held his tongue, knowing that a wild looking man talking to himself was liable to be alarming sight for the local people.

Entering a pub, Neil approached the barman.

"Excuse me. Do you have Wi-Fi?" he asked.

"Yep. For customers" the barman replied with hostility.

"Half a lemonade, please."

Unplacated, the barman poured the drink.

"And a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, please."

"That'll be two pounds fifteen. The Wi-Fi password is on the blackboard in the back by the pool table" the barman said, now satisfied that Neil had spent an adequate amount of money to be considered a customer. Too many people used the pub's toilets without even buying a drink on market day and he was not in a good mood.

Whipping out his laptop, Neil positioned himself with his back facing the corner of the room so that nobody could see the screen. Connected to the Internet wirelessly, he plugged in a memory stick and opened a password-protected document. Pasting links, usernames and passwords from his document into the web browser, he did everything that he needed to do within ten minutes. His lemonade and crisps were untouched when he left the pub.

The Chinese working day was over and it would take the postal service 7 to 10 days to deliver, which meant he had at least 8 days to wait. Envelopes usually cleared customs without any delays, but he was dreading the day when something went missing in transit or took much longer to be delivered than expected. 

Feelings of exhaustion and depression swept over him as he trudged along, walking the same route for the 4th time that day. He felt tearful. He felt anger and frustration. At times he would look up and glance at the people he passed. Was he angry with them? He was angry with somebody, everyone, anyone.

Driving back to the caravan he had the heater turned way up. He was sleepy and he wasn't concentrating. He got lost a couple of times on the back lanes.

"Stupid fucking time-waster. What a waste of fucking space" he yelled at himself.

Eventually he parked up in the forest. He didn't really want to turn the engine off because he was cosy and warm. He sat in the van as it got darker and darker and the warmth seeped away before stiffly easing his way out of the driver's seat and staggering back to the caravan. In the bedroom he wrapped himself up tightly in the sleeping bag and curled up in a ball. His hands and face were freezing and he was trembling. His whole body ached.

He woke up knowing he'd slept for a long time but he was still really tired. He was hungry and thirsty and he needed to go to the toilet. He felt cold but he really didn't want to get out of the sleeping bag because he knew it would be even more cold. He wasn't comfortable, but he wanted to lie there on the bed, curled up.

Eventually, the discomfort in his bladder drove him to get out of bed and go outside to urinate. He hopped lightly back into the caravan, hugging himself to keep warm even though he was fully clothed. Going to his rucksack, he went to the top pocket and pulled out a strip of pills. Popping two pills out of the blister pack he paused for a second and then popped out two more. He paused again and then popped out a fifth. Necking the tablets, he then looked around for a bottle with any liquid left in it. There was a water bottle with barely a mouthful left, which Neil snatched up, unscrewed the cap and tipped into his mouth with his head back, swallowing.

After a cursory glance around confirmed there was nothing else to drink in the caravan, he returned to bed. Soon, he fell into a comfortable drugged sleep. He woke up feeling groggy and hung over. His thirst and his hunger were now unbearable, but he slowly surveyed the scene of the caravan with one eye open, groaning as he rolled over in his sleeping bag. Eventually, he dragged himself out of bed.

Unsteady on his feet, he straightened out his clothes and sighed. Rummaging in his rucksack, he pulled out the black duffel bag and left the caravan.

In the car park by the convenience store in the first town he'd visited, he knew he was taking a huge risk, but he desperately needed supplies. He felt hot and cold flushes and his joints ached. He was weak and he shuffled along, but he didn't have far to walk to get to the shop and to drag his bag back to the van.

In the shop he bought a 5 litre bottle of mineral water, shower gel, deodorant, disposable razors, toothpaste and a toothbrush, toilet roll as well as 10 cans of caffeinated energy drink, a large bottle of cola and several Cornish pasties.

"Big night last night?" the young shop assistant chuckled.

Neil replied with a grunt. He swayed a little at the counter as he waited for the items to be scanned.

"Are you OK?" the young man asked.

"I'm fine. How much is it?" Neil replied.

Packing all his shopping into the black bag, Neil was slow and clumsy. Other customers were waiting to pay, but he didn't notice: his mind was cloudy; he was sick and exhausted.

In the van, he downed an energy drink which slaked his thirst. The brief boost to his blood sugar meant that he felt OK driving back and he managed to drag the duffel bag into the caravan. After three bites of a Cornish pasty, he curled up by the dining table and fell asleep.

