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  Class over, I went down, like I was sinking through the classroom floor, crushed under a dead weight. My head actually rolled forward onto my chest, no support system, no tension in the neck. You can’t hear a thing when this happens except the audio from the flashback. Plus I was concentrating hard this time, trying to find answers – looking at the scene, like I was watching myself but it wasn’t me – yeah, weird, I know.

  I was standing in a park that had a children’s play area, I could see slides and swings. Surrounding the area were big, old trees. There was also a large paddling pool, blue-chipped paint, no water, lots of fallen leaves. No children around either but I couldn’t work out what time of day it was – obviously too early or too late for families. It wasn’t raining.

  I’m standing there, wherever it was, panic burning at the back of my throat, bile almost. Then I remembered one of the sessions I’d had with Mrs Martel. It was almost as though she was standing next to me; talking me through the flashback, somehow I guess she stopped me going into total meltdown.

  What can you see, Lennox? What can you hear? Who is screaming, Lennox? Lennox, who is screaming?

  This was a crime scene and I was a witness. This was a crime scene and I was the defendant or was I the suspect? I had no idea which side I was on.

  Mrs Martel spoke to me in letters. She said PTSD. I said PMSL and, yeah, cracked up laughing. I rocked back and forth in my chair and Mrs Martel waited, expressionless, patiently, until I’d finished appreciating my own joke. Talk about the worst stand-up act ever, I was dying on my feet, she looked as though she was going to start heckling me in a minute, which she sort of did.

  “Do you know what PTSD is?” she asked unsmiling.

  “Yeah, it’s what soldiers get,” I replied, attempting to pull a straight face, “when they come home from a war.”

  “War veterans are commonly at risk from post-traumatic stress disorder but it can also affect anyone who has experienced a traumatic event.”

  I stared at her wondering what she was getting at. Whatever it was, she was serious, deadly serious.

  “So you do understand that it’s not a laughing matter?” she added in a clipped voice, giving me a hard look.

  “I was laughing at PMSL,” I explained defensively. “It’s text message abbreviation for…”

  “I know what it means,” she cut me off.

  I slumped back in the chair sulkily. It was the first moment that we’d not been chilled out during a session. She was usually super relaxed with me, time out on Twitch; she did her thing, caught up on notes whatever, I did mine. A few sessions down the line, the rules of engagement had changed. It seemed as though she was pushing me harder, going in for the kill. Good strategic move: lull someone in, then strike when defences are down.

  Mrs Martel knew her stuff though; those mind-reading abilities she has. “I’m not attacking you, Lennox,” she said, softer now. Advance, retreat. I looked at her warily now, attempting to work out her next move.

  “No, you just want to label me,” I insisted, resorting to one of my tried-and-trusted rules: don’t look lost or ask for directions. I didn’t want her to sign-post the way forward for me. I wanted her to give me some breathing exercises or whatever to relieve the headaches.

  “Why would I want to label you?” she asked puzzled.

  “Makes it easier to do the paperwork?”

  “I think we both know I’m not very good at the paperwork,” she whispered, pulling a face.

  “You know what I mean – ticking boxes, progress chart, targets to meet.” I made an upward curve with my hand. “I don’t blame you – I can’t work me out either.”

  “I’m not interested in ticking boxes, Lennox. I’m interested in helping people.”

  I sat forward in my chair, shoulders relaxed, hands resting on my knees, not folded across my chest in a defensive position. I smiled and shook my head, “Post-traumatic-stress disorder? I’m not that kind of guy, Mrs Martel.”

  The room seemed very quiet all of a sudden. Too quiet – it reminded me that I prefer not to hear myself think.

  “What kind of guy are you?” she asked softly, advancing carefully.

  “I’m chilled, man. I’ve led a charmed life,” I answered honestly. “First-class experience right from the start. It’s all good.”

  Mrs Martel tipped her head to one side. “But you’re here, Lennox. You’re talking to me. Why are you here?”

  “Headaches.”

  “Disturbing, recurring flashbacks,” she corrected.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” I said firmly, watching her scribble: “CHARMED LIFE” in her notebook. Capital letters this time.

  Fake it until you make it.

  Out of the blue, Angie said she wanted me to meet her aunt. Well, that’s not quite the way she phrased it but the intention became clear. I’d walked her home one afternoon after school and she said, “D’you wanna Coke, maybe discuss dot-cross diagrams and ionic bonding?” she nodded in the direction of her front door.

  “Bonding sounds good,” I said, nodding enthusiastically. “I love bonding.”

  She laughed. It didn’t happen very often but when it did, it was worth the wait. It started like a wish escaping from the genie bottle and quickly became a pent-up, infectious, giggling roar.

  “My aunt will be there,” she added as the laugh subsided. She made it sound like a warning without putting it into so many words.

  I held out my arms wide, palms to the clouds. “Best behaviour, promise.”

  “It’s not your behaviour that worries me,” she said, biting down on her bottom lip.

  I tried to help her out. “We can do it another time, maybe when your aunt’s not home? No biggie.”

  “She’ll be home,” replied Angie rolling her eyes. “She’s always home. Unless she’s out shopping.”

