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  I know the technical stuff hands down but struggle more with understanding the emotional side. Firsthand experience tells me that the loss of both parents will break a heart completely but, incredibly, further breakage can still be induced. For example, no stories or kisses at bedtime, break. Best friend ignores you, break, break. Lennox Jones disappears, break, break, break.

  15

  Lennox: tolerance

  It got to a point that the headaches were becoming so bad I began to think an optician may be the answer not a therapist. I once surfed with a guy who had suffered a detached retina when he wiped out one time. We’re talking a major medical emergency when his retina peeled away from the back of his eye, like damp wallpaper off the wall. I was in that place now; blurred vision. Couldn’t stand the pain. I needed to take action with a little chemical help from an opioid, for example. I was confident that I could handle it but Mrs Martel was worried that once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. Frustrated, furious, fractured… all the Fs under the sun, that’s what I was feeling. Mrs Martel didn’t seem to grasp the seriousness of the situation. I shouted, “Swap places and let’s talk it forward.” She gave me one of those looks that said a thousand words.

  “Yeah,” I said, “didn’t think so.”

  Then I caught a break or, more like, caught up on some sleep, which made all the difference. I swear Angie made a difference too. She calmed me down, picked me up. Mrs Martel tried to discourage the relationship, obviously, based on the assumption that I would become dependent on Angie; like I had some kind of sobriety issues. Maybe an addictive, obsessive personality defect. I joked that life was all about risks and pushing it to the limits: catch a wave or die trying.

  Saying that, I’m not sure I’d pass any of those informal tests to determine whether I was on the level or not whenever I was around Angie. The one-leg stand test or a walk-and-turn test might prove a challenge: the enthusiasm I had for her made me turn somersaults not walk the line. I did regain balance and composure on the skateboard though. This was definitely to my advantage. There’s nothing like a full rotation to impress the ladies. It sure seemed to work with Angie.

  But, at heart, I’m waves not concrete. I’ll take the ocean over the sidewalk each time. True, I wasn’t quick to pick up the wheels in London; skateboarding seemed more pre-school than old-school to me: kids falling down. I’d become used to riding with giants; pros and legends.

  Angie turned my head in more than one way. First of all she had passion – she clearly put her heart and soul into the ride, which made it look more interesting to me. It was obvious that she craved it, which made it more desirable to me: I wanted what she was having. Secondly, she hung around with some smart riders who were giants themselves, including none other than superstuntman Rob Lee. He had landed an insane sponsorship riding on the back of an awesome 360-degree flip. He’d also been behind the big push to get skateboarding into the Olympics. He wasn’t a pushover wannabe he was a champion on the scene. I didn’t need much more convincing to get out there; hit the ground running.

  It was a major breakthrough with Angie. I brought my board along one afternoon and just went for it. It had been years since I’d put in turns like that but it came back to me; like I’d never been gone. I knew she was watching me; those bonfire-bright eyes taking in all the moves. It gave me an instant high. I put in a turn right at her feet and she didn’t flinch, she moved closer. I got off the board and we stood facing each other. Then she reached out, carefully placed her hands on each side of my face, like she was holding someone who’d fracture under pressure.

  I remember thinking, right at that moment, I might need a higher dose of this someone to treat the pain. This is called tolerance.

  I was under the impression that I could never be blindsided by my flashbacks. Mrs Martel had as good as told me this. The warning signs are a good sign, she’d reassured me. Pressure at my temples, an ache across the top of my nose; physical signs that were supposed to flag up danger around the corner. Without these signs, I’d continue at high speed, approach the bend too fast, crash and burn. Down and out. I got the message.

  I’d skipped more than one session with Mrs Martel, which landed me in deep shitz with the head teacher. I was summoned and he seized this moment as an opportunity to preach about values, respect and consideration. He also informed me that I was being inconsiderate, arrogant and selfish when I didn’t bother to turn up at a counselling session without prior cancellation.

  “Just as well I don’t have issues about self-esteem,” I joked.

  He didn’t find this amusing. In the slightest.

  No headaches, new me. More Angie, better me. We started to shut out the world around us, even Vivienne Lee was getting edged out. I didn’t force this, it just happened. Like it was meant to be. It wasn’t the smoothest of transitions though. I heard the two of them, Angie and Vivienne, screaming at each other one time; hell, the whole school did. I seemed to be at the centre of the girl fight but it’s not like I was going to lose sleep over it. I can take the heat, the attention. I’m not so good at taking rejection. Angie wanted me, that’s all I wanted to know. That’s all I needed to know.

  No one likes to use the word “desperate” when summing up their situation but I did experience withdrawal symptoms when Angie wasn’t around. I remember kissing her at the skate park one time and I might as well have been executing a backflip on a board. Clichéd, yeah. True, without a doubt. We had made a connection, a formation that was powerful and exclusive. Thank you London.

