Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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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 her flesh would not. She’d heard of women losing precious time – too scared to see a doctor, till too late. And she’d been just as stymied: afraid to tell a soul about the voices in her head.
The world had closed down like a coffin-lid upon her; the voices were the hammer and the nails. Fragments of phrases, faint with distance; sometimes they’d fall silent for a week. The silences were worst of all. She’d sit and cringe for hours: just waiting for the words to come again.
But she’d kept them secret – and they’d gone away. The malignant lump had simply disappeared. A miracle cure must feel like this. She hardly dared believe it, even now.
‘Shall we do the washing up?’ she said, to change the subject.
‘Oh, shh, don’t worry about that …’
‘Don’t flatmates share their chores?’ Fran asked her drily. ‘I’d much prefer it that way. So come on, let’s get to it. And then I think I’ll have an early night. It’s been a tiring day …’
6
Fran
So much has changed. The whole world’s turned around. But I’ve not forgotten you. Can we meet someplace – and sometime soon? Lyn’s got my number. I really hope you’ll want to get in touch.
Still thinking of youCraig
Fran read the letter through again. Much more slowly: savouring each word. Her heart beat like a slow drum in her chest.
His face was very clear now; the years between had faded like a fog. She remembered every line of his rugged good looks. The short brown hair, brushed back; the deep-set eyes. The wry mouth, sometimes smiling; sometimes grim.
Still thinking of you – even four years down the road. She felt a pang of pleasure, a twinge of helpless pride. Like someone with a treasure, hidden secretly away. He’s mine, she thought: he still belongs to me.
She folded the letter carefully, and slid it back into the envelope. Laying it aside on the bookcase, she started to unpack. Nightie, towel, toilet bag … but then she let an impulse overcome her, and delved into a side-pocket instead. For a moment her fingers searched in vain; but then they found the badge, and drew it out.
She’d been wearing it the day they met. A rectangle of metal, with a sheen like bluish gold. The stern and haloed image of a saint. She ran her thumb across the rough, raised lettering. Cyrillic script: an alien language. Only the dates made sense.
988–1988. One thousand years. Stretching like a bridge from the Dark Age past to the year she’d come to Oxford.
She laid her head down cautiously. First night away from home for many months; her first night back in Oxford since her breakdown. For an hour or more she lingered on the very edge of sleep: afraid of what unconsciousness might bring. But the stresses of the day had worn her out. Oblivion pounced, and caught her unawares.
She didn’t dream.
1
‘Is this seat taken?’
Fran studied her drink for a moment longer; then slowly, almost archly raised her head. After all the keyed-up waiting, she was suddenly so cool. She’d known it was him as he’d crossed