Finding Audrey

It’s the next night that Frank appears at the door of the den and says, with no preamble, ‘I’m going to bring Linus in to say hello.’

‘Right,’ I say, trying to sound relaxed and casual. ‘OK.’

Relaxed and casual? What a joke. Already my whole body is tense. Already my breath is coming faster. Panic is rocketing around my body. I’m losing control. I hear Dr Sarah’s voice, and try to recall her soothing presence.

Allow the feelings to be there.

Acknowledge your lizard brain.

Reassure your lizard brain.

My damn lizard brain.

The thing about brains, which you might not know, is they’re not just one ball of jelly. They’re all divided up into bits, and some bits are great and some are just a waste of space. In my humble opinion.

So the one I could really do without is the lizard brain. Or the ‘amygdala’, as it’s called in the books. Every time you freeze in fright, that’s your lizard brain taking over. It’s called the lizard brain because we all had one of these even when we were lizards, apparently. It’s¸ like, prehistoric. And it’s really hard to control. I mean, OK, all bits of your brain are hard to control, but the lizard brain is the worst. It basically tells your body what to do through chemicals and electrical signals. It doesn’t wait for evidence and it doesn’t think, it just has instincts. Your lizard brain is totally not rational or reasonable; all it wants to do is protect you. Fight, flight, freeze.

So I can tell myself rationally that talking to Linus in the same room and everything will be fine. No worries. What’s the problem? A conversation. What could be dangerous about a conversation?

But my stupid lizard brain is all, like, Red alert! Danger! Run away! Panic! Panic! And it’s pretty loud and convincing. And my body tends to listen to it, not to me. So that’s the bummer.

Every muscle in my body is taut. My eyes are flicking around in fear. If you saw me now you’d think there was a dragon in the room. My lizard brain is in overdrive. And even though I’m telling myself frantically to ignore the stupid lizard brain, it’s kind of hard when you have a prehistoric reptile banging away inside your head, yelling, Run!

‘This is Linus.’ Frank’s voice breaks into my thoughts. ‘I’ll leave you two together.’

And before I can escape, there he is, at the door. Same brown hair, same easy smile. I feel kind of unreal. All I can hear is my own brain saying, Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run.

‘Hi,’ he says.

‘Hi,’ I manage to reply.

The thought of facing him or looking at him is impossible, so I turn away. Right away. Staring into the corner.

‘Are you OK?’ Linus takes a few steps into the room and pauses.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look that fine,’ he ventures.

‘Right. Well.’

I pause, trying to think of an explanation that doesn’t involve the words weird or nutty. ‘Sometimes I get too much adrenalin in my body,’ I say at last. ‘It’s just, like, a thing. I breathe too fast, stuff like that.’

‘Oh, OK.’ I sense that he nods, although obviously I can’t look at him, so I can’t be sure.

Simply sitting here and not running away feels like riding a rodeo. It’s taking a major effort. My hands are twisting themselves up in knots. I have an aching desire to grab my T-shirt and start shredding it to bits, only I have vowed to Dr Sarah that I will stop shredding my clothes. So I will not shred my top. Even though it would make me feel a ton better; even though my fingers are dying to find a place of safety.

‘They should teach us this stuff in biology lessons,’ says Linus. ‘This is way more interesting than the life cycle of the amoeba. Can I sit down?’ he adds awkwardly.

‘Sure.’

He perches on the edge of the sofa and – I can’t help it – I edge away.

‘Is this to do with everything that . . . happened?’

‘A bit.’ I nod. ‘So you know about that.’

‘I just heard stuff. You know. Everyone was talking about it.’

A sick feeling rises up inside me. How many times has Dr Sarah said to me, ‘Audrey, everyone is not talking about you’? Well, she’s wrong.

‘Freya Hill’s gone to my cousin’s school,’ he continues. ‘I don’t know what happened to Izzy Lawton or Tasha Collins.’

I recoil at the names. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’

‘Oh. OK. Fair enough.’ He hesitates, then says, ‘So, you wear dark glasses a lot.’

‘Yeah.’

There’s a silence which I can sense he’s waiting for me to fill.

And actually, why not tell him? If I don’t, Frank probably will.

‘I find eye contact hard,’ I admit. ‘Even with my family. It’s too . . . I dunno. Too much.’

‘OK.’ He digests this for a moment. ‘Can you do anything contact? Do you email?’

‘No.’ I swallow down a wince. ‘I don’t do email at the moment.’

‘But you write notes.’

‘Yes. I write notes.’

There’s quiet for a moment, then a piece of paper arrives by my side, on the sofa. On it is written one word:

Hi.

I smile at it, and reach for a pen.

Hi.

I pass it back along the sofa. The next minute it appears again, and we’re into a backwards and forwards conversation, all on paper.

Is this easier than talking?

A bit.

Sorry I mentioned your dark glasses. Sore point.

That’s OK.

I remember your eyes from before.

Before?

I came round once to see Frank.

I noticed your eyes then.

They’re blue, right?

I can’t believe he registered the colour of my eyes.

Yes. Well remembered.

I’m sorry you have to go through all this.

Me too.

It won’t be for ever. You’ll be in the dark for as long as it takes and then you’ll come out.

I stare at what he’s written, a bit taken aback. He sounds so confident.

You think?

My aunt grows special rhubarb in dark sheds. They keep it dark and warm all winter and harvest it by candlelight, and it’s the best stuff. She sells it for a fortune, btw.

So, what, I’m rhubarb?

Why not? If rhubarb needs time in the dark, maybe you do too.

I’m RHUBARB?!

There’s a long pause. Then the paper arrives back under my nose. He’s done a drawing of a rhubarb stalk with dark glasses on. I can’t help a snort of laughter.

‘So, I’d better go.’ He gets to his feet.

‘OK. Nice to . . . you know. Chat.’

‘Same. Well, bye then. See you soon.’

I lift a hand, my face twisted resolutely away, desperately wishing that I could turn towards him, telling myself to turn – but not turning.

They talk about ‘body language’, as if we all speak it the same. But everyone has their own dialect. For me right now, for example, swivelling my body right away and staring rigidly at the corner means ‘I like you.’ Because I didn’t run away and shut myself in the bathroom.

I just hope he realizes that.