For four days he felt too unwell to leave the bedroom except to eat, drink and go to the toilet. He had cold sweats and his whole body ached. Waves of nausea swept over him, but he managed to avoid throwing up and held his food down.

On the fifth day he felt a little better and he thought about going home, to his home town, his house. Maybe he could get in contact with Lara. Maybe she would come and look after him. He knew it would be a horrible journey on public transport when he was still feeling very unwell, but he could manage it. Perhaps his journey was at its end.

He ate his remaining food, drank the last of the cola and had a couple of energy drinks. With the help of a couple of sleeping pills, he managed to get a good night's sleep.

Waking up, he felt refreshed and a little energised. It was a cold day, but he knew that he had to wash. Rinsing the soap out of his hair with freezing water gave him an ice-cream headache, but it felt nice to be taking care of his appearance after so long. He flanneled himself with a soapy rag, getting rid of the worst of the dirt and smell from his body. Brushing his teeth and spraying deodorant all over his body, he felt like a new man. He put on his set of clean clothes.

There was no doubt in his mind about what he was going to do next.

"Hi. Is there any post for me?"

With the envelope in his hands, he wasn't going to make the same mistakes this time. He rushed to the hardware store and bought some self-adhesive plastic to obscure the caravan windows, a stanley knife, a staple-gun, a bolt for the bedroom door, a screwdriver, a hammer, some masking tape, insulation tape and duct tape. He drove to the supermarket on the edge of town and parked in the car park. He bought 6 large bottles of mineral water, 6 large bottles of cola, 5 tins of baked beans, 5 tins of spaghetti hoops and 6 packets of salted crisps.

Driving home, he was struck with the urge to stop outside the fish & chip shop and get a takeaway. He bought a large cod and chips and a pot of curry sauce.

"You're looking well" the woman behind the counter said.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I saw you in Axeton the other week. You looked like death warmed up"

"Yeah, I wasn't very well" he replied.

"Well, it's good to see you're on the mend. All the colour has come back into your cheeks"

Sitting down at the caravan's dining table with all his purchases, Neil unwrapped the paper of the first hot meal he'd had in over a month. The food had gone a little cold but delicious smells wafted up: battered fish, golden chips, salt and vinegar. He ate quickly and soon he felt uncomfortably stuffed, because his stomach had shrunk.

Why hadn't he just gone to sleep and then gotten himself away from there?

Now he lay contemplating his fate. He was a little appalled that he threw away such a great a chance to escape; to run for his life. For a brief moment, there had been a glimmer of hope, of redemption, but he hadn't cared at the time. He hadn't given it a moment's thought, but now he considered how close he had been to avoiding his current predicament, if only he had made a different choice that night.

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

11. The Shadow People

It had started out as a joke. Had he read about The Shadow People somewhere or had somebody said something to him? Neil couldn't remember. However, they seemed very real when they turned up in his life. It was always "they" or "them". When he started to try and explain who they were and how he knew that they were watching him, antagonising him, he struggled to put things into words. It was such a strong feeling, being stalked by them, but yet it was something that could not easily be expressed to people who had never felt so persecuted.

Neil had grown immensely frustrated, first with Lara, then with concerned family members and later with his doctors and other healthcare professionals. He quickly figured out that he couldn't very well say "The Shadow People are out to get me" without being locked up in a mental institution for the rest of his days, but he remained convinced that there were very real malevolent forces that were targeting him. It was difficult for him to try and explain things to people, when he himself saw that The Shadow People had just melted away in the cold light of day.

Earlier in the year, Neil began to believe that Lara was becoming hostile towards him and he started to become afraid and mistrustful of her. He started locking himself in the bathroom. Then he started barricading himself in rooms. He even locked the doors to the house. Lara's parents had come to help her to move out for a short time, to look after her while the couple was going through this crisis. Neil was convinced that they were all conspiring against him. When his doctor and his own parents showed up at the house at the behest of Lara, Neil felt totally besieged and betrayed.

The involvement of the police at times meant that Neil often imagined officers kicking the door down and dragging him away against his will. The escalating crisis had meant that the police were concerned about Neil's welfare. He knew the police had been looking for him and trying to get in contact whenever he went missing, but his very worst fear - apprehension by the long arm of the law - never actually happened. However, Neil was sure that he saw blue flashing lights outside his house and he could hear police officers communicating with each other via their radios.

