A Voice in the Distance by Tabitha Suzuma

'Flynn, could you turn it down? I was really hoping to talk to you a bit.'

  He leaps to his feet and strikes a pose, his arms held out. 'Let's dance!'

  'Flynn, no!'

  Ignoring my protest, he grabs my hands and pulls me off the bed. I start to struggle, then something occurs to me. I can fight this episode of mania and come out the loser, or I can just accept it and let it run its course. I realize that whatever I say or do, I am not going to be able to change his current mood. And at least he is leaping about, wanting to dance, rather than lying semiconscious in a hospital bed.

  Reluctantly I allow myself to be pulled to my feet, and he immediately grabs me and starts twirling me around. The bedroom door swings open, almost knocking us over. It's Sue. 'Fifteen-minute checks,' she says with a smile.

  Embarrassed, I try and stop Flynn and his mad waltz around the bedroom.

  'Hey, hey, Sue! Look at us dance! Watch, watch!' Flynn grabs me again.

  Sue leans against the door frame. 'A musician and a dancer,' she says with a grin. 'You're a lucky girl to have him, Jennah.'

  'Well, I'm not so sure about the dancer bit,' I gasp as Flynn narrowly misses decapitating me against the wardrobe. He laughs, waltzing me faster and faster, his breath hot against my cheek. I feel my hair flying out behind me. I hold him tightly. Sue is still watching, appearing to enjoy the spectacle. I am so dizzy I have to close my eyes. We collapse on the bed, laughing.

  Sue is clapping. 'You two could be contenders for Strictly Come Dancing !'

  I shake my head with embarrassment and peel myself up from the duvet, panting for breath. Flynn sits on the edge of the bed and holds out his arms to Sue. 'Your turn?'

  She shakes her head, laughing. 'I'd tread on your toes, Flynn. Believe me. I think you're better off sticking with Jennah.'

  'Yeah, she's an amazing dancer. And you know what? She's a fantastic singer too.'

  'Oh, Flynn—' I protest desperately.

  'I mean it! When she sings, you feel like you've been touched by an angel.'

  'Wow,' Sue says with a smile.

  I roll my eyes and shake my head. Flynn doesn't seem to notice. 'I can't even accompany her any more because when she starts to sing, I feel like crying and forget the notes.'

  'Flynn, please!' My cheeks are burning and I wonder how much more embarrassed I can get.

  Sue flashes me a grin. 'Enjoy it. I wish my other half was so complimentary.'

  'Do you know the song On My Own, from Les Misérables?' Flynn asks her.

  'I love that musical,' she replies, her face lighting up.

  'Sing it, Jennah!' Flynn commands.

  'Flynn, don't be ridiculous—'

  'I dunno where my keyboard is, but hold on, I'm sure I could work out the chords pretty easily on the guitar—' He gets up and rushes out of the room.

  'I'm so sorry,' I say to Sue. 'And please don't worry, I'm not about to start singing.'

  Sue smiles. 'Don't apologize,' she says. 'It's just nice to see him so animated for a change. He was so silent and withdrawn when he first arrived.'

  'Animated is one way of putting it,' I smile wryly. 'Do you know if they've changed his medication?'

  'You'd need to ask the doctor about that,' Sue replies. 'But I believe they're trying him on a new anti-depressant.'

  I nod, chewing my lip.

  'He talks about you a lot, you know.'

  There is a silence. 'Oh . . .'

  'He's obviously crazy about you,' Sue said. 'That's something very positive which could help him get better.'

  Flynn bounds back into the room, brandishing the guitar.

  'I'd better continue my checks,' Sue says with a smile. 'But I'll be listening out for your angelic voice, Jennah.'

  Flynn is sitting cross-legged on his pillows, attempting to pick out the dominant chords of the accompaniment to On My Own. I get up and make sure the door is firmly closed. 'I'm going to sing it very quietly,' I warn him.

  To my astonishment, I hear the chords of the accompaniment begin to form. I sigh and smile. 'When on earth did you learn to play the guitar?' I ask. 'This morning?'

