Bright Burning Things(31)

The room is tiny and overlit, with windows sealed shut. I can’t breathe. I climb on to the table beneath the window and am trying to pull up the handle, which won’t budge, when the door opens.

‘Hi there. Can I help?’

I nearly topple but steady myself by leaning my forehead against the cool glass for a moment, before stepping back on to the chair and the ground.

‘Bit stuffy in here.’

I could be describing the man in front of me, with his shiny loafers, his chinos, his jumper slung around his shoulders in an effort to look casual, though the symmetry is just right: the exact same length of sleeve dangling on either side, tied neatly in the middle. A tickle builds in the back of my throat. Something familiar here: the polished slip-ons, the cheekbones, the voice. What is it about that voice? I need to leave.

‘Ok if I get some water?’

‘Sure. I’ll wait for you here.’

My mind must be playing its tricks. He couldn’t be who I think he is – my memories of that time aren’t exactly reliable. But what if it is him? I’m not in the mood to be lectured or reminded of my former maternal failings. Anger has built a permanent home inside me – I heard one of the men describe it that way, and I like it: it’s poetic and theatrical and it fits. And my anger is justified, of course it is – that father of mine… and as I see his face I feel my creatures start to stir. Starve one and another raises its head immediately: fuck him, fuck them – the moment of calm after Sister Anne left didn’t last long. But at least I felt it, at least I know what shape it could take. This is something else entirely: sharp, cold and deadly, and I feel I could slice Mr Cheekbones with my tongue.

In the kitchen I run the tap, rinse the glass, fill the glass, tip its contents, repeat, before I’m satisfied the glass is clean and the water cool enough. My father’s obsession with germs seems to have finally caught hold of me. It’s the incessant sharing of everything.

I swallow my full glass in one, then fill another. I suppose I’d better go back.

A wave of stale trapped air meets me. He’s standing by the window, trying to open it.

‘It seems to be stuck.’

Of course it’s stuck, what did he think I was doing on the table – lap-dancing? I have to stop myself throwing my water all over him, which I recognise is pretty extreme, but something about this situation is making me feel panicked. Back in the day I could channel these impulses into my characters, or later I could dampen them with a bottle, or two, of whatever medicinal gloop was in the fridge. Now I have to feckin’ ‘ground’. I can hear Jimmy’s voice in my ear telling me to ask the Man Above for patience. I look towards the stained ceiling, searching out any divine intervention, any message in the cracks. I don’t see any zigzagging lines; I can’t even play that particular game.

‘Would you like to sit down?’

He goes to pull a plastic chair from the table. So absurd, this show of ‘gentlemanliness’ – so patronising.

‘Thank you.’ I sit politely, arranging my skirt, pulling it down over my knees. A demure ingénue.

‘So, how are you doing, Sonya?’ He sits in a too-small plastic chair looking anything but at ease, his long frame spilling over its edges.

‘Fine.’ I sip my water delicately.

He nods, not taking the bait. He knows exactly what that word means in a context like this. He extends his hand. ‘David Smythe.’

Is he pretending not to recognise me? I’m not sure I’ll be able to contain this now. The swarm is dangerously close to erupting. I swallow the remnants of the glass in one gulp, which dilutes the bastards and stops their flight, momentarily. I study his long, tapering fingers, his sculpted, strong hands. He looks down and consults his notes. I wonder who told him what? Did the doctor itemise my neurotic tendencies? Sister Anne? What would she have said? I find I really do care.

‘I believe you’ve been through a difficult period.’

‘Obviously!’ I try to smile. ‘Or I wouldn’t be here.’

‘I mean in here.’

‘Well, the food is pretty crap!’

He doesn’t smile. ‘Where are you now? Almost halfway?’

Does he really not know that I am the same person he gave his card to the day before I was forced to come here? He doesn’t look me directly in the eye. Something shifty about that, or awkward, or just shy.

‘Congratulations on your sobriety to date. That’s quite an achievement.’

‘I didn’t exactly have a choice.’

He stays looking at his notes. ‘What do you mean, “exactly”?’

‘I was threatened with my son being taken away from me if I didn’t come here. And now I’m here, they’ve taken him away anyway.’

‘Who are “they”, Sonya?’

I really don’t want to answer any question this man asks me about my son. He has seen the worst of me. I cast my mind back to that moment in the pizza place: I was jittery and pissed and without boundaries and he could see that Tommy wasn’t in safe hands.

‘Are you pretending not to know who I am?’ I can’t help myself.

He shifts in his seat, a red flush creeping under his collar. ‘I didn’t think it would help to make reference to that time, Sonya. I’m just as surprised as you are that you’re now sitting in front of me here. Surprised and also, I guess, relieved for you and for the boy.’ He almost mumbles the words. He looks up, though still not directly at me.