The Masked Truth(19)

When he didn’t understand the word in context, he looked it up, as he should, and only when he was quite certain he still didn’t understand did he take the question to his mother. She’d tried, with growing exasperation, to explain it to him.

Clarity: The quality of being clear, in particular, the quality of coherence and intelligibility.

Max eventually came to understand, on an abstract level, what clarity meant, and to also understand that he’d never experienced it, not in any pure form. There were moments when the muddle in his head cleared, but that was not actual clarity, not the way he imagined it, like the perfect tone of a bell, everything else fading to silence. His head was never silent. Thoughts swam and swirled and leaped and sometimes howled, like babies in a cradle, grabbing the bars and screaming for his attention.

Clarity.

He’d come to hold the word as a talisman. Absurdly, perhaps, to focus on it as a way of hoping to gain it. His personal mantra. When the jumble in his head became too much, he’d concentrate on the word until he achieved some measure of it. Not a clear bell in the silence, but Big Ben over Westminster, loud enough to hear above the din.

Clarity, clarity, clarity.

He’d been doing well that evening. Apparently, fear for one’s life is wonderful for inducing clarity—a sudden gust that knocks everything else aside. Which was not to say that his head was always too noisy for him to concentrate. Otherwise, he’d never be able to pull off top grades, thank you very much. Or he had pulled off top grades until the incident, and then, no school for you, Maximus, not just yet, let’s give you time to rest, time to find some clarity, and do you know what you need? Peace and quiet, so much bloody peace and quiet that you feel as if you’re about to go mad, except you can’t, because you already have. Bonkers. Off his trolley. Crazy, crazy, crazy, only we don’t use that word. No sir, not at all.

He’d been doing so well, so very well, until Riley tried to shush him. When he stumbled back, he’d seen the confusion in her eyes, followed by understanding, and he kept thinking, “What does she understand?” because it’s not the truth, can’t be the truth, that was the deal he had on coming to therapy, that his schizophrenia would remain a secret until he chose to reveal it, if he chose to reveal it.

But, Maximus, how do you expect group therapy to help if you won’t talk about your problem?

So I should tell them I’m crazy? That it’s not some temporary bump in the path like theirs? Mine’s an illness, a permanent mental illness. One that can’t be cured, only managed. That’s the term, isn’t it? Managed? Madness under glass?

Had someone broken the rules and told Riley he had schizophrenia? Not if she was sticking with him. If she knew, she’d be running before he lost it and started ranting like a madman.

Now, Maximus, don’t think that way.

What way should I think? Ah, yes. Clearly. Think clearly. If only I knew what that was …

What does Riley think? She believes she understands something, so what is it?

Does it matter? Really?

No, it does not, and herein lies the problem. The problem of clarity. That there is a corner of his mind—No, let’s be honest, Maximus, you like to play the madness card, but it’s not just a corner, there’s a whole floor of your mind that is clear. It’s the floor that understands you can’t be worrying what she thinks at a time like this. Also the floor that whispers, quietly and rather politely, that a boy worrying what a girl thinks of him isn’t really madness, or every boy is mad sometimes.

“Max?” Riley whispers, and he blinks hard.

“Are you okay?” she asks as they crouch in the dark room, lit only by the glow of his watch.

“Right as rain,” he says, smiling, and she doesn’t like the smile. It annoys her in some way, perhaps because she spots the falseness. Maybe because she thinks he’s mocking her. Right as rain. Just a temporary glitch in our evening. Haven’t you ever been taken hostage before?

“We’ll make it,” he says solemnly, and that doesn’t help, because the switch is too fast, and now she’s sure he’s mocking her. Can’t win, old boy. Can’t win at all.

“At least you’re taking the situation seriously now,” she says.

“The guns and the blood helped convince me.”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. You truly are an imbecile, aren’t you, Max? She flinches, as if remembering the last time she saw blood and guns, the death of the couple she babysat for, and he hurries on, “I’m sorry if I was being an arse earlier. I just wasn’t sure it was real.”

Her brow furrows.

Did you just say that, Max?

Of course he did, because he was slipping and sliding like a newborn calf on ice.

Because you’re scared. Shocking, really. Given the guns and the blood and the death. Yes, it’s real. Really, really real, and you aren’t going to snap out, safe and sound in a padded room.

He pushes on. “I mean that I thought perhaps it was part of your therapy. Force you to confront what happened when you were babysitting, by putting you in a similar situation, except this time you have to face the guns and the bad guys.”

She stares at him, and he feels sweat trickling down his cheek. Then she gives a slow nod. “Immersion therapy. I’ve heard of it. I certainly hope they’d never do that without permission.”