Sluggishly, Flynn’s mind returned to the alcohol and the pills, the golden sunlight and the unbearable pain of being. ‘What time is it?’ he slurred.
‘Just gone one,’ Harry retorted. ‘In the afternoon. What’s wrong with you?’ His voice was high-pitched in disbelief, or perhaps it was disgust. He looked odd and flushed.
‘I had a headache,’ Flynn lied easily.
‘So you drank half a bottle of whisky?’
Flynn groaned. ‘I don’t remember. I’m going to bed.’
He moved to get up but Harry stopped him. ‘Wait!’ There was a look of sudden concern in his eyes. ‘I thought for a minute you were dead!’
‘Well I’m not.’
‘But you could have killed yourself. Are you crazy?’
‘Yes,’ Flynn snapped. ‘I’m crazy, Harry, OK? Just leave me alone.’ His head throbbed so badly it hurt to speak.
‘Listen.’ Harry sounded faintly desperate. ‘We’re mates, aren’t we? Just tell me what’s going on.’
‘There’s nothing you can do.’
‘I’m sure I can think of something! Come on, Flynn, help me out here. I’ve got to go back to class but I can’t just leave you like this!’
‘You can! Just go!’
Harry stared at him, shocked and hurt, and for a minute Flynn felt almost sorry for him. Then his pity turned to anger. Harry had woken him up. Now he was back to reality, with a crashing headache to boot. God knows how long it would take to get back to sleep again. He reached out his hand for the bottle of aspirin but Harry jerked it away.
‘Just give it back, Harry.’ Clenched teeth.
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
His jaw ached. ‘Just give it to me! I’ve got a splitting headache, OK?’
‘You prefer a headache or having your stomach pumped?’
Flynn lunged but Harry was quicker. He jumped up and strode into the kitchen.
Stumbling to his feet, Flynn followed him, cursing. He had to lean his hands against the walls to keep them from rocking.
‘Fuck you, Harry!’ He reached the kitchen doorway to find Harry washing the aspirin down the sink. As Flynn staggered inside, he saw Harry reach for the bottle of whisky, left on the counter.
‘Don’t you dare!’ Flynn threw himself across the length of the small room and caught Harry just as he was lifting the neck of the bottle. It smashed against the lino, glass chips flying, and Harry fell heavily against the edge of the sink. Flynn crashed to the floor.
Neither of them moved for a moment, transfixed by the steadily growing pool of liquid. The smell in itself was intoxicating and Flynn felt wildly sick. He pulled himself to a sitting position against one of the cupboards and looked up. Harry sank heavily onto a stool, holding his side.
‘Sorry,’ Flynn said. His voice shook.
Harry looked at him, breathing hard. ‘Christ . . . I think you’re becoming an alcoholic.’
‘I’m not. I just wanted to sleep.’
Eyes wide and uncomprehending. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m shattered, OK?’
‘All you ever do these days is sleep!’ Harry exclaimed. ‘I don’t understand. The other week you were so hyper you were writing operas all night!’
‘Well I’ve decided sleeping beats being awake, OK?’
Harry sagged back against the wall, lost for words. Then he gave a small smile. ‘Your cheek’s bleeding, by the way.’
Flynn felt a sore patch under his left eye. His fingertips came away with a red smear.
Harry managed a laugh. ‘This is all a bit dramatic, isn’t it?’
Flynn nodded, suddenly drained. ‘I’m going to go to bed, Harry.’
‘It’s the middle of the day!’
Exhaustion pressed down on him, dull and aching. The pain in his head was nearing intolerable. He needed to get away from the stench of whisky before he threw up. ‘Just let me sleep this off.’
Harry bounced up. ‘Coffee!’ he declared. ‘Coffee’s what you need!’
But Flynn got unsteadily to his feet. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he repeated, his voice barely audible even to his own ears, and left.