  We looked up at the front window and saw someone adjusting the curtains, classic behaviour of someone looking hard while pretending not to look at all.

  “She’s home,” sighed Angie.

  I jumped up the stone steps, held out a hand to pull her up to the door – an excuse to feel her hand in mine.

  “I promise not to crack under interrogation,” I said, still holding her hand.

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” whispered Angie, rocking forward on her toes until our foreheads were almost touching.

  Then the door opened and Louise appeared. She looked straight at me. Her eyes said it all.

  She hated me on sight. I swear that is not an exaggeration, even Angie looked at me like, “What the hell?”

  First up and nearest, I stepped forward, stuck out my hand and said, “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Lowe. Lennox Jones.”

  She actually stepped back, putting a measurable distance between us. So my arm is extended and I’m holding the position, thinking, “How do I exit this move without looking a prize jerk?”

  I knew Angie was embarrassed without even looking at her and this bothered me more than my abandoned hand. To be honest, it more than bothered me; it pissed me off. I inhaled hard, good breathing technique – calms you down, sets you up. I think we all heard the oxygen getting sucked down into my lungs – that’s what an awkward silence does in a room. Good acoustics. Bad omen.

  “Louise was saying how much she wanted to meet you,” said Angie, talking to me but staring at her aunt. No prizes for guessing that there had been two sides to that conversation. Me in the dark; these two staring each other out.

  This Louise still hadn’t said a word. She broke Angie’s accusing stare and turned to face me again, eyes determinedly narrowed.

  I’m not quick to judge or easily intimidated but this woman was, well, weird. She was a good bit shorter than Angie, soft around the edges, expensive clothes, stage make-up, bling biting the into soft, white flesh around her neck and on her fingers.

  Her lips were pulled into a thin, disapproving line as though she couldn’t trust herself to speak. I looked down at her feet, high heels,
tight straps zig-zagging over the fleshier parts of her feet and around solid ankles.

  I looked up. She looked at Angie. I cleared my throat.

  “Coke?” asked Angie, smiling at me, which helped to defrost the tension in the room.

  I nodded. “Yes, please.” This was definitely the moment to remember your manners.

  Angie was beautiful. I stared at Louise and, nope, couldn’t see a family resemblance.

  “We’ve got chemistry to go over,” Angie informed Louise, striding over to the fridge. “We’ll go to my room.”

  “No. I don’t think so,” replied Louise looking at me, as though I was the one who made the suggestion. She’d made an excellent job of sullying an innocent situation.

  “It wasn’t a question,” said Angie, walking in front of her aunt to hand me a Coke. “Glass?”

  I shook my head.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Louise, suddenly stepping towards me.

  I looked at Angie. My eyebrows lifted. Trick question?

  Angie looked at me, puzzled expression, obviously none the wiser, like me.

  I started shifting from foot to foot, transference of energy. I knew it made me look edgy; up to no good, which didn’t help to calm the situation. I couldn’t help it. I’m jumping about like a frog and this woman is standing like a statue in front of me. Let’s just say the body language between us was not good.

  “I invited him,” snapped Angie beginning to lose patience. Join the club.

  “I’ll come back another time,” I said with a shrug, picking up my bag, “when it’s more convenient.” I tried to keep my voice neutral but, yeah, the sarcasm came over loud and clear.

  “No, stay,” ordered Angie. The sound of her voice was so insistent, I felt as though I was at dog-obedience training. I didn’t like it. I raised an eyebrow. Maybe this wasn’t the moment to remember your manners.

  “Please,” she added, aware that I wasn’t impressed.

  Louise shook her head, chandelier-like earrings quivering, catching the light and flashing a warning.

  “He wants to go,” she said.

  “No, he doesn’t,” answered Angie incredulously. “He’s just got here.”

  “You’re right,” I said, moving closer to stand next to Angie. “I just got here.”

  I had planned to walk out and defuse the situation but Louise had pushed it too far. I can understand someone being over-protective but Louise didn’t look like she wanted to protect her niece.

  She looked like someone who wanted to protect herself.

  12

  Lennox: more

  We made it to Angie’s room, no trip-wires across the corridor to sabotage the mission. Louise still stared after us both, but zoning in on me, fist-clenched furious. Two against one, she realised she was out-numbered. Merlot-red lipstick had bled into the corners of her mouth, which left a lasting impression on me. I could imagine her sucking blood, not for survival, just for the hell of it.

  I gave her a defiant grin before disappearing through the bedroom door. “Nice to meet you, Mrs Lowe.”

  She pursed up her mouth and for a moment I thought she was going to spit on the carpet. As introductions go, it wasn’t the best.

  Angie gently shut the bedroom door behind us and leaned against it; lock, stock and barrier.

  “Shoulda brought a gift.” I deadpanned. “I think I underwhelmed her.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Angie, sliding down the door until she landed on the carpet. “No gift could have prevented what just happened out there.”

  “You may be right. Not sure roses would have survived in that atmosphere.”

  I kept the tone playful in an attempt to lighten up Angie’s mood. She still looked furious, mortified, and who could blame her? Compare today’s experience to her meeting the Joneses for the first time – it couldn’t have been more different.

