The Mirror World of Melody Black

21

A HUGE FUCKED-UP COINCIDENCE

I ran.

I didn’t make any conscious decision, didn’t think about how it would look or where I was going. The problem, of course, was that I was on a locked ward; there was nowhere I could go. But I only realized this when I was out of Dr Hadley’s office and halfway down the corridor, and at that point, biology took over. I darted past a bemused-looking nurse and into the nearest bathroom, where I vomited in the sink.

I wish I could say it was cathartic, but it wasn’t. I kept retching long after there was nothing left to come up, and I was still bent over the sink when Dr Hadley started talking to me through the door, which I’d only managed to half close.

‘Abby? I’m coming in. Is that okay?’

It wasn’t okay, but I couldn’t speak to tell her this; when I tried, I felt my stomach starting to heave again.

I’ve wondered, since, what would have happened if I’d been able to talk to Dr Hadley there and then. I’ve had plenty of time to wonder that, but the truth is I don’t think I would have told her even if I’d been capable of doing so. My immediate impulse was to bury what I’d just found out, to shut it away somewhere dark and remote. As it was, I didn’t exactly choose to do this, or not straight away; it just became the default option.

Dr Hadley thought I was having a panic attack – which, I suppose, was true – and assumed this must be something to do with Beck’s visit that morning, which, of course, it wasn’t. But it was so much easier to go along with this version of events. I didn’t even have to lie, as such; I just had to stay silent and allow Dr Hadley to draw her own conclusions.

Eventually, when my stomach had stopped churning, we went out into the corridor, where she asked me if I wanted to come back to her office to talk things over. I shook my head, and I must have still looked a real mess, because she didn’t press the matter, however much she thought it might help me. Instead, she fetched a glass of water for me to drink, then told me I needed to get some rest; if I wanted, she could have one of the nurses bring me a sedative to help me sleep. At that moment, there was no kinder offer I could imagine.

When I awoke it was still light. A glance at the wall clock told me that it was late afternoon and I’d slept for only a few hours, but this had nevertheless made an appreciable difference to my state of mind. Yes, I still had a cold, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but this was overlaid with a shallower, synthetic calm which I attributed mostly to the diazepam. For now, at least, my head had stopped spinning, and I had enough focus to think through what had happened earlier, slowly and almost rationally.

At first it seemed the most appalling coincidence – that Melody and I should both wind up here, in the same hospital ward at the exact same time. But the more I thought about it, the less coincidental it felt. A coincidence implied blind chance, something entirely random, and, in a sense, there was nothing random about our being here. You could explain it in terms as mundane as NHS catchment areas. We lived in the same corner of west London, and if you happened to go nuts in this part of the city, St Charles was likely where you ended up.

More than anything, I think my initial disbelief was born from a mixture of self-pity and willing self-delusion. Because, straight away, I wanted to deny what I’d discovered, or at least to persuade myself that I could be wrong. And while this was difficult, it was not impossible. After all, what did I really know? They shared a surname – one of the more common surnames in the English language; maybe not top fifty, but certainly top one hundred. Of course, the thing that kept gnawing at me was the way in which Melody had alluded to her dad’s death. In hindsight, I suspected that her phrasing could have implied an event more recent than I’d at first assumed. But since I couldn’t remember her exact words, it was impossible to be sure; and this, really, was the point. As long as there was a wisp of doubt hanging over my conclusions, it gave me a reason not to act on them. I told myself I had to be certain before I could make any sensible decisions.

As far as I could see, there were only two paths to getting the information I needed: I could ask Dr Hadley, or I could ask Melody herself. The former, I quickly dismissed. Dr Hadley wouldn’t discuss another patient with me, not unless I came out and told her everything, which of course would defeat the purpose. With Melody, there was a chance I could ask the relevant questions without her realizing that anything untoward lay behind them. But the idea of manipulating her like that caused another wave of nausea to surge in my stomach. And anyway, there was a part of me that understood how disingenuous this whole thought process was. It was just a way of avoiding the much bigger issue: if my suspicions were correct, what exactly should I do about it?

