A Note of Madness (10 page)

He gave her a long look, wishing he could see into her mind. Was it possible that she knew? Was it possible that she understood?

‘Sometimes I just wish I could fast-forward the next three years until we graduate,’ she went on. ‘It seems like we’ve got so much to do between now and then.’

Flynn managed a small laugh. ‘Sometimes I wish I
had a double who I could send out to do all the tough stuff – you know, the exams and the socializing and the concerts . . .’

‘Yes, while I stay in bed reading a good book!’ Jennah laughed and nodded. Then she sobered. ‘But why the socializing?’ she asked suddenly.

He looked at her. ‘What?’

‘You said socializing was part of the tough stuff. But isn’t that supposed to be fun?’

Flynn pulled a face. ‘Yeah, yeah, I just meant . . .’ He tailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

‘But sometimes you’re so social! When we were inter-railing last summer you always wanted to go out at night and practise your French on complete strangers.’

Flynn pulled an embarrassed face at the memory.

‘But somehow I can’t imagine you doing that now.’

There was a silence. Flynn looked down to the ground.

‘Harry said you were having a tough time,’ Jennah said quietly.

Flynn’s head jerked upwards. ‘What? What else did Harry say?’

She looked at him, slightly startled. ‘Nothing. Just that.’

‘Oh.’ He rubbed his eyes wearily and stared back down at the damp earth. He hadn’t told Harry about the trip to the psychiatrist’s office. But Harry wasn’t stupid. And there was three months’ supply of green and white capsules on the floor by his bed.

‘Sometimes I feel like there are two Flynns,’ Jennah said with a small laugh. ‘One who goes up and talks to strangers, who spends all night composing and goes jogging in the middle of the night. And one who’s – who’s really quiet and introverted and kind of, well, unhappy.’ Her face was serious suddenly.

Flynn forced a laugh. ‘So I guess I should just decide which one is the real me.’

Jennah didn’t smile. ‘Maybe neither is the real you. Maybe the real you is in hiding.’

He looked at her, surprised. ‘Sometimes that’s what it feels like. Sometimes, when I catch sight of myself in the mirror, for a second – for a split second – I feel like I don’t know who I am. I mean, I recognize myself, but it’s like it’s somebody else disguised as me—’ He broke off, embarrassed.

‘Kind of like if you stare at your eyes in the mirror for long enough you stop recognizing yourself?’

‘Yeah. Exactly like that. Except it’s all the time.’

Harry pulled off Flynn’s headphones just as he was getting the hang of the middle section.

‘Oi!’ He continued resolutely to the end of the piece, despite no longer being able to hear what he was playing.

‘It’s for you,’ Harry said.

‘Not now!’ Flynn snapped. ‘I’m just getting this.’

Harry shook his head and returned to his laptop, the receiver dangling expectantly from the wall.

Flynn gave his keyboard a thump in frustration and stood up. His concentration was all over the place this evening. Unwanted thoughts kept intruding. Jennah’s smile. Jennah’s green eyes flecked with gold. Jennah breaking up with Charlie. Jennah liking someone else . . .

‘Hi.’ It was Rami. ‘How are you doing?’

‘OK,’ he replied guardedly.

‘Harry told me you were practising like crazy. I gather you’ve got something big coming up.’

‘Nothing big,’ he replied quickly. ‘Just a recital.’

‘Oh.’ Rami did not sound convinced. ‘Am I invited?’

‘I don’t know!’ he snapped suddenly. ‘I don’t even know if I’m going ahead with it!’

‘OK, OK,’ Rami said quickly. ‘Keep your hair on. Since interrupting your practice is surprisingly similar to disturbing a mating lion, I’ll be brief. I was ringing to check you hadn’t forgotten Dad’s birthday this weekend.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Liar. I’m driving down on Friday and coming back on Sunday. Sophie’s on shift all weekend. Do you want a lift?’

‘Do I have to?’

‘Mum’s expecting you. She’s already complaining that you haven’t called for two weeks.’

Flynn let out his breath in a painful sigh. A weekend at home was not what he needed right now. ‘I’ll have to take my keyboard.’

‘Why? The old piano’s still in good nick.’

‘They go to bed at ten now! I can’t practise then.’

‘Flynn, it’s one weekend! You can’t practise the whole time – Mum’s already worried about you.’

‘Then I’m not coming.’

