A Note of Madness (7 page)

Flynn double-locked the front door, turned the ringer off the phone and pinned his curtains to the wall to block out as much daylight as possible. He undressed and rolled into bed, pulling the duvet over his head and breathing in the hot, stuffy darkness, his eyes tightly closed. Don’t think, he told himself. Don’t think, don’t feel – just sleep and forget.

He lay motionless for what seemed like an eternity, determined not to toss and turn. Finally he felt just too uncomfortable and rolled onto his back, his arm across his eyes. The bed was too hot. The dusk sun reached him through the curtains, drenching the room and filling his closed eyes with a bright pink luminance. He felt restless and thirsty, his leg itched and he needed to pee. Jesus Christ! He sat up, kicking off the duvet, and saw from his clock that he had been lying there for nearly two hours.

Sleep felt a million light years away. The sun was setting now and his bedroom was filled with a gentle warm glow. His heart began to thud painfully. If I don’t go to sleep now, I’ll go crazy, he thought. Why won’t you let me sleep, God, why? You allow me to suffer like this and yet you refuse to let me sleep! What are you trying to do to me? Biting his lip, he got up and furiously pulled on his clothes again. He would get himself to sleep, damn it, he would. He would knock himself out if he had to.

He grabbed his wallet and rushed out of the flat. He strode down the street towards the off-licence, resisting an urge to run, hating the last of the evening sunlight, warm against his face. He bought a bottle of whisky with the last of his change and returned home, heart still thudding, the glass chinking irritatingly against the loose coins at the bottom of the plastic bag.

There was a bottle of aspirin in the kitchen cupboard. He thought of taking them all before
remembering it was a slow and painful way to die. Downing four with a swig from the bottle, he felt a certain flash of self-destructive satisfaction. The whisky burned his throat. He felt as if he were giving God the finger. I can beat you on this, he told him. If you make me suffer, then this is what I’ll do.

He returned to his bedroom with the bottle. He felt too hot. He threw open the windows and cranked up his stereo.
Don Giovanni
was still in the machine. Perfect. Always
Don Giovanni
when he was down. He threw off his jeans and collapsed against the pillows, bottle in hand. How much till I pass out? he wondered. He would get there eventually. He had all the time in the world . . .

As it was, he never found out. Time ceased to exist, although suddenly the window had filled with darkness and the air wafting through was chilled. Every time he went to the loo, the room spun a little bit more. It was strangely satisfying. The last time he tripped and banged his elbow against the door jamb. It didn’t even hurt. He could no longer feel pain. This is what I want, he thought. This is what I want all of the time.

Ow, stop! Ow, ow, stop! He realized after a while that he was only thinking these words, not speaking them. Speak! he told himself angrily. Tell them to stop shaking me like that!

‘Wake up! Flynn, for Christ’s sake, wake up!’

Stop shouting, he tried to say. Stop shouting. Get off!

‘Open your eyes! Would you just open your eyes?’

He took a deep breath to reply and found himself blinking at the strangely patterned blue carpet. It looked vaguely familiar but was at an odd angle, stretching out from beneath his nose. The shaking stopped. His arm felt sore from where it had been gripped. He lifted his head and closed his eyes as the carpet began to whirl. There was a hand on his chest, pushing him backwards. He felt a hard wall behind him and sat leaning against it, his head falling back with a dull thud. Harry’s face swam into view.

‘What?’ he demanded irritably. What was wrong with the guy? Why did he have to wake him up like that?

Harry swore. Flynn blinked hard, trying to keep his eyes open and his head up. Harry hardly ever swore.

‘What the hell have you been doing?’ Harry’s voice was breathless as he sank down to a squatting position against the opposite wall. They seemed to be in the hallway, outside the kitchen.

The bottle of aspirin was now in Harry’s hand. ‘Whisky and aspirin? Are you trying to kill yourself?’

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?