As the crisis dragged on, everybody seemed to be antagonising him even though he wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be isolated in privacy, barricaded in a safe cocoon. Lying in the bedroom, he thought he could hear his mother speaking to somebody on the street outside. He heard car and van doors slamming and boots that sounded like the police force about to mount an assault on his home. Pretty soon the front door would be battered off its hinges and somebody would shout "POLICE! STAY WHERE YOU ARE". Then, he heard the TV in the lounge turn on. The TV wasn't tuned in to any channel and he could hear the hiss of static roaring out from the loudspeaker.

It took a long time to build up the nerve to go and investigate the TV, because Neil was sure that the police were going to storm the house at any moment. He crept down the stairs. He thought he could see people moving around on the porch outside, through the frosted glass above the front door. They would surely break the front door down at any moment. Growing impatient, he made his way to the door of the snug. He could hear the TV hissing with static quite loudly now. Stepping into the room, he looked at the TV screen. It was black. There was no sound of static anymore. He switched it off at the wall just to be sure.

Having returned to the relative safety of the bedroom, he heard the radio in the kitchen start to blare out static hiss. Entering the kitchen, the radio seemed to be off but it was still crackling and hissing. He turned it off at the wall and there was a kind of popping noise and the hiss stopped.

Later, the TV started up again. He knew that was impossible because he'd switched it off at the wall. The sound was unmistakable though. He wandered around the bedroom, trying to figure out precisely where the sound was coming from. It was definitely the TV in the snug. Creeping down the stairs and into the room, the TV was silent and there was no red standby light glimmering in the darkness. Who the hell was playing tricks on him? Neil was certain that the TV had definitely been turned on a moment before he came into the room. He unplugged it from the wall so that it was impossible for any power to flow down the cable. He assumed that the socket switch must be faulty.

The radio started hissing with static and Neil rushed to the kitchen to unplug it. This was becoming hard to explain. It had to be somebody playing tricks on him.

That was how The Shadow People slowly entered his life. They would come when he was tired and it was dark. He knew they existed because he could hear them whispering to each other, he could see them moving around as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he watched the faintest light dancing on the walls, on the curtains, underneath doors, through cracks. Neil didn't dare throw open a door or switch on a light, because he was worried that other people were watching too. What if the police were there, waiting to make their move? What if his neighbours happened to be looking at that particular moment and saw him wild-eyed and sleep deprived, acting strangely?

Neil crept around the darkened house. All the curtains and blinds were pulled closed. Sometimes, he didn't know whether it was early morning or late evening. He didn't know what day it was. During daylight hours everything seemed a little more normal and he relaxed. Sometimes he would doze for a few hours. Daytime was confusing, because many of the threats seemed to have vanished. The police had given up and gone home. The Shadow People had disappeared. His persecutors seemed to know when he was at his most vulnerable.

Using his expertise as a CCTV engineer, Neil rigged up cameras to watch the front of the house and the back garden. The cameras had night vision, which gave blurry monochrome images in low light conditions. Watching the monitor screen intently for hours on end, Neil never saw anything that conclusively showed evidence of any untoward activity. He set up motion sensitive triggers and recorded video footage 24 hours a day. The only thing he captured was the postman delivering letters. This gave him little comfort. Instead, he wondered if The Shadow People had gotten more sneaky. Perhaps they had figured out a way to get into his house without needing to come in the front or back door.

Venturing into the attic, Neil knew that there were gaps into the attics of the terraced houses on either side. For hours, Neil crawled around in the roof. He spied into his own house through gaps around the lighting fixtures in the ceiling. He looked down through the hatch and imagined that he could escape the police if they broke in, by hiding up in the attic.

Covered in dust and fibreglass insulation, he finally descended down the ladder from the attic. The town and the street were too "hot". There were so many noises of human activity around him and people knew exactly where to find him. If he truly wanted privacy and to avoid being found, he would have to come up with an escape plan. Neil started to imagine how he could slip away and find some remote corner of the world where Lara, family, police and The Shadow People wouldn't be able to track him down and harass him.

Having a few good meals, getting some sleep, thoroughly washing and putting on clean clothes, Neil was in good shape for the journey down to the caravan. He looked after himself better than he had been doing for weeks, if not months. It was important to look as presentable as possible if he wasn't going to draw attention to himself when he ventured out into public.

When he was well rested and well fed, The Shadow People retreated, but it was important that he put his plan into action so that they wouldn't bother him when he was vulnerable. He knew that his fears of being dragged out of his safe space by the police, or persecuted by The Shadow People, would diminish whenever he slept, ate and took his medication, but those things conflicted with other strong forces that were driving him.