  Everything was cool, life was looking good. Until my disenchanted evening. It happened like this. Angie and I had been hanging out. We’d said our goodbyes but when we went our separate ways, I was hit by such an empty feeling, a loss. There was no other word for it but desperation. I hit such a low, it blindsided me. No warning sign, no headache, no chance to reduce speed. I took the bend way too fast, it brought me down to my knees and beyond: I heard nothing except the sound of my own head hitting the sidewalk. Then I heard a voice.

  “You alright, mate?”

  I was rolled over. Then I was on my side looking at the world from a new perspective: street drainage, car tyres and ankles.

  “Can you hear me?” The voice persisted.

  I could see bright sneakers in front of my face. Someone hunched down next to me, low centre of gravity, a hand on my heart, not to reassure me but to check for a beat. I was still breathing. No mouth-to-mouth resuscitation required.

  Hell, my head hurt. Different from the usual headaches, this was a sledgehammer beating a rhythm inside my head, courtesy of the hit when I’d gone down. Blunt-force trauma, paving-stone as a lethal weapon. That’s what happens when you don’t use your hands to break a fall. Better to get a broken wrist than a broken head.

  Sneakers guy covered me with a striped sweater and then called an ambulance. He waited with me, talking non-stop, repeating instructions, questions, words slowly becoming phrases, such as: don’t move; lie still, can you tell me your name; what happened; won’t be long; hang in there. The words fell into the natural rhythm of my shallow breathing until I inhaled exhaust fumes from the ambulance that had pulled up right next to my nose. Then the person, his sneakers, sweater and reassuring words were all gone. Wool was swiftly swapped for a foil blanket. There was no time for thank yous or goodbyes.

  I ended up in ER or A&E as it’s called here in the UK. I was kept in overnight for “observation”. My mother and father arrived and both refused to leave the building again until I was declared well enough to leave with them. That’s dedication for you.

  I told them, parents, nurses, doctors that I came off my board. It was believable. It was enough when you needed a credible explanation other than the truth.

  I made the decision not to tell Angie about the incident. Some things, I have discovered, are better left unsaid.

  I had the weekend to rebuild, hidden away under the cover of the black-out blind darkness in my room. I didn’t return any mes
sages, I didn’t surface at all until Monday morning in time to get back at school.

  Mrs Martel obviously didn’t hold grudges. She must have known that I would come back in the end. What’s more, she took me back without reminding me, like some might have rejoiced in doing, that I was inconsiderate, arrogant and selfish.

  I turned up without an appointment, she cancelled a meeting. I must have looked like someone who couldn’t hang around to be saved.

  “What do you remember?” she asked, looking at the cut across my forehead. She wasn’t interested in a credible excuse. We didn’t even waste time with hello.

  I wanted to tell her that I remembered everything but instead I blurted out, “The kiss.”

  “Someone?” She asked, alluding to our previous conversation.

  I nodded.

  “What’s her name?” She asked.

  This threw me off balance, took me back to ground level, sneakers, good Samaritan, me on the street. Flashback: “Can you tell me your name?

  The weird thing was, I remember lying there thinking, I should know this. I should know the answer. This isn’t a trick question.

  “Lennox?” prompted Mrs Martel.

  Yes, “Lennox” existed, as, like, the front man. There was also “Jones” – London geezer, new addition to the group. Before Jones I was “Mavericks” in a surf world, deep down in the sea where I could never drown. I guess when you have different names like I did, you can drift. It becomes that much harder to work out who you really were.

  Mrs Martel gave up on names and cut to the action. “The kiss?”

  Ah, the kiss. The cure. The answer. The catalyst.

  “Her name is Angie Anderson,” I said, holding the moment as I matched the name to the face. I remember I told her that she was beautiful but wasn’t sure she believed me.

  “You remember a kiss with Angie?” Mrs Martel encouraged me to continue.

  I would have preferred to have stayed in the moment but I knew I didn’t have time on my side.

  I nodded, the euphoria fading to a bleak finish.

  “Do you remember how you cut your head?”

  I looked down, focusing on my shoes, remembering that feeling of desperation when Angie and I went our separate ways. Then, without a moment’s pause, I wasn’t sprawled in the street any more, I was in a park surrounded by watching trees. I looked around at the swings and the climbing frame, red structure, spongy rubber surfacing on the ground to soften crash landings when children fell down. There was a shallow, empty paddling pool painted ocean blue to add shimmer even when it wasn’t filled with water. I’d been here before when splashing and excited screams filled the air.

  This time, however, the screams that filled the air, that filled my ears, were full of terror. I was looking straight at a woman who stared back into my world with desperate, pleading eyes. Her screams tore at the shroud of silence and alerted me to a critical situation: someone was not getting out of here alive.

  Mrs Martel was standing next to me. “Who is screaming?” she asked in the softest voice. I had to strain to pick up the words.

  I thought this was pretty obvious considering the woman in question was standing right in front of us, no more than an arms-length away.

  “She is,” I said, pointing at the woman.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She’s scared,” I whispered, feeling my mouth go numb. “She’s terrified.”

  Mrs Martel paused as we re-visited the scene. I really wanted to get us out of there before someone got hurt. “We should go now, before…” I said, backing off.