There were lots of different types of headaches, Flynn thought to himself. Apart from the severity and the different locations and types of pain, some headaches had a shape, a smell, a taste, even a colour all of their own. By the third day in bed, Flynn could only think about the throb in his head, and the pain that seemed to reverberate throughout his body. A single shaft of metallic silver piercing him between the eyes. Night and day existed only within the demarcations of the luminous digits of his alarm and the rising and fading glow behind the closed curtains. He dozed in fleeting snatches, waking at excruciatingly regular intervals as Harry crashed around in the mornings, at lunch time, then again in the evenings, banging incessantly on his door with offers of food or coffee and trying to engage him in pointless conversation whenever he made a dive for the bathroom.
Cello practice from the next room was the worst thing he had to endure. He didn’t want to hear music of any description. Didn’t want to think about music, nor hear it in his tortured dreams; wished he could forget about its very existence.
Then, late one night, he was roughly pulled from his hazy state by a painful ring at the door, forcing him to acknowledge consciousness. He fought hard to stay asleep, panicking as he felt the cloak of drowsiness begin to lift, but then found himself straining to hear who it was. A man’s voice greeted Harry indistinctly. Not Jennah then. Harry’s dad over on business? Professor Kaiser? Dear God, not Professor Kaiser! But there was no clipped accent and he heard the door close and the voices move into the living room. Glancing at the chair wedged firmly beneath the door handle, Flynn crossed to the wall opposite his bed and sat down with his ear against it. He was going to figure out who this was.
‘I’m sorry to have dragged you out like this,’ Harry was saying.
‘Not at all – I’m glad you rang,’ the voice replied, strangely familiar.
‘Would you like a coffee or something?’
‘No, no thanks.’ The voice was earnest and low. ‘Is he asleep?’
‘I suppose so. Every time I knock on the door he claims that I’ve woken him up, although how someone can sleep round the clock for three days—’
Jesus, they were talking about him!
‘Is that how long it’s been?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s happened before?’
‘Well yes, though never as bad as this,’ Harry said. ‘But last month after we’d been to this concert he shut himself away for a few days and there were several other times before that . . . I just never thought it was anything serious, until this time.’
‘Did something happen at uni? Have you got exams or a recital coming up?’
‘No, our exams aren’t until the summer. We have a lot of coursework to hand in at the moment, which is kind of stressful, but Flynn seems to get good marks without much effort at all.’
‘Has something happened with his practice then? That professor can be a bit of a slave-driver, I gather.’
‘I don’t think so. Flynn was really into his composing just before this happened and he was trying to write an opera.’
A short laugh. ‘Yes, that sounds familiar.’
Flynn recoiled violently from the wall, heart hammering. Rami! He stared into the darkness, breathing hard. How dare Harry? How dare he? He didn’t want his brother here! Rami would never understand! Calm, sensible Rami, living in suburbia with his equally calm, sensible wife, Sophie. Both of them doctors, both of them successful, both of them very much in love and trying for a baby. Blood rushing to his face with fury, he pressed his ear back to the wall.
‘Has he stopped practising?’
‘Completely,’ Harry said. ‘He’s stopped doing everything. He doesn’t leave his room unless it’s to go to the bathroom.’
‘Has he been drinking?’
Flynn drew back from the wall again, his heart pounding.
He breathed deeply, trying to suppress the tears of fury rising behind his eyes. You traitor, Harry! It was none of your damn business – you had no right! How could you do this behind my back? I thought you were my friend! Why, why?
He looked wildly around his chaotic room. For the first time he noticed the clothes strewn haphazardly around, torn-up shreds of manuscript paper littering the floor, empty bottles, dirty plates and coffee mugs, collapsed piles of CDs, books thrown in rage lying next to the wall. All at once he was acutely aware of himself, smelly and unwashed, greasy hair standing on end. The thought of pulling on some clothes and making a run for it flitted briefly across his mind but he didn’t feel he would get very far. There was nowhere to go. Gnawing his thumbnail in despair, he pressed his ear back to the wall.
‘Is there something else that could have rocked the boat?’ Rami was asking. ‘A girl, for instance?’
A long silence. ‘I don’t think so. He hasn’t really been seeing anyone . . .’ Harry tailed off awkwardly.