  I couldn’t really work out what just had happened. I’m not totally difficult to like; “Bring the happy to the party” and all that.

  I guessed Angie wanted to move on and forget it ever happened. As you would. I should have let it go. I tried. I couldn’t let it go.

  I hunkered down in front of Angie, sitting back on my heels, so I was eyeball level with her. “She asked me what I was doing here. Like she thought I was trouble. What was that all about?”

  Angie shrugged, looking somewhere over my shoulder instead of directly at me. “She’s paranoid. Weird around new people. Trust no one. That sort of thing. Forget about it.”

  “I dunno. Seemed more than trust issues to me. I wasn’t feeling the love.”

  Angie rubbed knuckles into her eyes; she looked exhausted. “Like I said, just forget about it.”

  I didn’t miss the tension in her voice. I knew I was pushing it but sometimes I didn’t know when to stop.

  “What did you tell her about me?”

  Angie brought her gaze level with mine, black mascara smudged under her eyes, no discernible iris or pupil. It made her look fragile, frightening almost. “Drop it, Lennox. Move on. Please.”

  “I would never hurt you,” I whispered, gently picking up a strand of her hair and tucking it behind her ear. She was more accessible without the baseball cap.

  “I would never let you,” she answered in the lightest, quietest voice. She placed her hands over her chest. “Bullet proof.”

  I caught a breath, lightheaded. I remember feeling reassured that I was close to the ground, less height, less pain on impact, less mess. Then, just like that, I decided I was going to fight back or die trying. I wouldn’t go back to that place, that park, the watching trees, the shrill screams and the sharp crack of the gunshots. I struggled to keep my eyes open. She reached out and brushed her fingers over my flickering eyelids. She touched the bridge of my broken nose and then traced a line down to my lips. The next thing I knew, she was kissing me. The lightest kiss, the deepest water. She brought me back from the edge. This time, just in time, she saved me. A.A.

  London became a happier place in the sunshine but it didn’t touch me at all. In fact, I was becoming angrier. Less blue sky, more bullet sky. I was becoming more impatient; close to cracking my own skull open to get at the answers. I couldn’t stand the suffocatingly concerned looks that flashed between my mother and father. Fortunately, my sisters ignored me, at school and at home. It was a mutually beneficial agreement.

  I found that I could keep it together in the classroom – fangirls and friendbots, as Angie would call them, were a constant distraction, like an audience needing constant updates and entertainment. I was just “Jones” to them. Surfer, boxer, smiler, boarder, character. No one questioned these credentials. Back home in San Francisco, I was ”Mavericks”, fast and fearless, looking down a barrel. Here in London I was Lennox Jones and I was beginning to realise that I had no idea who he was.

  This time I had no need for gaming when I visited Mrs Martel. I had a suggestion instead.

  “I think painkillers might be a good idea,” I said as I walked into the room, talking before I even sat down.

  “Hello, Lennox,” she said, walking around the edge of her desk, hands pointing in the direction of the chair. She did this; it was her welcome each time – showing me where to go even though I could get there blindfolded. To be fair, it was a chair that deserved an introduction each time – a deep two-seater with a curved back to create a comfortable enclosure. Not an average piece of furniture; then again, not an average situation.

  “Something to take when I get a warning sign,” I continued.

  “I thought you had a paracetamol-resistant problem?”

  “I do, I was thinking maybe something stronger, something a bit more kick-ass?”

  Mrs Martel nodded. “Talk me through the warning signs.”

  I sighed. I’d rather cut to the chase: signature on a prescription, please.

  “Pain here.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Pressure here.” I tapped my temples.

  “This happens before the flashb
acks?”

  I nodded. “Each and every time.”

  This time she nodded. “Warning signs are a good sign – an indication of danger ahead. It means you will never be blindsided.”

  I automatically thought Stateside signs, warning signs, danger signs. Diamond shapes and triangles, speed caution, bends in the road, slippery when wet, these all flashed through my mind. Then I went more generic, more universal, more, let's say, appropriate for my mindset: a lightning strike. Danger, high voltage. Risk of death.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Mrs Martel.

  “Road signs, warning signs,” I replied without blinking. “And prescriptions.”

  “You think an opioid is the answer?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, if it reduces the perception of pain. I know my molecular structures.”

  “You don’t have headaches, Lennox. You have disturbing flashbacks. The headaches don’t cause the flashbacks; the headaches are stress-related symptoms induced by the flashbacks.”

  “Does it matter how or why?” I smiled to reassure her that I was being serious and sensible. “I just want to get on with my life. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t be given something to eliminate the pain.”

  “Tolerance,” she replied without missing a beat.

  I should have known she’d have an answer. We sat in silence for a second.

  “Tolerance?” I prompted for more information, still confident I could talk her round.

  “Dose-response curve.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We adapt. Our bodies begin to demand more of the same drug to have the required effect. Meaning you would need to increase your dosage over time in order to tackle the same level of pain.”

  “Everyone’s tolerance is different, right?” I replied, still trying to talk her round, get her to see it my way.