  Flynn plays me in and looks at me expectantly as my cue approaches. With a nervous glance at the door, I take a breath and begin to sing. Flynn grins at me. His fingers barely hesitate against the strings of the guitar. I watch him as I sing, and I realize he looks different. He looks alive. When I reach the second verse, Flynn joins in, experimenting with some kind of weird harmony. As we sing our rather unique version of On My Own, it strikes me that, growing up, this is one thing I never imagined myself doing. Sitting on a bed in a psychiatric hospital with my manic-depressive boyfriend, singing duets on a ropey guitar. But strangely, right now, after everything else that has happened, it doesn't seem so bad.

  Chapter Eleven

  FLYNN

  Her wavy brown hair cascades down her shoulders. Her green eyes shine. Her skin looks like porcelain. I want to kiss her soft mouth. I want to touch her, feel her, taste her. I want to inhale her. Everything about her, from the curve of her collar bone to the way the end of her jeans reveals a strip of bare ankle, seems like absolute perfection. I want to freeze this moment in time and live it for ever. The music, Jennah's voice, Jennah's smile. I feel as if I may burst with happiness. I feel it radiating from my body like an invisible energy force. Her laughing eyes, the dimples in her cheeks, the way the smile lights up her face. Love, that all-powerful, all-consuming life force, rushes through my veins. As we sing, I am flooded with thoughts and feelings. Let the song never end.

  Her hand rests against my thigh. I badly need to kiss her. Leaning forwards over the guitar, still playing, my mouth reaches for hers. She laughs, still trying to hum the tune as we kiss. I miss a fret on the guitar. I drop the instrument onto the bed and rise up onto my knees, one hand against her neck, the other in her hair. Jennah stops humming. I kiss her so hard, it hurts. She is the first to come up for breath. 'Flynn—'

  I silence her with another kiss, my hand slipping beneath her shirt, moving up the warmth of her stomach. I hardly know where my lips end and hers begin.

  'Flynn, wait—'

  'Shh.'

  Her tongue tastes of peppermint. The curve of her breast is warm against my fingers. Her hair is in my face.

  'Flynn – seriously – stop – someone's going to come in—'

  'Shh.'

  I suck her bottom lip in between my teeth. Press my tongue against hers. Slide my fingers under her bra.

  'We can't – don't be silly – we're not allowed – stop it, for goodness' sake!' She is pushing me off, holding me at arm's length.

  I sit back on my heels, breathing hard. Jennah is flushed and dishevelled, attempting to straighten her clothes and brush the hair out of her face. I lean forwards and her hand shoots out, pushing me back. 'Don't!' She looks at me, panting a little. 'God, you are unbelievable!' She starts to laugh.

  I try to prise her hand off my shoulder. A head appears round the door. 'Fifteen-minute checks,' a voice says.

  After the door closes, Jennah whacks me. 'See! I told you!'

  'So?' I protest. 'It's not like it's illegal or anything!'

  'I should go, it's getting dark,' Jennah says, suddenly sobering. 'I've got a long journey back.'

  I feel the smile fade from my face. 'Don't go.'

  'I don't want to, but they're going to kick me out soon anyway and I've got a nine o'clock lecture tomorrow.' She smoothes down her hair and gets up from the bed and looks around for her things.

  'I'll come back home with you, then.'

  'Don't be daft.' She looks afraid suddenly.

  I smile to show her that I'm only joking.

  The days here are all the same. It is a cross between holiday camp and prison. We are woken by a rap on the door and a cheery voice calling, 'Good morning!' Getting into the bathroom is a feat in itself. While we are having breakfast, they bring us plastic cups with pills. Sometimes there is resistance, and then a long round of bartering ensues. I swallow my
1200 milligrams of lithium carbonate without any fuss. I have learned to pick my battles. Stu is the only one properly awake at breakfast, regaling everyone with a blow-by-blow account of his horrific nightmares. After breakfast I have my appointment with Dr Rasheed, who is encouraging me to work through the feelings leading up to my suicide attempt. I tell her I don't remember much, which is true. After that I return to my bedroom, pick up my laptop and books, then go to the study room, where everyone sits around talking. One of the nurses sits with us, trying to keep the noise down, and on a good day I manage to write part of an essay, or take notes on Aspects of Wagner, or work through a couple of chapters for the Aesthetics and Criticism exam. There are various breaks throughout the morning – for cigarettes, meds, coffee – then at twelve thirty we have lunch. After lunch we are allowed to roam around the grounds for a while – which for most of the patients means standing huddled beneath the dripping awning, smoking cigarettes, while I jog along the circumference of the park with Roz, the anorexic beanpole. In the afternoon we do Design and Technology, which is basically another term for art therapy, and I use the Sibelius program that Jennah brought me to do some composition. I am composing a song, a song for Jennah. It is called Letting Go.