‘Fine, fine. Bring your keyboard. We’ll put the back seats down.’

Friday evening arrived, clear and bright. Rami came by at six. He was lowering the back seats as Flynn emerged, rucksack on shoulder and keyboard under arm. Rami pulled a long-suffering face as he helped Flynn manoeuvre it across the flattened back seats.

‘Hey, you.’ He slammed the boot, slinging an arm round Flynn’s shoulders.

‘Can I drive?’ Flynn asked him.

‘No, you look tired.’

‘I’m fine!’

‘You’re on anti-depressants. Your reactions may have slowed down. You shouldn’t—’

‘Oh, stop being such a pain!’ Flynn snatched the keys from his brother’s hand.

Rami hesitated, as if wondering whether it was worth having an argument about. Flynn jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. With a small sigh of resignation, Rami got inside.

Flynn felt himself beginning to relax as they finally left the worst of the London traffic behind them and
accelerated down the motorway. He had been feeling on edge all afternoon, whether from the prospect of returning home for the weekend or just from lack of sleep, he couldn’t tell, but he was grateful to Rami for letting him drive. The concentration took some of the tingling out of his muscles, some of the edginess out of his limbs. Nonetheless, Rami remarked on his finger-tapping as Flynn found himself drumming out the melody of the Rach Three against the steering wheel whenever they slowed. The bright evening sunshine bounced off the bonnet and warmed his face with its soft rays, and Puccini played at full volume on the stereo.

‘Dario says you’re always welcome to go back and see him, if ever you change your mind,’ Rami began after a while, reaching forwards to turn down the volume.

Flynn pretended to be concentrating on the road ahead.

‘It’s completely up to you,’ Rami went on lightly. ‘If you’re OK now then that’s great.’

‘I
am
OK,’ Flynn said.

‘Good.’ There was a silence. ‘You look pretty shattered, though,’ Rami added.

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘So I gathered. I hear that practice now takes up a large portion of the night.’

Flynn let out a long-suffering sigh. Meddling Harry again.

‘Are you still taking the tablets?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you need me to write you out another prescription?’

‘No.’

‘Let me know when you do.’

The M25 traffic dropped to below forty yet again. Irritated, Flynn swerved into the inside lane.

‘You want to check your mirror before you pull across like that,’ Rami said instantly.

‘Don’t tell me how to drive.’

‘You’re way too close to the car in front.’

‘That’s because he’s too bloody slow!’ Flynn snapped.

‘He’s in a queue of traffic,’ Rami retorted.

Flynn slammed on the brakes.

‘See!’ Rami exclaimed triumphantly. ‘You nearly went into the back of him.’

‘I did not!’

‘Let’s not argue. You’re getting tired. Why don’t we swap places?’

‘I’m not tired,’ Flynn muttered, searching for a gap in the middle lane, which was now moving more swiftly than the left-hand one. He spotted an opening and dived into it. Several cars honked irritably.

‘Pull over and swap places with me.’ Rami was trying to keep his voice light.

Flynn set his jaw and pulled out again as the pace began to pick up. He floored the accelerator as they came out of the speed-restriction zone.

‘You’re going to get us pulled over,’ Rami said after a few moments.

Flynn kept his foot down.

‘This car doesn’t like doing over ninety.’ Rami sounded tense.

Flynn didn’t let up.

‘Pull over, Flynn.’

He didn’t reply.

‘Flynn, pull over!’ Rami shouted suddenly. ‘You’re driving like a bloody maniac!’ There was an edge of fear to his voice that gave Flynn a jolt. Rami was normally the calm one, the cool one. Rami didn’t panic. Flynn cut across two lanes and braked roughly on the hard shoulder.

‘Get back in the car – you’re going to get yourself killed.’ Rami’s grip on his arm was firm, trying to force him round.

Flynn climbed over the crash barrier and headed up the grass verge. Rami followed him, still gripping him. Flynn tore with his teeth at his fingernail, struggling to hold back tears.

‘Come on,’ Rami urged him, his voice rising. ‘Get back in the car!’

Flynn wanted to punch him. ‘I’m not going.’ Finger in his mouth, he tasted blood.

Rami’s voice left little room for argument. ‘Yes, you are. You certainly can’t stay here.’

Numbly, Flynn got into the passenger seat, vision
blurring with unfallen tears as Rami started the engine, waiting an age before pulling back out. He said nothing for a while. Only a small muscle twitching in his cheek betrayed his apparent calm.

