Chris Curran - Mindsight

His grey eyes were misted and he shook his head as he spoke. ‘But why did you want to take drugs?’

What to say? ‘You know I was adopted, don’t you? Well my mum, your grandma, was ill. Not physically, but she had mental problems that made her depressed and unhappy. So she was often angry with me. It wasn’t her fault, but I didn’t understand that and so I ran away from home and met people who were very bad for me. That’s not an excuse, Tom, and it made things worse not better. Which is what always happens with drugs.’

He leaned back against the tree, arms folded, and looking down at the crumbled soil as he stirred it with the toe of his trainer. The whole wood seemed to have gone silent.

‘But, Tom, this doesn’t mean I don’t want to know exactly what happened that night. So will you give me some time to think about your ideas and to try to remember more?’

I almost said I needed to find out who could have supplied me with the stuff at the reception, but it was better if he didn’t start thinking that way.

He nodded and I gestured with my head that we should start back. Then took a chance and put my arm through his. He tensed at my touch. Careful, careful. ‘You can help me, Tom. Just give me time.’

‘OK.’

Then we walked back together through the cool, silent wood while phantoms from the past played and laughed around us.

Back at the flat, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about Tommy. My mind churned, veering from a kind of happiness to the sort of despair that makes you want to beat your head against a wall. And I did slam over and over into the pillow, pummelling it into a solid lump. I got up twice to use the toilet, then for water and finally to make a mug of tea that sat growing cold beside me as I stared up at the ceiling.

Night is the worst time in prison. That’s when you hear the sobs and the groans, the shouts of, ‘Shut up, you bitch, and let me sleep.’ It’s then you relive and regret, not in the therapy groups with a gentle voice saying you can rebuild your life. It’s your own voice that curses you as a pariah; a leper who would be better off dead.

At first I tried to remember what happened that night; to piece together fragments that came to me, sometimes awake, sometimes in dreams. Some things were constant: the dark road, the grey shadows overhead, the flashing light, but were they memories, or just images patched together from what I’d been told? After a while it didn’t matter because I didn’t want to remember. But now maybe I would have to if that were the only way to help Tom. And if I didn’t know why I’d done it, how could I be sure it wouldn’t happen again? How could I trust myself to be a real mother once more?

Apart from those horrible fragments, my memory of the day ended hours before the accident. Emily and I were close in age and we’d always been good friends. In fact, because of the five years between me and Alice, I’d probably been closer to Emily when we were kids.

Her husband, Matt’s, family owned a farm in Cumbria and the wedding was held there. Alice was a junior doctor in Newcastle, but we lived close to Dad in Kent. Most of the guests were planning to stay at a country house hotel and, when I said Steve and I couldn’t possibly afford a place like that, Dad offered to treat us. I agreed, on condition he let me pay him back by doing all the driving.

I remembered the journey to the church along sunny, twisting lanes edged by glassy streams and brilliant fields. Then, like a TV with a faulty signal, the picture stuttered and disappeared to be replaced by flashes and bursts of noise.

As those images played over and over in my head I wanted only to push them away just as I’d always done over the past few years. But I couldn’t let myself do that any more.

I got up and went into the living room where the card from Emily and Matt was still standing beside the laptop. I switched on, found Emily’s email address in the notebook Alice had left for me, and sent a message. I kept it short, just telling Emily how pleased I was to get her card. I wouldn’t blame her if she was still upset with me, but I’d love to see her. I gave her my home and mobile phone numbers, added three kisses, deleted two, and pressed send before I could change my mind.

Something woke me and I lay confused for a moment. Then a loud buzz came from the direction of the living room. I had no idea what it was and sat up in bed, switching on the light. Nearly 2 a.m. That metallic buzz again. Oh, God, it was my door buzzer. I clutched my dressing gown round me. Whoever it was couldn’t get in; they were outside the big main door, not in the hall. In the living room I stood in the darkness, away from the grey rectangles of light from the windows. Another buzz. It must be one of the other tenants, who’d forgotten their key. On the next buzz I picked up the intercom phone, but didn’t speak.

A rasping cough, then, ‘Come on, open up. I know you’re in there.’

I rammed the phone back on its holder, as if it was on fire, grabbed my mobile, and locked myself in the bathroom. Who could I ring? Certainly not the police, and Alice couldn’t help. Instead, I huddled on the floor, my back against the bath, pulling my dressing gown close. I didn’t dare turn on the light or go back to the bedroom in case he came round to my window.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, longer each time. They seemed to go on forever, but finally fell silent.

Who the hell was it? My case had made the papers, five years ago, mainly because of the recent scandal involving Dad’s firm. During my trial I was presented as a druggie debutante, a spoiled little rich girl, too reckless even to care about her own child, and I’d received plenty of hate mail. What if someone was out to make good those threats? Or maybe a reporter was trying to track me down?

After a while, the silence let me slide back the lock and creep to the bedroom. I switched off the light and shivered under the duvet trying to relax, even to sleep.

But now there was another noise. Not a buzzing this time, but an insistent tap, tap, tap on my own front door.

Somehow he’d got into the hall.

In the living room again, I told myself the door was double-locked and the chain was on. I was safe. And I knew how to look after myself: had to learn that in prison.

The tapping again. ‘Clare, are you there? It’s OK, he’s gone. It’s just me, Nic, from across the hall.’

I put my ear to the door. No sounds of movement or even breathing. I checked the chain and opened the door a crack. Just her, in a shiny blue dressing gown. Behind her the door to her own flat was half-open. She gave me a nervy smile, pulling her fingers through her untidy fair hair.

‘Sorry about all that, Clare, it was my ex. He was so drunk he started ringing the wrong bell. I heard him shouting and realised what he’d done, but I didn’t dare come out till he was gone.’

I leant one shoulder on the wall, trying to speak calmly. ‘Is he dangerous?’

She looked down, kicking the door jamb with her slipper. ‘Oh no, but I didn’t want him waking Molly. And there would only have been an argument.’

I began to close the door, but Nicola held up her hand. ‘Look, I won’t get back to sleep for ages. What about coming over to mine for a drink?’

There was little chance of me sleeping either, but I shook my head. ‘I’ve got work in the morning.’

‘Come on, just one. I’m feeling really jittery. And I owe you one for putting up with him without calling the police.’

I didn’t tell her there was no chance I’d ever do that, but I felt jittery too. It might do me good to relax for a bit and talk to someone who knew nothing about my past. I grabbed my keys from beside the door. ‘OK.’