made a hurt little face. ‘Oh, Fran …’
‘It must have been … the shock, or the concussion, but I had a real panic attack out there. I thought that things were chasing after me … And months, and years later, I was still convinced they’d creep into my room …’ And as she voiced her dread at last, she felt the gooseflesh ripple up her arms. Just then, for just an instant, she was back on the Plain, and lost in its featureless dark.
‘Shh,’ Lyn whispered, massaging her hand. ‘It’s over now. You’re safe.’
Fran swallowed back her tears again, and nodded. The flush of cold was fading, in the sunlight and Lyn’s love. Her memories were twisted up: her illness had done that. Her mental illness. The thought of it still shamed her, but she’d shared it. Like naming a demon to gain power over it. The past was the past. And here she was, objective: looking back.
It’s over now. You’re safe. Oh God, she hoped so.
‘Your parents must be so glad …’ Lyn said. ‘Seeing you able to come back here like this.’
Fran nodded again, and took her shades off – but only to wipe her eyes. ‘Yeah. They’ve put up with me a lot, these past few years …’
‘Your Geordie accent’s coming back, you know,’ Lyn said: a tentative attempt to tease.
‘Is it?’ Fran said wryly. ‘I can’t tell. We moved to Derbyshire ten years ago – that’s practically Down South!’
Silence settled between them. The ticking of a clock was quite distinct. Lyn moistened her lips.
‘Where was it you said you’d meet the man of your dreams?’
The gambit won a rueful smile. ‘Heaven’s Field.’ Fran murmured back. ‘Up north, on Hadrian’s Wall.’
‘So, did you ever take Craig there?’
Fran sniffed, and shook her head.
‘Are you going to see him?’
Fran shook her head again. Not negative this time; nonplussed. ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly.
And she didn’t. Thinking of Craig sent a giddy ripple through her – a sense of need as physical as hunger. But this was four years later, and the world had changed around. To visit old haunts was one thing; to meet old ghosts was something else again.
The conflict of emotions filled her mind; but something more subliminal still lingered. The faintest, phantom echo of that moment on the Plain. As if those twisted memories were still alive behind her: more distant now, but following her trail. As relentless and black as a Dominican dog.
5
Lyn’s flat was in a quiet, leafy street off Iffley Road: part of the first floor of a conversion. Fran wandered through, admiring, as Lyn showed her around: a cheerfully self-deprecating hostess – but Fran’s small suitcase made her feel too much like what she was. A stranger, from the past, just passing through.
‘This’ll be yours,’ Lyn told her brightly, opening the door on her spare room. A futon was spread out, all ready; the pillowcase and quilt smelt freshly washed.
‘I’m not sure how long I’m staying …’ Fran murmured.
Lyn’s beaming face grew earnest. ‘You’re welcome for as long as you like – all right? As long as you need.’
‘I’m … not very good company at the moment. Need a lot of time to myself …’
‘I can understand that. You need a base, you need a bed … they’re yours. Other than that, you can come and go as you want.’ She hesitated, almost shyly. ‘But I’d be glad to keep you company, whenever that’s okay. I’ve really missed you, Fran …
‘Now,’ she went on quickly, before they both got embarrassed, ‘would you like some coffee?’
‘Oh, please.’ Fran put her case down on the bed, and went over to the window. The evening was warm and light: the air like honey. She peered across the rooftops for a minute, listening to the distant city sounds – and those that Lyn was making in the kitchen. Peace, domestic comfort, all around.
Her heart began to race then; before she even realized that she’d just made her decision. Biting her lip, she went through towards the sounds of brewing coffee.
Lyn looked round, smiling. Wiping down her breakfast plates, and putting them away.
Fran swallowed. ‘There’s something else. I need to tell you.’ But in the expectant pause that followed, she no longer thought she could.
‘No hurry,’ Lyn said gently. ‘We’ve plenty of time …’
Fran glanced aside. An itemized phone bill caught her eye: stuck to the freezer door with a cat-shaped magnet. Staring at it, she said: ‘When I was in hospital … it wasn’t just depression. I was hallucinating; hearing voices.’
Silence from Lyn.
‘And I never told them,’ Fran went on, with just a hint of tremble in her voice. ‘I never said a word. I thought that if I did, they wouldn’t let me out again.’
Another pause. She risked a look. Lyn’s eyes were wide, her air less certain. ‘Oh God, Fran …’
‘But I’m better now,’ Fran finished quickly. ‘They just went of their own accord. Not a whisper for six months …’ She took a shaky breath. ‘And I’ve told no one else about them. Not even Mum and Dad.’
Lyn’s reassuring smile looked forced. ‘It might be … an idea to tell someone, though …’
‘I have,’ Fran came back evenly. ‘I’ve just told you. And believe me, it’s a load off my shoulders.’
Lyn nodded, looking doubtful, mechanically polishing a bowl. ‘But just to be sure …’
‘Oh Lyn, don’t worry: I’m not a bloody schizophrenic or something. It was just my mind getting straightened out. I’m all right now.’
Lyn put down the bowl, and came across and hugged her. A gesture worth a million words. I’m not unclean, Fran thought – and held on tight enough to hurt.
‘Sorry,’ Lyn said after a minute. ‘I know how hard that must have been to say. I’m really, really glad you told me first …’ When she eased away, her smile looked fresher: as if she’d shrugged a burden off as well. A weight of doubt and prudent disapproval. Fran grinned – and felt quite giddy with relief. Her leap of faith had landed on firm ground.
Oh Lyn, you angel. How ever did I find a friend like you?
With the subject safely broached, the rest came easier. She described the hospital, the staff, her fellow patients. Talking it out felt physical, a purging of her system. Like the tears that Lyn had won from her before; the rains that broke the drought of her depression …
‘What sort of things did these voices say?’ Lyn asked her after supper. Her tone still cautious, but curious too.
Fran hesitated. ‘I don’t know: that’s the really weird thing. It was a man’s voice, just a whisper … I’d look around, you know? – and the room would be empty. But it wasn’t English; more like Dutch or something.’
‘God, it must have frightened you.’
‘It did. You bet it did. And yet … the tone, it wasn’t really threatening. It sounded urgent. More like an appeal …’
She could analyse it calmly now; back then, she’d just been petrified with fear. The whispers had haunted her down the long, dingy corridors, insidious in their promise of madness. Perhaps finding a lump in your breast brought a stab of dread this sharp. Her voices seemed like symptoms of a tumour in her mind.
And if you ignored them, would they go away? A lump in