Cath Staincliffe - Desperate Measures

‘But she’s not-’

He held up a finger to silence her, his eyes now flat and cold. ‘We do not simply want to replace one addiction with another.’

‘It’s not enough,’ Marcie said, shakily.

His eyes flicked her way and back. ‘I’ll be the best judge of that,’ he said. ‘In my opinion your best chance of recovery from drug abuse rests in sticking with my treatment plan. Otherwise we are all wasting our time.’

Adele felt a flush of anger, the afterburn of resentment. ‘Based on what?’ she said, sounding more bullish than she meant to.

‘Based on a lifetime’s experience in medical practice.’

‘We could get a second opinion,’ Adele said.

‘That is your prerogative. The relationship between doctor and patient is one of trust and cooperation. If that breaks down…’

He was threatening them, the arrogant wanker. Adele had no idea how easy or hard it might be to find a new GP, to get the help Marcie needed. And if it took some time, if there was a gap in her treatment, she could soon be back on the streets.

‘A cut in half is a big step,’ Adele said, ‘and patients must vary. If that was staggered, say over a month or two.’ She spoke too quickly, babbling.

Dr Halliwell watched her with unforgiving eyes and then said, ‘If I thought that was appropriate then that’s what I would have done. We can’t all be experts.’

Marcie made a little sound, a sigh or a laugh, Adele couldn’t tell.

‘She’s my daughter,’ Adele said, ‘and I believe her when she says it’s too early, that she won’t be able to cope.’

‘She’s my patient, Mrs Young. Addicts will do anything to get a fix, perhaps Marcie is not as committed to recovery as she should be.’

‘How dare you!’ Adele said. ‘Why won’t you listen to what she’s saying instead of slagging her off? She needs your help!’ She was trembling with rage, her face hot, her ears singing.

‘I’ll thank you to lower your voice,’ he said sharply, ‘or leave.’ He turned to Marcie. ‘I’ll see you next week. Believing you can do it is half the battle. This may well be a bout of cold feet.’ He sat back and gestured to the door, his face set.

Adele clamped down on the anger, she needed to in order to deal with Marcie. All that mattered was that Marcie didn’t just give up and stop trying.

‘You are going to do this,’ Adele said on the way home, ‘and I’ll help.’

‘How?’ the girl said.

‘Any way I can. It’ll be all right,’ she said, trying to sound truthful. ‘It might not be easy but I know you can do it. It’ll be all right.’ She tried to smile then turned away so Marcie would not see the worry.

The words were a prayer. And a lie.

Adele knew, from her own smoking habit, that addiction acted upon the brain as much as the body, that the whisper of voices in your head was as much responsible for relapse as the physical cravings. The times Adele had tried to stop smoking she had to erect barriers in her mind to prevent those thoughts from entering at all; because it was only five minutes from just one won’t hurt or you can’t keep this up or you deserve a smoke, today, don’t you? to that guilt-ridden sprint to the corner shop and twenty Lambert & Butler. So she could sense that Marcie’s belief that her new dosage was inadequate could, oh so easily, translate into her ‘just needing a proper fix’.

They were watching Big Brother but Marcie was distracted, getting up and down for crisps, then a biscuit, then Bombay mix; shifting on the sofa, making the leather squeak, rubbing at her leg then her stomach, as if her skin was crawling: one of the responses to withdrawal Adele had read about in the leaflets and online.

‘It might take a day or two to get used to it,’ Adele said. ‘Your body would have to adjust, give it a couple of days and you’ll feel much better.’

Marcie shot her a look, sullen. She bit her nails. Adele stopped herself commenting. Christ, if that helps then go for it.

When Howard came home, she cooked chicken fillets, oven chips and peas hoping the food might fill some of the hunger that Marcie was feeling. Adele watched Marcie eat, waiting until she went upstairs to tell Howard about their visit to the doctor.

‘She’ll be all right.’ He reached over and rubbed Adele’s shoulder. ‘It’s bound to get easier.’

‘Just don’t leave any money about.’

He turned to look at her, muting the sound on the TV. You really think? his expression said.

Adele shrugged. ‘Just don’t.’ She lay awake most of the night, listening for the creak of the top step or the click of the front door but Marcie never left her room.

Adele was on early the following day, six till two, serving food at the airport. Work was purgatory. She resisted the temptation to ring Marcie every five minutes. Howard was there until mid-day and that meant Marcie would only have two and a half hours on her own, as long as Adele’s bus was on time.

When Adele got home, Marcie was safe on the sofa. Adele felt as though she’d been holding her breath all day long. ‘Do you want a brew?’ Adele asked Marcie, who nodded. She looked miserable, preoccupied.

‘Can I have a cig?’ Marcie asked when Adele brought her drink.

‘Of course.’ She didn’t hesitate. ‘Here.’ She passed the packet. ‘In the yard.’ Adele never smoked in the house, well, very, very rarely. Howard didn’t like it and she didn’t want the place smelling like an ashtray.

It was cool outside, a sharp wind. Marcie hunched her shoulders up, and smoked like an old hand. Adele shivered, the smoke and her breath both coming in great clouds. ‘How’re we doing?’ she said.

Marcie creased her nose, then tears filled her eyes.

‘Hey,’ Adele said gently, ‘it will get better. And I am so proud of you, you know that, don’t you?’

Marcie gulped. ‘What? Your junkie daughter?’

‘My girl,’ Adele said, ‘and you’re trying, it must be so hard and you’re sticking with it and that is totally brilliant.’ She hurried the last words, sensing her voice might break and not wanting to upset Marcie and show that sort of emotion.

They got a take-away from the Bengal for tea. Adele found it hard to eat, to force food down her gullet. The knots in her stomach got worse. She smoked more than usual and by bedtime she had a thumping headache over one eye.

Another early shift tomorrow. She did sleep but fitfully and the alarm woke her at five.

She opened her eyes. Her phone was gone. A kick in her belly. A fleeting moment’s thought told her that she had brought it upstairs last night. She felt under the pillow. Her purse was still there. She got up and went straight to Marcie’s room knowing already that it was too late, that the room would be empty, that Marcie had gone.

The next time Adele saw her she was laid out on a mortuary table, covered in a sheet.

Wednesday was Pete’s night for the kids, though it tended to be Tom who spent most time with him: Pete would put Charlotte to bed and Eleanor was of an age where time on her own in her bedroom was preferable to any interaction with either of her boring parents. When Janine pulled into the drive she was surprised to see there was no sign of Pete’s car outside the house.

Janine went in and called out ‘Hello? Tom?’

She found him in the living room, sprawled on the couch, a game on the TV.

‘Where’s your Dad?’ Janine said.

Tom shrugged, never taking his eyes from the screen.

‘Oh, he’s probably got held up with Alfie,’ Janine said, annoyed that she had to make up excuses for Pete. ‘Did you ring him?’

Tom gave a shake of his head.