  The afternoon finally comes to an end at four o'clock when we have group therapy. In the evening we have dinner and watch TV, one of the kindlier nurses might honour our request to drive into town for DVDs, and I get in as much practice as I can on my keyboard before they tell me to stop. On Saturday night we go out together as a group – usually to the cinema or to a bowling alley in nearby Brighton. Weekends are freer for most of the inmates – for that is how we see ourselves – Saturdays and Sundays revolving around visitors. Some patients are granted day passes into town for good behaviour and a few long-term ones even get to go home for a night. I get neither, for I am sectioned, and that makes me a prisoner although I haven't even been granted a trial.

  Evenings are the worst, because that's when the day begins to feel like it's never going to end and the others on my unit start to really get on my nerves. I get on OK with Stu, who is quite a wit, but when Naz starts banging her head against the wall and Dino starts telling me how he wrote the Bible, it's impossible to forget where I am. Sitting in the claustrophobic room with its tired furniture and flickering TV, the barred windows filled with night, it can be difficult to imagine sinking any lower. I speak to Jennah most evenings, and sometimes it feels like it is only the sound of her voice, the chirpy anecdotes, the thoughts of my life back in London, that keep me alive.

  Visits from Rami and my parents are short and strained. I can tell my parents are uncomfortable in the hospital setting, and Rami, presumably feeling guilty about having me sectioned, tries too hard.

  They talk about letting me go home at the end of the week, and then it is the next week, and then the week after. I post off my assignments to the Royal College, and Jennah brings me library books at the weekend. I work harder than I ever do at home, just to make time pass faster. I am not allowed to practise for more than three hours a day – they say it is not good for me. I try to explain that five hours a day is what I aspire to at home, but they go on about perfectionist tendencies and obsessive-compulsive behaviour. It makes me laugh – don't they realize that in the world of music, being an obsessive perfectionist is the only way to succeed? But as the days trickle by, the structured regimen, the absence of choices, the suspension of normal life, the daily diet of cognitive behavioural therapy and the increased dose of lithium carbonate combined with a whacking dose of anti-depressants slow me down, dull me, and Dr Rasheed declares that the seesaw of highs and lows is beginning to level out. I leave the psychiatric hospital a whole month after arriving and it is strange: although I have been looking forward to this day the whole time I have been here, I am suddenly afraid.

  Rami comes to pick me up and we stop by at the cottage for a civilized lunch with the parents. Mum and Dad seem nervous – about me returning to London, about me going back to the Royal College, about the distant threat of finals . . . I spend most of the meal trying to assure them that I am fully recovered, I am looking forward to going back and everything is going to be fine. I am supposed to be spending the night at my parents', not returning to London till Friday, but I want to surprise Jennah. After a lot of persuasion, I finally get Rami to drive me back home as early dusk begins to gather. We hit rush-hour traffic on the A24 and the journey seems to take for ever. I fiddle with the radio, trying to tune into Classic FM, sidestepping Rami's attempts at brotherly conversation.

  Rami drops me off. The flat is unusually tidy, but empty. Christmas Eve seems like a lifetime ago. I find Jennah's new timetable on the notice board and see she has rehearsals this evening. I change into my running shoes, grab my iPod, slam out of the flat and head towards the park. As I enter the gates, I break into a jog. The freezing night air smells of damp earth and wood fires. I cut across the wet grass, taking the quickest route to the other side of the park, relishing the feeling of actually having a destination instead of running round in circles. By the time I reach Kensington High Street, the bottoms of my jeans are soaked and I have a sharp stitch beneath my ribs. I explode through the doubledoored entrance of the Royal College into the bright lights of the main hall, flash my pass at the sleepy security guard and then head down towards the sound of raised voices and snippets of music coming from the concert hall.

