There are the usual suspects gathered for our afternoon TV viewing. The ‘inmates’ of our wing are all women. There’s Lizzie, a chain smoker. She sits in the corner, in her ‘special place’, for lighting up. It’s been five years since the smoking ban, but they still put her there. Underneath her chair is a decade of burned tobacco stains. Like me, she is a long-term patient. So too is Emily. Emily tells everyone she suffers with her nerves, whatever that means. Unlike Lizzie and me, she still gets visitors, mainly her son. According to Emily, he owns St Michael’s and she believes it’s very good of him to allow us lunatics to stay here. Then there is Margaret. She and I have something in common: she too has tried to kill herself. She doesn’t believe anyone loves her. Her family tell her they do, but she doesn’t believe them.
The Late Late Show is on Friday nights, but most of us see it on Sunday. I’m not a fan of the programme. Mary loves it. On Fridays she says, ‘Fridays wouldn’t be Fridays without the Late Late Show.’ When she gets to see it all over again, she says, ‘Great. Sundays wouldn’t be Sundays without the Late Late Show.’ Mary has been here longer than any of us; she came in when she was eighteen. A man did badly by her, got her put away because she was ‘trouble’. According to Mary, that was a lie because ‘my mother, God rest her, brought me up proper’. Mary is fifty, which means she has been here for thirty-two years. That’s a long time. Most people think Mary is slow, soft in the head and kind of stupid with it. I don’t see it that way. I just think of her as different.
I’ve no interest in any of the programmes really, but I usually sit with them on Sunday. I hate the day either way, so I might as well pass the time somehow. I want the time to go faster now, so that I’m with Dr Ebbs sooner. We settle ourselves in armchairs and the theme tune blares out, making Mary very happy.
The first item is about the murder of the young girl. I’ve heard about it on the radio. Since Friday, they say another girl has been found. As part of the segment, they are showing pictures of children murdered over the past twenty years. They do this whenever there’s a news story about bad things happening to children. I often think about the other families, wonder if, like me, they hate it too, seeing the frozen images put out for public consumption over and over. I’m not surprised to see Amy’s picture nor am I surprised when no one looks at me. Either they’ve forgotten the reason I’m here or they’re new and don’t know my story. Perhaps no one cares any more.
The discussion is about whether society has become more dangerous for our children. Lots of people want to speak. The show is having what they call a heated debate. This type of thing pumps up the viewer ratings, so it happens often. Mary is transfixed by the screen. I’ve stopped listening to their arguments. After a time, it all becomes nothing more than a mishmash of words. Fear gets people upset, but despite their heated debate, none of them thinks anything like that will ever happen to them.
When Dr Ebbs asked me what it was that I was afraid of, I told him it was change. Change upsets the routine, the cocoon I’ve created for myself. Is that cheating? If I’m being honest, if the only reason I exist is because death would be too easy an option, then I shouldn’t take the protected path.
Like those people on the television, I’m afraid, but I’m afraid of different things. In here, physically I’m safe. I can live out my protected existence, continuing my life of nothingness. But I can never escape from me. I can’t go back and change all the things I want to change. No matter how long I’m on this earth, nothing will ever undo what has happened; nothing will ever bring her back.
Seeing Amy’s picture on the television reminds me again that I will ask Dr Ebbs for her photograph. It’s a big step, and I fear perhaps I’m starting to forgive myself. There can never be any talk of that. I just want to look at her before I go to sleep. I think Dr Ebbs believes in me and, for some reason, that means something. Maybe Bridget is right, maybe the good doctor is just that: good.
It’s only when the programme shows images of the first young girl murdered that I take a closer look. She is wearing her school uniform. She looks so young, so full of life. Maybe that’s why I’m thinking the way I am, because when I look at the girl, it’s as if I’m seeing a different version of Amy staring back at me. As they continue the debate, they leave the image up on the screen, so I have plenty of time to make my own comparisons. The more I look at the image, the more I wonder if I’ve gone completely mad, because the longer the picture is up there, the more convinced I am that I am right.
If I were to ask someone a question about the murdered girls, one of the nurses, say, they wouldn’t like it. They would think I had a sick mind. Not that they don’t think that already, but even so, considering my history, a question from me about murdered girls would be taken badly. Bridget is my best hope, but that means waiting until the morning. I can ask her about both girls then, find out what she knows. It wouldn’t be a good idea to say anything to anyone else now. There is no point. I’ll just sit here and go to my room when I’m allowed.