  “Wait,” insisted Mrs Martel. “We can’t just leave her.”

  “You don’t understand,” I hissed. “We shouldn’t even be here.”

  Mrs Martel stood her ground. “Why is she so frightened?”

  “Wouldn’t you be,” I snapped, “if someone was pointing a gun straight at you?”

  It is impossible to think straight when someone is screaming at you; it sends you into an altered state, pushes the panic button and derails decision-making. If she’d just stop screaming for, just a second, I could plan the next move, scope the exits. I didn’t catch a break because the exact opposite happened. He started shouting his head off, flapping his arms desperately, crazily, as though he was just about to take flight, escape, upwards, onwards, anywhere but here.

  “She has someone else with her?” Mrs Martel zoned in on this new information.

  “Him,” I pointed. I was becoming agitated now. “The guy standing right next to her. Her husband, boyfriend, whatever.”

  Gut instinct, survival instinct, whatever, I just knew we definitely needed to get out of there. Someone was about to get seriously hurt.

  We weren’t fast enough.

  The gunshot was so loud, ringing out, then bouncing back from the trees. Everyone was screaming now including me. The noise struck me, then a close-range explosion ripped right into me. I could feel pain hurtling into my eardrums and bursting through the inner wall. I flung my arms over my head in an attempt to minimise the damage.

  There was an abrupt imbalance of sound: the gunfire still echoed but the screaming stopped.

  “Is she okay?” asked Mrs Martel.

  “What do you think?” I answered bleakly, incredulously, in a whisper that was barely audible above the sound of my tortured breathing. I felt cold and detached as though there was blood running out of me, too. “There’s a bullet in her head.”

  The man, unlike Mrs Martel, didn’t need to ask any questions. It was perfectly obvious what had happened. He stopped shouting, froze, looking down at the woman, the mother of his child, looking as though he’d taken up ghost form. I could almost see right through him.

  He couldn’t take to the skies, he wasn’t going to run either. The expression on his face told me that he’d decided to go down like a soldier, accepting his violent, abrupt and brutal finish. True enough, he stood his ground, his eyes to the ground. Another gunshot rang out, louder in the scream-free silence. He never looked up, he just went down without a sound.

  I watched it all. I now know that this is true – opioids do not know how to control or contain fear.

  16

  Lennox: spontaneous

  I was back on the street, down and out as a result of the flashback. Fast-forward to Mrs Martel’s office, re-experiencing the flashback, hardly back on my feet but no medical intervention needed. No escape for the wicked.

  Mrs Martel, not in the park, but across the desk from me, was writing in her notebook. She had survived the experience too.

  “Persistently recurring flashbacks are linked to trauma,” she said, pen poised.

  “I had no warning. I don’t know what happened,” I explained. This was the truth.

  “You blacked out…” she paused slightly and added, “it’s a coping mechanism.”

  “I told the doctors I came off my board.”

  Mrs Martel nodded, unfazed by the lie. “Concussion?”

  “The hospital kept me in overnight for observation but they let me go home next day.”

  “Do you have a follow-up appointment?”

  I shrugged, half-attempting a light-hearted answer. “Not unless I crack my head open again.”

  We looked at each other. No words necessary for just one brief moment. We had visited the crime scene. We had survived to tell the tale. We shared a silence.

  “The woman. Who was she?” asked Mrs Martel. “And him?”

  “I don’t know their names or I maybe I just can’t remember but I recognised them. I’d met them before, more than once.”

  “More than once?”

  I nodded.

  “What happened next?”

  “I’m cold,” I said.

  Mrs Martel got up and shut the window but I quickly told her that’s not what I meant.

  “No, there in the park. You asked what happened next. Well, I feel so cold. I’m freezing.”

  “Shock,” said Mrs Martel. “There’s not enough blood
circulating around the body. It’s like a physical shutdown.”

  I could believe that. I was shutting down; it seemed the safer option. I’d seen two people lost, killed, murdered. There was no sugar-coating the truth.

  Mrs Martel did not seem as sickened as I was. Perhaps this was part of the job description: no emotion no matter what the confession.

  I was surprised that she wasn’t more shocked. Two people had been shot at pointblank range in front of me, in front of us. And she was still asking questions.

  “What happened next?” Mrs Martel’s intonation was almost casual, light.

  I rubbed my hands together for warmth.

  When I didn’t answer she put another question to me. “Did you call the police, Lennox?”

  “Why the hell would I call the police?” I shouted.

  She jumped. I apologised.

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  Four questions in quick succession and no one had the answers.

  The air in the room threatened to choke me and I needed an open window, an escape route, an exit.

  Two people were lying at my feet, choking on their own blood, their last breath leaving their bodies, and all I know for certain is that I definitely did not call the police.

  No one paid attention to the clock. Mrs Martel usually called time the second a session was over but, right now, that would be like leaving me hanging over the edge of the cliff with nowhere to go but down. She had pushed me over, now she had a responsibility to haul me back up to safer ground, which meant I had to start answering questions if I wanted to get out of this room alive.