It had taken patience to execute his escape plan. As soon as he was freed from the clutches of psychiatrists, police and The Shadow People, he was sure that his life would be amazing. It had been exhausting, fighting the forces that conspired against him and living in constant fear.

At first, living in the caravan had been everything he'd hoped for. For about a fortnight, his plan had slotted into place perfectly. Then, everything had slowly crumbled. All his well laid plans seemed to fall to pieces and he felt as persecuted and afraid as he ever had done before.

When wind and rain lashed the aluminium skin of the caravan and the branches of the surrounding trees brushed the walls and the roof, Neil found the noises soothing, but soon he started to hear things that sounded like dog walkers, horse riders and nosey neighbours, all intent on discovering his private hideaway. Every trip out for supplies brought worries that he was leading people back to his secret sanctuary.

Now, he felt just as besieged as ever, but also dangerously isolated given the precariousness of his life and his survival prospects. The Shadow People would let him rot and die in that caravan, knowing they had successfully hounded him to his death. Nobody else would ever understand what had driven him into his current situation.

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

9. The Villages

Within 20 minutes drive in his van, Neil could reach a number of village shops, roadside convenience stores and petrol stations that sold food and drinks, as well as a few other useful items. He wasn't able to carry everything he needed on his coach journey to the caravan, so being able to buy things locally was vitally important to his plan.

Because he wasn't driving a road legal vehicle, Neil had to stick to small country lanes. Where there was a major road, Neil would find a crossroads so he never had to drive any distance on a route where he might encounter police.

It hadn't been Neil's intention to stay so long and he had planned to avoid visiting any establishment more than once. It was winter and there were few tourists in this remote rural area anyway, except further towards the coast. Inland, it was quite possible that residents would start to discuss where he was living, if he started to be recognised more and more in the local viscinity. However, he had been getting more and more tired and sick and had little option other than to visit the places that were most likely to stock whatever he needed at the time.

Living in a caravan without running water for weeks and months, posed some practical issues when Neil came into contact with the general public. The caravan's water tanks were empty, so he washed with bottled water. In fact, buying and carrying back as much water as he could, without attracting undue attention, was his main problem. Washing himself used a lot of his precious drinking water, but it was necessary because his appearance and odour would otherwise betray the conditions of his existence.

At first, Neil had set aside some clothes to be kept clean and only used for his forays into the civilised world. With wet wipes and deodorant spray, he spruced himself up adequately. However, he had become thin, pale and sickly. He looked exhausted. He was dirty and smelly. Washing his hair and cleaning his body became necessary to attain the bare minimum standard of presentability to allow him to even enter shops without risking shock, fear and mistrust.

Knowing that there was a wild and dangerous looking vagrant sleeping rough somewhere in their community, the local residents would be on alert to find whereabouts this frightful creature kept appearing from. Neil was afraid that somebody would tail his van, as he made his way back to the caravan, to see him disappearing deep into the forest.

Buying larger and larger quantities of food, drink and other supplies from small local shops meant that he had to make fewer trips, but it drew considerable attention when he would clear the shelves of all the bottled water and a substantial proportion of the tinned goods. Neil's diet consisted mainly of cold beans, cold spaghetti hoops and cold ravioli, all in sweet tomato sauce. He ate very little anyway. He was increasingly gaunt and malnourished each time he went out for supplies.

Neil considered various cover stories he might use if confronted by 'innocent' smalltalk with the shopkeepers. Every story he could conceive of was likely to generate more questions that he didn't want to answer. At some point he might give a hesitant or regrettable reply. Instead, he chose to say that he was "just restocking" to which he had received mirthful replies to say that the shop would have to as well after his visit.

"Restocking again?" one woman had asked him, worryingly. He vowed never to return to that particular shop, which was frustrating because it was conveniently nearby and had most things that he needed.

Being deliberately vague was becoming increasingly hard.

"Have I seen you around here before?" asked a man.

"I don't think so" replied Neil, although he had seen him before.

The man hadn't pressed him further, but he knew that the questions would not always be so easily dodged.

"Do you live locally?" asked a female shop assistant.

"No, I'm just visiting friends" replied Neil.

"Oh. Where abouts?" she said with raised eyebrows, studying him.

Neil said that he had friends in a couple of the nearby towns. He had started to get to know the area quite well, and was able to name two towns that meant it was plausible he was travelling between them. The towns were larger than any that he would visit and outside his area of operation.

