Chris Curran - Mindsight

The sessions with Mike in prison had shown me how easily it could happen. There were others, like me, who claimed to have been clean for months, or years, but always there was a trigger to send them back to the vodka, the speed or the smack. Ruby’s man came home from wherever he’d been, beat her and gave her heroin to cheer her up. Jo had her kids taken away, and Lillian’s husband left her. They all agreed, though, that torturing yourself over the whys and wherefores was a waste of time.

I’d accepted it then. It seemed to make sense. But I knew now there was no way I could even think about rebuilding my life before I found out why I’d destroyed it.

And I had to show Tom I was taking his theories seriously. Lorna could help me with how Dad had handled the drug scandal, and if there had been any unpleasantness. Matt had worked for the company too, as a chemist, and it was just possible he could shed light on the way the labs worked; might even have known the doctor who wrote the report that caused all the trouble.

My mind was buzzing with so many thoughts I could feel a headache brewing and nothing seemed to make sense anymore. I needed to get out of the flat, to walk until I was tired enough to stop thinking for a while. Long walks were one of the things I missed most when I was inside, and another reason I’d chosen Hastings was because I knew there would be hills to tire me, sea views to soothe me, and long stretches of countryside to exhaust me. It was too late to go far, so a fast tramp up the nearest hill would have to do.

The clouds had lifted again to make a beautiful evening, the sun still high in the sky, the sea calm, and I clamped down on my thoughts and concentrated on putting one foot in front of another. Turning towards the town, I found a convenience store open and bought a phone card, slipped it in with the note for Ruby, and posted it. Then I headed sharp uphill between the jumbled old cottages, along one of the steep cobbled alleyways the locals call twittens.

Before I’d gone far, the alley turned into a flight of almost vertical steps and I was grateful for the handrail, but, all the same, by the time I reached the top my calves were aching and my chest was tight. The climb had left me hot and sticky, but up here a cool breeze blew across the wide stretch of grass, and I was glad to find an empty bench.

To my right was the ruin of William the Conqueror’s castle. Ahead, beyond the grassy cliff-edge, the sea was dotted, even at this hour, with small, dark boats. Coloured lights twinkled over the little funfair and amusement arcades, and a miniature train slid silently along beside the beach. To the left was the other hill, the East Hill, where the wooden carriage of a funicular lift hauled itself to the top. And, huddled between the two hills, the clustered houses, cafés and pubs of the Old Town bustled with activity.

Even up here the grass was heaving with life. A dog bouncing after a stick, a group of teenagers grabbing and squealing at each other, families with children, and a few elderly couples, arms linked as they strolled along. As I watched, a woman left the café that stood near the cliff-edge and began to lock the door, looking back to the road behind her to wave a beefy arm at a passing car.

I was close to them all, but felt as distant as if I was behind glass. Were they all as carefree as they looked? The two girls, one skinny, one plump, their pretty faces contorted as they zigzagged across the grass, taunting a couple of boys; the young couple, her arm round his waist, his hand tucked into the back pocket of her jeans; the little family, Mum with a baby in a buggy, and Dad pushing a little boy over the lumpy grass as he strained pink-faced on a bike with two wobbly trainer wheels.

Did we look like that, not so long ago, Steve and I, with our twins? And were we happy? I had thought so, but now I wasn’t sure. I always told Steve he saved me because I realised I was loveable, despite everything.

I met him shortly after Mum died and I’d cleaned up my act. I was doing a temp job at Dad’s firm, mostly helping Lorna in the office. A few of the guys had slimed round me once they knew who I was, but Steve was different. He was working for Dad, too, as a freelance gardener. I thought he was absolutely gorgeous; tall, blond, and with a kind of gangly grace that turned my insides liquid. I started eating my lunch on a bench outside and one day Steve asked if he could join me. And that was it.

When I became pregnant I thought nothing could make me go back to my old ways: to the drugs or drink. So what happened?

Although I hadn’t been able to stop thinking, the walk and the fresh air had done something positive and I came down almost at a run. I was suddenly very hungry, and giving silent thanks to Alice for stocking the freezer with ready meals. But as I came in sight of the flat I saw a tall man turning away from the front door. I slowed my steps. If it was Nic’s ex I didn’t want to meet him, and even if it was the mysterious upstairs tenant, I wasn’t keen on a conversation right now.

I took out my mobile phone, pretending an interest in it, to avoid looking at him. But he had stopped at the garden gate and was staring along the road at me and after a minute or two I had no option but to raise my eyes.

It was Matt, Emily’s Matt. He looked a little older and rather more solid, but it was unmistakably him.

The shock of seeing him here made me step back and the hedge of the house I was passing pressed into my back. He was coming towards me, his hands outstretched, but all I could do was stare.

‘Clare, I thought I’d missed you.’

His arms were round me, my face pressed into his crisp blue shirt. He was very warm, but smelled only of citrusy aftershave. When he pulled away he held me at arms’ length, nodding and smiling.

‘You look great.’

‘You too.’ It was true. The weight gain suited him and with a tan and designer sunglasses he looked really good. ‘But what are you doing here?’ I cringed at how that sounded, but he laughed, threading his arm through mine and walking us back to the house.

‘Came to see you, of course. And I’ve been hanging about for half an hour, so I hope you’re going to ask me in.’

‘I’m sorry, that sounded awful. I was just so surprised to see you.’

At the front door of the house, he leaned against the wall as I fished out my key. ‘I’ve just come back through the Tunnel – conference in Le Touquet – so I was almost passing,’ he said. ‘Emily phoned to tell me you’d emailed and she’s desperate to know how you are and made me promise to persuade you to come visit us soon.’

It was just as well that, as I let us into the flat, he walked straight into the living room and over to the windows, and he couldn’t see me scrub at my eyes, because if he’d opened his arms to me again, I would probably have sobbed on his chest.

He was looking out of the window, swapping his sunglasses for an ordinary pair as he did so.

‘Hey, nice view. Must make a change from what you’re used to.’

I laughed, ‘You could say that.’

He turned, pulling a face. ‘Sorry, but you know me, not the most tactful of men.’

‘It’s fine, I’d rather keep it out in the open.’ It was true. I certainly didn’t want to talk about prison with strangers, but it was a relief to be with people who knew. And I’d always liked Matt. There was a warmth about him, a sense of reliability that had something to do with his size, but was more about his personality. Now he sprawled on the sofa, seeming to fill the room, and looking more like the Matt I was used to in his dark-rimmed spectacles. I headed for the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

A chuckle. ‘If you don’t mind I’d rather have tea. If I remember right, your coffee is strong enough to stand a spoon in.’