Flynn felt himself begin to shake. He had wanted to flatten all the stupid, slow cars ahead of him, had wanted to hurl the car off the road and smash his own stupid self through the windscreen. He could have killed them both. And yet the restless unease was still there. He hadn’t got rid of it through driving, couldn’t get rid of it whatever he did. It clung to him, an invisible cloak of agitation and self-destruction that sent acid fury shooting through his veins. He wanted to shake himself like a wet dog, run for miles until he couldn’t go a step further, find an escape from this horrifyingly persistent agitation that rendered impossible even the most basic of tasks. There was fire burning through him, creating an overpowering urge to scream, kick, yell. He looked over at Rami and thought how satisfying it would be to punch his stupid, calm face. Rami, his brother. Rami, who was just trying to drive them both back home without getting them killed. Flynn clamped a hand over his eyes, breathing hard.

‘Flynn, just talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.’ Rami’s voice cut through the motorway’s drone.

He couldn’t talk without wanting to shout. Couldn’t move without lashing out.

‘Is this about going home? Do you want me to head back?’ Rami’s voice again, softly desperate.

Flynn fought to keep his voice steady. ‘I can’t sit still any longer.’

‘You need a breather – we both do. I’ll pull over at the next service station.’

Rami bought a packet of cigarettes when they got out. Flynn was shocked. He had not seen his brother smoke for over three years. Rami lit up, giving Flynn a little grin. ‘Don’t tell Sophie.’

He inhaled deeply a few times and then handed the cigarette to Flynn, who took it gratefully. They sat at a picnic table under the darkening sky, passing the cigarette between each other like a pair of teenage delinquents.

‘Medicinal purposes.’ Rami gave a wry grin and then caught sight of Flynn’s bloodied finger. His smile faded.

Flynn dragged heavily on the cigarette, wishing his hands would stop shaking.

‘Do you want me to give you some Valium?’

Flynn shook his head, stubbed out the cigarette and reached for another. Rami did not attempt to stop him.

They got back into the car a little while later. Rami did not ask him any more questions. ‘If you need me to pull over again, let me know,’ was all he said.

RUCKEN COTTAGE WAS
beginning to show its age. It wasn’t a cottage really but a two-storey house with creaky stairs, threadbare carpets and a chipped, dark-wood banister. The bare, yellowing front with its four perfectly symmetrical windows resembled a child’s drawing, although the white frames and sills were cracked and peeling. Some of the glass panelling had come off the front door and the red had faded to a russet brown.

The garden that surrounded the house looked neater every time Flynn came home, though, and the clipped, bright green lawn was bordered by a row of carefully planted pansies and primroses running down each side. The old shed now housed a lawn mower instead of the bikes that they had once used to race in circles around the house, flattening everything in their wake, to the staccato accompaniment of their mother’s angry knuckles on the kitchen window. The old tyre still hung from the cherry tree at the back, however. Their father had hung it so high off the ground that for ages Flynn was unable to reach it without help, but aged ten he had been able to swing upside down on it, hanging
from one leg. The old picnic table was still there, the focus of many a summer birthday or barbecue, the grey wood now half rotting from the elements. As Flynn sat down, it gave a complaining creak. He remembered climbing onto it one hot summer’s day in an attempt to escape Rami and the hose. One of his mother’s favourite old Italian songs had been on the record player, and he had danced about as the water fell through the sunlight, showering him with gold.

The back door opened slowly with a familiar squeak. Rami was no doubt going to complain that he had left him to unload the car. But it was his mother, in her apron as usual, her grey hair pinned up in a tidy bun.

‘
Hei, kulta
,’ she greeted him. ‘How lovely to see you!’

He grinned but, as he hugged her, felt his throat tighten. ‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Goodness me! You’re thinner than ever and your hair has grown since Christmas! Look at those shadows under your eyes. Are you boys eating properly in that bedsit?’

‘It’s not a bedsit,’ Flynn replied automatically. ‘How are you, Mum?’

‘Oh, I’m all right. The heating broke down last week and it took them five days to repair it. Can you believe it? I had to sit for hours on the end of the phone just to get somebody to talk to me. Mrs Coats lent us her blow heater and electric heater, bless her. Do you remember Mrs Coats? When you were little, she used to give you
lollies to cheer you up when she saw me dragging you to school.’