  There is the general mayhem that surrounds any kind of rehearsal, with some members of the orchestra tuning, others chatting, several people wandering around aimlessly, and a harassed-looking Professor Williams talking to Ollie Hendon about voice-box resonance. I walk down the aisle, stopping just short of the clutter of coats and bags and empty music cases, and take a seat in the third row from the front. I spot Harry, deep in conversation with another cellist. Jennah is sitting cross-legged on one of the boxes, looking bored, and it is several minutes before she spots me. When she finally does, her eyes light up and she springs to her feet with a gasp and looks ready to leap off the stage and launch herself into my arms. I motion at her to calm down, but it is too late – Professor Williams has noticed and now he is turning round and peering into the auditorium.

  'Flynn!' he exclaims genially. 'To what do we owe this honour?'

  I pull an embarrassed face and point to Jennah, reluctant to speak in front of all these people. They know I've been off sick, but they think it's glandular fever. Only Jennah, Harry and Kate know the truth, but even though they have been sworn to secrecy I don't doubt rumours have been going round.

  Professor Williams turns back to the orchestra. 'Fabulous!' he exclaims. 'We have a pianist! Which means I can relinquish my position behind the piano and get back to my proper job – which is, of course, telling everyone what to do!'

  I shrink into my seat. Jennah is laughing. Professor Williams is talking to Ollie Hendon again. I wonder if I can make a run for it.

  'OK, OK, quieten down, everyone.' Williams taps his baton against his music stand. The buzz of voices gradually dies. He goes over to the grand piano and holds his arms out towards it, bowing low and looking over at me.

  'Oh, for heaven's sake,' I mutter frantically to myself, burning up with embarrassment. I should never have come. Williams is still standing there in his ridiculous pose, waiting for me. I shake my head vigorously at him. A slow tapping of bows against stands begins in the orchestra. Professor Williams turns and lifts his hands upwards to encourage them. The tapping grows louder. I glare over at Jennah but she raises her hands defensively as if to say, This has nothing to do with me. She is grinning though, clearly enjoying herself. I drag myself to my feet. I can feel the blood in my cheeks. Harry lets out a wolf-whistle. I could murder him.

  I cross over to the piano. Williams comes up behind me and pats me on the shoulder. 'You didn't think I'd just let you sit there and listen, did you?'

  I sit down and adjust the stool and take a look at the music and curse myself for walking into such a trap. Throu
gh a fog of noisy chatter, I hear Jennah volunteer herself as my page turner.

  'I thought you were my soloist!' Williams protests.

  'But I'm on last!'

  She gets her way and pulls up a chair beside me as Williams taps his music stand and asks for quiet again. Her eyes are alight. 'I thought you weren't coming back till tomorrow!'

  I refuse to look at her, flicking through the music. 'I'm not talking to you right now,' I say. 'This is all your fault.'

  'I can't believe you're back!' She begins to laugh. 'Flynn, why are your cheeks so pink?'

  'Fuck off.'

  She laughs again and puts her hand on my thigh. 'Ooh, I could so kiss you right now.'

  'And I could so hit you,' I retort.

  'Are you two lovebirds ready over there?' Williams calls out. There is laughter from the orchestra. I feel like my face is going to explode.

  Jennah's shoulders are still shaking with laughter. 'Oh, Flynn, your face!'

  'Shut up!' I whisper.

  'OK, let's take it from Ollie's song, top of page fiftynine. Cellos, remember your adagio,' Professor Williams instructs.

  'It's got three different key signatures,' Jennah informs me.

  'I can see that!'

  Williams raises his baton and we start ploughing through the Grieg. I struggle to sight-read my way through the piece, not helped by Jennah, who is jiggling with excitement at my side.

  'What time did you get back?' she asks me during a break in the piano score.

  'Just now. Where's my re-entry?'

  'Relax, you've got ages. Did you go back to the flat?'

  'Briefly. Do I come in here?'

  'No, all this bit is orchestral. Are you pleased to be back?'

  'No.'

  Her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. 'Liar. You've been talking about this moment for the last two weeks! I can't believe you're finally free of that place!'

  'Would have stayed if I'd known I was gonna get roped into this!' I snap. 'How long is this bloody thing going on for?'

  'Only till eight. OK, you come back in here. Shit, where are we?' Suddenly panicked, she turns over two pages at once.