where you are until it’s a crisis and you suddenly see.’
‘So you’re saying … ?’
‘This is my crisis.’
The next day when Irene came to my room … My room. I would catch myself saying that. As if it was where I was going to spend the rest of my life. As if I wouldn’t be able to cope with a world outside where I would have to buy things for myself, make decisions.
She was as composed as always. She smiled and asked me how I’d slept. In the real world, people might sometimes ask you how you were, but they didn’t really want to know. You were just meant to answer, ‘Fine.’ They didn’t ask you how you’d slept, how you were eating, how you were feeling, and really want to know the answer. Irene Beddoes wanted to know. She would look at me with her intelligent eyes and wait for me to speak. So I said I’d slept fine, but it wasn’t true. That was yet another thing about hospital. I had my own private room, of course, but unless your room was on an island in the middle of the Pacific you were always going to be woken at about two-thirty in the morning by some woman screaming. Someone would come and deal with her but I’d be left staring at the dark, thinking about dying and being dead and about that cellar and the voice in my ear.
‘Yes, fine,’ I said.
‘Your file arrived,’ she said.
‘What file?’
‘From your GP. Your basic NHS file.’
‘Oh, God,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten about that. I suppose it’s full of stuff that’s going to be taken down and used in evidence against me.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘It was just a joke. Now you’re going to say that there’s no such thing as “just a joke’’.’
‘You didn’t tell me you’d been treated for depression.’
‘Have I?’
She glanced down at her notebook. ‘You were prescribed an SSRI in November 1995.’
‘What’s that?’
‘An antidepressant.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
‘Try.’
I thought for a moment. 1995. University. Wreckage.
‘That must have been when I split up with Jules. I told you about that yesterday. I got into a terrible state; I thought my heart was broken. Well, I suppose it was. I wasn’t getting out of bed in the morning. I was crying all the time. I couldn’t seem to stop. Strange how much water there is inside you. So a friend of mine made me go to the college doctor. He prescribed some pills, but I can’t even remember taking them.’ I caught myself and laughed. ‘When I say I can’t remember, I don’t mean more amnesia. It just never seemed important.’
‘Why didn’t you mention it to me before?’
‘When I was about eight I was given a penknife for my birthday. Unbelievable, but true. About eight minutes later I was trying to carve a bit of wood in the garden and the knife went into my finger.’ I held up my left hand. ‘Look, there’s still quite a nice scar. It bled like anything. I may be imagining it, but when I look at the scar I can feel what it was like when the knife slipped and went in. I didn’t mention that either.’
‘Abbie, we’ve been talking about your mood. We’ve been talking about how you react to stress. But you didn’t mention it.’
‘Are you saying that I forgot it, the way I can’t remember being grabbed by this man? But I did mention it. I told you about it when we talked yesterday.’
‘Yes, but you didn’t mention that you received medical treatment.’
‘Only because I didn’t think of it as relevant. I had an affair with someone at university then got depressed when it went wrong. Oh, OK, maybe it’s relevant. Everything’s relevant, I suppose. Maybe I didn’t mention it because it was so sad and I felt so abandoned.’
‘Abandoned?’
‘Yes. Well, of course. I was in love and he wasn’t.’
‘I was interested, looking through your files, in how you had reacted to other episodes of stress in your life.’
‘If you want to compare me being held prisoner by someone who wanted to kill me with bits of
‘So you’re saying … ?’
‘This is my crisis.’
The next day when Irene came to my room … My room. I would catch myself saying that. As if it was where I was going to spend the rest of my life. As if I wouldn’t be able to cope with a world outside where I would have to buy things for myself, make decisions.
She was as composed as always. She smiled and asked me how I’d slept. In the real world, people might sometimes ask you how you were, but they didn’t really want to know. You were just meant to answer, ‘Fine.’ They didn’t ask you how you’d slept, how you were eating, how you were feeling, and really want to know the answer. Irene Beddoes wanted to know. She would look at me with her intelligent eyes and wait for me to speak. So I said I’d slept fine, but it wasn’t true. That was yet another thing about hospital. I had my own private room, of course, but unless your room was on an island in the middle of the Pacific you were always going to be woken at about two-thirty in the morning by some woman screaming. Someone would come and deal with her but I’d be left staring at the dark, thinking about dying and being dead and about that cellar and the voice in my ear.
‘Yes, fine,’ I said.
‘Your file arrived,’ she said.
‘What file?’
‘From your GP. Your basic NHS file.’
‘Oh, God,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten about that. I suppose it’s full of stuff that’s going to be taken down and used in evidence against me.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘It was just a joke. Now you’re going to say that there’s no such thing as “just a joke’’.’
‘You didn’t tell me you’d been treated for depression.’
‘Have I?’
She glanced down at her notebook. ‘You were prescribed an SSRI in November 1995.’
‘What’s that?’
‘An antidepressant.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
‘Try.’
I thought for a moment. 1995. University. Wreckage.
‘That must have been when I split up with Jules. I told you about that yesterday. I got into a terrible state; I thought my heart was broken. Well, I suppose it was. I wasn’t getting out of bed in the morning. I was crying all the time. I couldn’t seem to stop. Strange how much water there is inside you. So a friend of mine made me go to the college doctor. He prescribed some pills, but I can’t even remember taking them.’ I caught myself and laughed. ‘When I say I can’t remember, I don’t mean more amnesia. It just never seemed important.’
‘Why didn’t you mention it to me before?’
‘When I was about eight I was given a penknife for my birthday. Unbelievable, but true. About eight minutes later I was trying to carve a bit of wood in the garden and the knife went into my finger.’ I held up my left hand. ‘Look, there’s still quite a nice scar. It bled like anything. I may be imagining it, but when I look at the scar I can feel what it was like when the knife slipped and went in. I didn’t mention that either.’
‘Abbie, we’ve been talking about your mood. We’ve been talking about how you react to stress. But you didn’t mention it.’
‘Are you saying that I forgot it, the way I can’t remember being grabbed by this man? But I did mention it. I told you about it when we talked yesterday.’
‘Yes, but you didn’t mention that you received medical treatment.’
‘Only because I didn’t think of it as relevant. I had an affair with someone at university then got depressed when it went wrong. Oh, OK, maybe it’s relevant. Everything’s relevant, I suppose. Maybe I didn’t mention it because it was so sad and I felt so abandoned.’
‘Abandoned?’
‘Yes. Well, of course. I was in love and he wasn’t.’
‘I was interested, looking through your files, in how you had reacted to other episodes of stress in your life.’
‘If you want to compare me being held prisoner by someone who wanted to kill me with bits of
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