"I know Harminster quite well. Where abouts do your friends live?" she pressed him.

"I'd love to stay and chat, but I've really got to hit the road. I'm running late, sorry" he said with an apologetic smile, picking up a couple of bags of shopping. Embarrassingly, he had to return to the shop a moment later to collect the bottles he had bought, which he carried loose. The shop assistant held the door open for him, watching him load everything into his van and waving as he drove away. Another source of supplies was off-limits. His paranoia grew.

Neil cursed not using his expertise in CCTV and intruder detection to allay some of his fears of discovery. There were battery-powered motion sensitive cameras that had night vision, that could transmit their pictures wirelessly. Installing one of these cameras, hidden in the trees, would be able to monitor the track. It would be an early-warning system to know if anybody entered the forest while he was inside the caravan. When he parked his van, Neil would walk down the track to see if there were any tyre tracks or footprints indicating activity other than his own, but it didn't allay his fears, when he had only the sound that penetrated the walls of the caravan to alert him of approaching danger.

How much sleep had he lost? How many meals had he skipped? He reckoned he slept only a few nights each week. He would go days without eating. His stomach had shrunk and he didn't feel hungry very often. He was hypersensitive to noise and movement in the shadows. He was on high alert, despite his exhaustion and malnourishment. He had stopped sleeping in the conventional sense and instead started to micronap with his eyes open. The real world and the dreamworld sometimes melted into one. He would have blackouts and jolt suddenly back into consciousness, suffering confusion about where he was and what was going on.

It was thirst that usually spurred him into self-preservation activity. Despite a sense of hopelessness accompanying his pain, discomfort and suicidal thoughts, he was desperate for something potable to drink.

Neil wondered if he should waste time and energy trying to rescue some knotted and stretched clothing, damp and dirty, lying on the floor. The urgency of his thirst drove him to abandon his worries and make his way painfully to the outside door or the caravan. An immense fear of what was outside caused him to hesitate, swaying as he tried to support himself on his damaged legs.

Finally finding the nerve to open the door, Neil was blinded by daylight even though it was grey and overcast. The clearing was shady, but his eyes struggled to adjust from darkness inside the caravan. His temples throbbed with pain.

Deposited by the entrance was a shopping bag. Neil reached down, grabbed the plastic handles and hauled the bag into the caravan. He shut the door to stop heat escaping and the warm moist air inside being replaced by the cold dry wind that blew through the treetops outside. Depositing the shopping on the kitchenette work-surface which was covered with dirty food wrappers and empty plastic bags, he began to rifle through the contents in search of something to drink.

Bright blue mould completely covered a loaf of bread inside its plastic wrapper. Sliced ham and chicken were well past their sell-by date. Neil couldn't possibly risk food poisoning in his fragile state. He had purchased these food items when his eyes were bigger than his belly. Eating had become a sporadic thing where he greedily gulped down the contents of a can before curling up in a ball and falling asleep, with uncomfortable sensations of nausea and indigestion washing over him.

There was a bottle of Worcestershire sauce that he had purchased in order to add more flavour to his bland diet of canned food. There were bags of jelly sweets, containing high quantities of glucose that his body desperately needed. There were salted crisps intended to keep up his salt intake, but he had previously found these to be inedible with his mouth dry and full of sores and ulcers. Then, finally, Neil spotted a can of cola amongst the food that he had bought. Grabbing the can, Neil didn't allow his hopes to soar too soon. Too many times he had picked up a container with joy, only to find it opened and the contents consumed.

The sweetness and the refreshment of the liquid in the can was divine and Neil guzzled as fast as he could without burping or throwing up. It was unfortunate that the cola was fizzy, as it meant he had to take small hiccuping gulps rather than quickly pouring the can down his parched throat into his empty stomach.

Neil paused to momentarily examine the rest of the contents of the shopping bag, but he knew he had purchased only this one can of drink, as a treat that he had intended to consume on his drive back to the forest.

After his last trip for provisions, Neil had hastily made his way back to the caravan after parking the van, only bringing with him a single bottle of water, bag of shopping and the precious envelope that he had collected. With his heart pounding with excitement, his body shaking with anticipation, his palms sweaty, he dumped the shopping bag outside the caravan and went inside with only the bottle of water. How long ago was that? A week maybe?

The envelope was now torn open on the floor with a leaflet for a tourist attraction half unfolded next to it. The writing on the leaflet was in Chinese.

Next chapter...