My gut told me that I’d have to say something to Melody. I couldn’t go on acting as if nothing had happened; I’d never wanted to deceive her. Yet there was a problem here, too: I genuinely wasn’t sure, in this instance, that being honest could be equated with being kind. Telling the truth might help me – it would be a way of assuaging my guilt – but I couldn’t see how it would help Melody. If there were self-serving aspects to this reasoning, I can honestly say that they were secondary at this point. My main concern was that I didn’t want to cause any further harm.

On the face of it, there seemed no obvious route to Melody finding out about my article. It probably goes without saying, but she was not the sort of girl who read the Observer. The chances of her ever reading the Observer were essentially zero – and I assumed this probability could be extended through the vast majority of her friends and acquaintances. It felt horribly snobbish when I voiced these thoughts to myself, but I knew they were true nonetheless. I also knew that while my article had been referenced elsewhere – on Twitter and in forums – any subsidiary interest would have long since vanished. Now that I was no longer manic, I could see my story for what it was. It was the kind of feature that made a big splash in a small pond, but left no significant ripples in its wake. If I didn’t confess to Melody, logic told me she would never find out.

So why did I still have this intense sensation of foreboding? Guilt, again, I thought. Whatever the facts of the situation, guilt would not permit me to shake the dread of discovery, and after running in circles for another half-hour, I finally understood that I was going to get nowhere on my own. What I really needed was a second opinion; my own perspective was far too clouded.

If it hadn’t been for that morning, there would have been no decision to make; I would have called Beck that instant – or I would have had one of the nurses call him from reception, asking him to come in. He knew most of the pertinent facts already, so I wouldn’t have to explain too much, and he was one of the only people I could talk to about something like this without feeling judged. But with the way we’d left things, there were just too many other issues that would get in the way.

Dr Barbara was my second choice, but the temptation here was simply to wait until she next came in, and I didn’t know when that would be. She’d been visiting less since it became clear that I was improving; the last time I’d seen her was a couple of days ago, when she’d brought in the letters. I could have phoned her, except I was still avoiding my mobile. All those accusing missed calls and texts – yesterday, I might have coped with them, but today there was no chance. So I knew if I were to call Dr Barbara – if I were to call anyone – it would have to wait at least twenty-four hours.

I was feeling anxious again, and having held out this long, I couldn’t tolerate my nicotine craving any more. I knew, of course, that there was every likelihood I’d see Melody if I went outside, but I had to face her at some point. Appealing as the idea might have been, I couldn’t hide in bed for the rest of my time here. Still, as I left my room and walked down the corridor, my legs felt as if they were someone else’s. Just putting one foot in front of the other seemed a Herculean task.

She was out there, talking to Lara, a schizotypal kleptomaniac who had arrived last week. I didn’t think that having someone else present would make the situation any easier, and for several moments I stood frozen in the doorway, almost certain I was about to turn round and go back to bed. But then Melody happened to glance in my direction. She immediately grinned, then placed her free hand on her stomach and performed a passable mime of vomiting. News like that tended to travel quickly in this place.

‘You look like shit,’ she told me.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s how I feel.’

Melody shrugged and flicked me a cigarette. ‘Listen, you gotta hear this. Lara was just telling me about the time she stole a horse . . .’

It was hard to respond to this, but I think I managed a wan smile.

After that, the conversation continued to be entirely inconsequential, but I still found it difficult to keep my composure, to nod in the right places – even to concentrate on what was being said. Something of this must have come across, despite my best efforts, because after Lara had left, Melody immediately asked me if I was okay.

‘No, not really,’ I told her.

She pouted with concern and rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘You see: this is another reason you should stay with me once we’re out of here. We can be like a mini support group for each other.’

‘Melody . . .’

‘What?’

She looked at me expectantly.

‘Nothing. I’ll think about it. Later.’

‘What’s to think about?’

‘I have to go now. I don’t think I’m well enough to be up.’

I didn’t wait for a response. I crushed out my second, half-smoked cigarette, then went back inside.

It had been a fairly awful experience, but just standing with Melody for those few moments had clarified one thing: I had to speak to Dr Barbara. And if it hadn’t been a Sunday, I might have called her as soon as I got back to my room. But I couldn’t bear the thought of disrupting her weekend yet again.