Flynn held his breath, feeling his face burn. Then Jennah’s name made him start.
‘. . . a good friend of ours at the Royal College . . .’ They had moved into the kitchen – damn!
‘. . . often speaks about her . . .’ Rami’s voice now.
‘. . . nothing going on, but she . . .’ Infuriatingly, the end of the sentence was lost.
‘. . . have a boyfriend?’ Rami again.
‘. . . not working out . . . she’s been . . . since they first met.’
‘. . . what about him?’
‘. . . not sure . . . kind of shy . . .’
‘Maybe . . .’
Transfixed, Flynn flinched violently on hearing the living-room door open. He climbed back into bed, his heart thudding painfully in his chest from what he had overheard. Then came the inevitable knock on the door. He scrunched up his eyes.
‘Flynn, it’s Rami.’
I know it’s you, you idiot. Just go away.
‘Flynn, come on. Open the door.’ His voice, deep and calm as usual. ‘I’m not going to go away, so you may as well let me in. Stop being a baby – I only want to talk to you.’
Stop being a baby. How many times had he said that before? When was he going to realize that a twelve-year age gap meant nothing any more?
‘I’m getting concerned, Flynn. If you don’t open the door, I’ll have to force it.’
He would too. Furiously, Flynn jumped up, kicked the chair out of the way and fell face down back into bed. He heard the door open, then close.
His desk light clicked on and the swivel chair creaked. ‘Blimey, what’s been going on in here?’
Flynn breathed heavily into his pillow, his lungs crying out for air.
A hand on the back of his head. ‘Hey, you.’
He screwed up his eyes. Go away!
Another creak as Rami sat down again. ‘What’s going on, Flynnie?’
Irritation sparked at the stupid childhood nickname.
Flynn turned his head towards the wall a fraction to allow himself to speak. ‘I’m just tired. Leave me alone.’
‘’Fraid not. I’ve driven all the way down from Watford and I haven’t seen you in nearly two months, so I’m going to expect a bit more than this.’
Flynn fought to keep his voice steady. ‘I’m tired, Rami. I didn’t ask you to come, so just leave me alone, OK?’
There was a long silence. ‘I’m concerned, Flynn. Your friends are concerned. Professor Kaiser’s concerned. We’re just trying to help.’
‘I don’t want your help!’
‘You’re being childish.’
‘Oh, shut up!’
‘Listen.’ Flynn could tell by Rami’s tone that he was struggling to stay calm. ‘I’m not going to ignore you while you’re like this, however unpleasant you decide to be. But if you refuse to talk to me then I’ll have to find someone else who can. Do you want me to call Mum and Dad?’
Before he knew what he was doing, Flynn sat bolt upright. ‘Don’t you dare! This is none of your business! You know how much Dad’s having to fork out for me to be here! You know how Mum worries about the slightest little thing!’
‘Flynn, OK, you’re talking to me now. I won’t—’
‘You have no right to blackmail me into speaking to you! You can’t just come in and demand that I do what you want! This is none of your business! Harry had no right to call you!’
‘Hey, hey, easy, Flynn! Calm down. I’m sorry I said that.’
But the suppressed fury continued to erupt within Flynn until all he wanted to do was throw things and punch Rami’s stupid face. All he felt was anger, pure and undiluted and of such power it was as if he would burst with the force of it. He hated himself for actually wanting to hurt his brother, while at the same time knowing nothing could bring him more satisfaction.
‘I just want to be left alone! Get that through your thick skull! This has nothing to do with you. Go back to Watford! Go and live your life and let me live mine! I don’t want you here! I don’t want you to come and – and – I don’t – I don’t want—’ Suppressed sobs were building up in his throat. He gulped for breath and pressed his hands to his face, horrified to feel hot tears against his cheeks.
‘Hey – hey—’ Rami was on the edge of the bed now, gripping the back of his neck.
