Kevin Brooks - Born Scared

ME: How?

DOC: There are anti-anxiety medications that might help. They’re obviously not intended for treating the level of fear that afflicts you, and normally I’d never even consider this type of medication for a child, but you’re a far from normal case, Elliot.

ME: Thanks a lot.

The Doc looks totally different when he smiles, which isn’t very often. But when he does smile, it lightens his face, makes him look younger. It lifts his mask of sombre gravity and reveals a twinkle of the child in him.

DOC: Anyway, I’ve talked to your mum about it, and although she hates the idea of putting you on medication as much as I do, she agrees that it’s worth giving it a go. But only if you want to try it.

ME: Will the drugs stop me being afraid?

DOC: No, but they might lessen the severity of your fears.

ME: So I’ll still be scared of things, but not so much.

DOC: Possibly, yes. It’s also possible that medication won’t help you at all. In fact, it could actually make you feel worse. But the only way to find out is by trying it. You also need to bear in mind that there are dozens of different types of anti-anxiety medication, and it could easily take months, or even years, to find out which of them – if any – is best for you. Now I know this is a lot to think about, but at the moment that’s all I want you to do – just think about it, okay? There’s no rush, you can take as much time as you want. And if there’s anything you’re not sure about, anything you want to ask, just let me know, okay?

ME: Yeah.

DOC: We can do this, Elliot. We can do everything possible to make you better. But we have to do it together. We have to do it between the three of us – you, your mum, and me.

And Ellamay , I added silently.

Thank you , she said.

You’re welcome .

It’s twenty-one minutes past three now, and I’m back in the hallway, making some final adjustments to my Wellington boots. They’re actually the Doc’s boots. He left them at our house once – I don’t know why – and they’ve been here ever since. They’re far too big for me, which is why I’ve had to customise them by stuffing the toe-ends with scrunched-up newspaper. I used to have my own pair of Wellingtons, but it’s been so many years since I wore them – so many years since I’ve needed them – that I don’t have a clue where they are. In fact, it’s quite possible that Mum got rid of them a long time ago. And even if she didn’t, and I did know where they are, they’d be at least a couple of sizes too small for me by now.

I don’t feel very comfortable in the Doc’s Wellingtons, but they’re the only boots I could find, so I don’t really have much choice.

The gloves and the coat and the hat I’m wearing aren’t mine either. They’re Mum’s. As with the boots, I used to have my own coat and everything, but if you hardly ever leave the house – and I hardly ever leave my room, let alone the house – there’s not much point in having outdoor clothing. And besides, I can always borrow Mum’s if I need to. She’s only a bit bigger than me, so they’re not too bad a fit.

Although, having said that . . .

What are you doing now? Ellamay says.

‘These gloves are a bit loose. I’m just going to try padding them out a bit with a few scraps of wadded-up newspaper. It won’t take long.’

That’s enough, Elliot.

‘What?’

We have to go. You can’t keep putting it off.

‘I’m not –’

Yes, you are. You know you are.

She’s right, of course. I keep trying to convince myself that I’m ready to do this, that I’ve got my fear under control . . . but the truth is, I’m as terrified now as I was twenty-one minutes ago. All I want to do is go back to the sanctuary of my room and stay there for ever. It’s the only place I feel safe, the only place I ever want to be. My room.

My everything.

My world.

The countryside can be a scary place when darkness falls. Before I had my own specially modified fear-proof room, I’d often lie awake at night just waiting for the horror-sounds to begin. The piercing screech of an owl, the scream of a fox (like someone in terrible pain), the pitiful cries of rabbits being killed . . . and monkem noises too – gunshots from night hunters, the shattering roar of a speeding car or motorbike, drunk monkems passing by, shouting and laughing. And on top of all that there’s the constant sound of army manoeuvres up on the moors – the distant pop-popping of gunfire, the rumble of tanks, soldiers’ war cries, the whizz-bang of flares going off . . .

And even when the night is silent, it’s a silence of darkness and dread, a silence that’s always waiting for the next unholy scream.

But I don’t hear anything of the night any more.

My fear-proof room is one hundred per cent soundproof.

I don’t know exactly how it works, but basically the walls and the ceiling are made up of several layers of various kinds of stuff that either absorbs or reflects sound, and the only window is quadruple glazed. The window looks out over the fields at the back of the house, but I very rarely actually see them because there’s a blackout blind that totally obscures the view. I can raise the blind if I want to – and occasionally I find the courage to have a quick look – but most of the time it stays down, shielding me from the outside world.

The room’s painted white all over. I chose white because for me it’s the colour that comes closest to nothing. It’s the most non-scary colour, the colour that doesn’t fill my head or my heart with anything. I can lie on my bed staring up at the ceiling, sometimes for hours on end, and I don’t have to worry about the sky of whiteness invading my thoughts and feelings. It leaves me alone . . .

It leaves us alone.

Me and Ellamay.

Solitude becomes us.

My room has everything I need. I’ve got my own bathroom – shower, basin, toilet . . . but no bath. Baths are too scary. You can drown in a bath. I’ve got a kettle and cups and stuff, so I can make myself a hot drink whenever I want (tea or hot chocolate only – coffee makes me twitch and shake like a mad thing). I’ve got a little fridge (cold drinks, milk, yoghurt, butter), and a little kitchen area with plates and cutlery and a bread bin, so I can have a sandwich or something whenever I feel like it. I’ve got a bed, of course, and all my own furniture – settee, armchair, desk. I’ve got a laptop, a 24-inch flat screen TV, a landline phone and a mobile. The landline is set up so it only receives incoming calls from Mum (and instead of ringing, a green light flashes on and off when she calls), and the mobile is for emergencies only.

I’ve got all the clothes I need in here, which isn’t a lot, and I’ve got all my ‘school’ stuff too – pens, notebooks, textbooks. (Mum tried her best to get me into the local school, but after two disastrous attempts – both of which traumatised me for weeks – she accepted that normal schooling was out of the question for me, and since then she’s taught me herself at home.)

Most importantly of all, I’ve got all my ‘non-school books’ in here too, the books I just like reading. Two walls of my room are completely taken up with bookshelves, and the shelves are packed solid with thousands of books. I don’t know exactly how many I’ve got, but the last time I counted them – just over a year ago – the total was 1,762.

So that’s it, basically.

That’s my world.

My sanctuary.

My every day and night.

Jenner glanced at his watch again.

It was 12.28.