So I gave myself one night, which seemed entirely justifiable. In the meantime, I planned to get as much rest as I could, even if this meant getting down on my knees to beg the nurses for some more diazepam. I’d feel better again after I’d slept, and then I’d be in the right frame of mind to call Dr Barbara’s office first thing.

This wasn’t stalling, I told myself. It was just a very short delay so that I could do things properly. What difference could a few hours make?

I phoned Dr Barbara’s office at 9.03, by which time she was already with a patient.

‘Is it urgent?’ her receptionist asked. But I wasn’t sure how to gauge this.

‘It’s quite urgent,’ I replied after a brief hesitation. ‘I’d really appreciate it if she could call me back as soon as she’s free.’

I figured this would be around ten; even if Dr Barbara had back-to-back appointments, she’d probably find five minutes to call. But having to wait even another hour seemed like a very big ask. I’d been awake since four that morning, and I felt tired and restless all at once. So I did the obvious thing: I went out for a cigarette.

I thought it would be reasonably safe at this time of the morning, as Melody was not an early riser. She’d often fall back asleep after she’d been woken for breakfast, and then complain loudly, to anyone who would listen, after the nurses returned to wake her a second time. The only exception was when she had ECT – and if this were the case, she’d still be safely elsewhere. As long as I didn’t linger outside more than half an hour or so, I was unlikely to see her. I was unlikely to see anyone, I thought. Nevertheless, I still felt nervous as I walked out to the smoking area that morning – but this wasn’t anything more than the usual anxiety that had characterized the past twenty-four hours.

Weirdly, some of this anxiety faded when I saw her. I don’t know why, but I suppose there was some initial sense of relief. It didn’t last long, but for a few moments, I felt a little calmer, as if the worst had now happened.

She knew, of course. That was never in doubt. Her mere presence indicated that something was wrong, and the way she was holding herself told me the rest. She was sitting with her back to the door, shoulders hunched and face lowered, with one hand clasped to her forehead.

She didn’t realize I was there; there was no way she could have realized. I could have turned and left, had I wanted to. But there wasn’t any point now.

‘Melody,’ I said, trying to make my voice as gentle as possible.

She jumped slightly when I spoke, then turned, the plastic leg of her chair scraping the ground with an abrasive screech. Her hair was tousled just above where her hand had rested, and her eyes were red raw. It looked as if she might have been crying for hours.

‘Melody,’ I said again, but she immediately looked away. She took a cigarette from the pack on the table and fumbled with her lighter, sparking it three or four times before she got a flame.

‘I Googled you,’ she told me. ‘Wanted to see what else you’d written so I could tell my mum.’

‘Melody, I didn’t know.’ I realized how self-contradictory this statement was the second I’d said it. ‘What I mean is I only just found out. Yesterday.’

She didn’t seem to register this, or if she did, then it didn’t mean anything to her.

‘You knew,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s just a huge fucked-up coincidence, that’s all.’

A few weeks ago, I might have said something more. I might have told her that my article wasn’t even about her father, not really. It was about something else: modernity, the anonymity of the city, urban alienation. I might have told her that I was on the verge of going nuts at the time, and couldn’t really be held accountable for what I’d said or done. But now I had no intention of trying to justify my actions. All I wanted was for her to stop hurting. And I knew there was nothing I could say to make this happen.

We stayed as we were for an agonizing stretch of time, me standing like a statue, her smoking, with her eyes fixed on the ground.

‘I thought you were my friend,’ she said eventually.

‘I am your friend,’ I told her.

She let out a small wounded sound, somewhere between a sniff and a whimper.

I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. There was still nothing I could say. I kept wishing that she’d just look at me, so that I might be able to communicate with her on some other level. But when she did look at me, I almost wished that she hadn’t. There was something in her gaze that immediately frightened me. It wasn’t anger; anger I could have dealt with. It was something much worse – something cold and unbending, but otherwise impossible to describe.

She stared at me for a few more empty moments, then raised her half-finished cigarette in her right hand, holding it between her thumb and index finger like a dart. I could see what was about to happen, and I was powerless to stop it.

‘Melody, please . . .’

Slowly, almost casually, and never breaking eye contact, she crushed the rest of her cigarette into the centre of her left palm.

Then she started screaming.