‘I don’t w-want you to – to—’
‘You don’t want me to be here? But I am, Flynn, and it’s not the end of the world. Harry rang because he was worried. I know you just want to be left alone. If I’m feeling crap I usually want to be left alone too. But sometimes what we want is not always what’s best. Sometimes when things get in a mess it’s too much to manage alone. Remember when Sophie and I broke up for a while? I didn’t leave the house for a week. And you came over and forced me out for a game of tennis. Getting out of the house did make me feel fractionally better!’
Flynn pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, sniffing hard. ‘I’m not going out!’
‘OK, I can’t make you. But you are going to try and tell me what’s going on.’
‘Nothing!’
A small sigh. ‘Flynn, something’s not right, that much is obvious. You’re in bed all the time, you’re drinking yourself silly, you’ve stopped going to lectures, you won’t talk to anyone. You’ve even stopped practising!’ A smile in his voice. ‘What on earth could be bad enough to cause that?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Something must have happened.’
‘Nothing happened! I just feel crap all the time!’
‘Crap as in ill?’
‘Yes! I don’t know – just crap!’
‘Are you in pain?’
‘Yes, no, I dunno.’
‘You must know, Flynn.’
‘Well I don’t! Stop playing fucking doctors with me!’
There was silence for a few moments. Rami was looking at him carefully.
‘I think you’re depressed, Flynn,’ he said suddenly. ‘It’s not that unusual – a lot of people suffer from depression. It can be biological, or there can be a psychological reason. Either way, there are lots of different kinds of treatment available.’
‘There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do!’
‘That’s nonsense, Flynn. People get treated for depression all the time. Listen, I’ve got a colleague at Watford General who is very successful in treating patients with depression.’
‘I’m not going to see a psychiatrist!’
‘Flynn, a psychiatrist is just a doctor who specializes in a certain part of the human anatomy. You’re not well and so you see a doctor. That’s what we’re for, mate.’
‘What the hell is a psychiatrist going to do about it?’
‘Talk to you first, better than I can, and hopefully you won’t swear at him as much. Then most likely prescribe you anti-depressants.’
‘How are pills supposed to help?’
‘Clinical depression is due to an imbalance of the chemicals in the
brain. Anti-depressants just correct that imbalance.’
‘Why can’t you prescribe them to me?’
‘Because it would be better for you to see this guy first. I’m not a psych. Don’t let’s argue about this, Flynn. I’ll take you to see him tomorrow and if he’s of no help I’ll prescribe you a short course of anti-depressants until I can find someone else.’
‘I don’t want to take fucking pills! They’re not going to work!’
‘Look, just try them and then we’ll have this discussion. But you have got to stop drinking. Alcohol might make you feel better temporarily, but it’s a depressant. It leaves you feeling ten times worse.’
‘So Harry told you I’m an alcoholic?’
‘At this rate you will be. You shouldn’t drink with anti-depressants anyway.’
‘I never said I was going to take anti-depressants.’
Rami gave a short, exasperated sigh. ‘You’re going to give them a try, Flynn, because you’re not stupid and you don’t want to feel like this all the time.’
The faint glimmer of hope that had started to grow within him was suddenly replaced by a knot of fear. ‘What if they don’t work?’
‘Then you’ll try a different type, or other treatments such as talking remedies.’
‘Therapy? I don’t think so!’ Flynn exclaimed.
‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.’
Suddenly drained of all arguments, Flynn fell silent. His mind was reeling. Was this what they called depression: wanting to cry all the time, unable to tolerate doing anything or speaking to anyone? But, as a doctor, Rami was bound to try to find something medically wrong. That was just the way he was. But this wasn’t just a sore throat – how could pills possibly take the pain away? And yet if alcohol managed to close down his senses and stop him from feeling so keenly, then perhaps there were pills that would do the same thing. But a psychiatrist? Was he really losing his mind?
‘How’s the old plink-plonk?’ Rami asked, breaking the sudden silence.
Flynn rubbed his eyes and managed a wry smile. ‘Doing my head in.’
‘Professor Kaiser still as intense?’
‘He’s all right. Goes crazy when I’m like this, though.’