Inside Out

Due in at 10.40, the train is eleven minutes late when it reaches
the forlorn outskirts of the town. The man sitting alone in the rear
seat of the second carriage glances out at DIY superstores, factory
units to let, acres of car parks bordered by artificial mounds of grass
and dotted with thin, reluctant trees. He checks his watch again and
wipes his wet palms on his trousers.

His name is Michael Seare, and he doesn't really know what he's doing
here.

At thirty-five he has just about everything most people require for
contentment: a loving partner, two wonderful children, a reasonably
fulfilling and well-paid job, a house that is only about seventy
percent owned by the bank. His debts are manageable, his pleasures are
simple, his health--

His health should give him no cause for concern. He is not overweight,
he drinks in moderation and hasn't smoked - save for the occasional
joint - for nearly seven years. He has no particular family history of
heart disease, cancer, diabetes or anything else. His mother is still
alive and in good health, although his father died in a road accident
three years ago, at the age of fifty-eight.

He returns to the passing view, new suburbs of boxy houses with mean
rectangular gardens. Washing flaps on slow-turning rotary lines. A
small dog jumps around a blonde girl skipping. Two women sit on a patio
and drink from blue glasses. A boy in a sandpit stands and waves, but
disappears before Michael can respond. And none of them, no one in
those neat compressed homes, has an inkling of the obsession that is
destroying his life. But then why should they?

Returning to his appointment with destiny, his eyes pull back their
focus and find, on the glass, a No Smoking sign. He has a sudden
longing for a cigarette and knows that today, ironically, might be just
the day to resume the habit.

His father died on April tenth, which that year happened to be a
Friday. The same April tenth that on previous years he had studied
plans and laid bricks, or clambered over roof trusses and wrestled with
paperwork, or perhaps played golf and sat in the clubhouse with a
Guinness, never suspecting that April tenth held a terrible secret,
that a future April tenth lay in wait for him, its claws poised over
his heart.

Michael knows the date of his father's death only too well. What he
craves, what he desperately hopes to discover today, is the date of his
own.

There is a shudder as the train leaves the hard-packed earth beneath
the rails and launches screeching into the air. A valley opens below
him, with precarious wooded sides and a river that flows swiftly
towards a sea it can now smell, half a mile further on. Football is
being played in the park, and the goalkeeper glances up while dreaming
about opening time.

Michael grins nervously. He had forgotten all about the grand red brick
viaduct, one of the finest in the southwest. And the squealing is just
the brakes: now he thinks about it he can feel the train slowing. He is
two minutes away from the station, from a cigarette, from his destiny,
his date.

But funny to think it could have been today. Quite an irony.

Now they cross the modern bridge over the dual carriageway, busy with
early season holidaymakers and day-trippers intent on verifying an
optimistic weekend forecast. The cautious Ford Escort in the outside
lane brakes while driver and passenger check a road-sign and compare it
to their map. The driver behind sounds his horn and waves a fist, but
Bridget fails to notice. She is far too preoccupied to worry about
anyone else.

Bridget Calderwood is thirty-one but looks much older. She is thin and
frumpy, her face lined with an anxiety that Prozac can barely suppress,
a fear of the world that has prevented her from working for nearly two
years, since the death of her second child. She began losing weight
when her husband left, when it was no longer necessary to provide him
with a hot evening meal. Now the skin hangs loosely over her neck and
cheeks, and her clothes seem intended for an older, plumper woman,
perhaps the cheerful grandmother she will now never become.

She decides a change of lane is necessary and remembers to indicate
when she is halfway across, prompting another angry blast. It registers
as a distant foghorn in a misty corner of her mind. Today - as almost
everyone who knows her has been told - she is on a mission to find
peace.

The woman with her is a former colleague, the only one to stay in touch
when tragedy struck again. She is in her forties but seems younger; she
pays careful attention to her hair, her clothes. She is good-natured
and supportive, if a little dubious about the purpose of today's
journey. And Bridget's driving is making her nervous.

The friend's name is... Annabelle. No. Annmarie. Ann Marie. Spelt
separately. But she should not be here.

Bridget was instructed to come alone. I was quite specific about
that.

They want my help, they plead and beg to be seen, and yet they cannot
bring themselves to comply with a few simple conditions. I know it
shouldn't make any difference, but it bothers me when my plans are
threatened with disruption, particularly today.

It's my own fault, I suppose, for agreeing to see them both, but the
irony of Michael's obsession struck a chord with me. I thought he would
arrive early and be safely back with his family before the woman got
here.

She'll just have to wait, I mutter, and return to the telescope.

Michael Seare walks along the platform and on to the station concourse,
where he pauses at a kiosk and buys cigarettes and a box of matches. He
takes out a sheet of notepaper with my address and asks directions. The
vendor, Harry Williams, who once masturbated in front of a schoolgirl
and served three months for it, shrugs and gestures in a north-easterly
direction before turning abruptly to the next customer. Blushing
slightly, Michael hurries away.

Out of the station, he lights a cigarette and inhales with equal
measures of greed and guilt. He squints in the bright sunshine,
examining each of the three roads leading away from him and trying to
decide which one he should take. He checks the paper again, but the
directions I gave him are not written down: foolishly he believed he
could remember them.

He is frowning at the paper when Iris Summers attempts to pass him with
her ancient tartan shopping trolley. Stepping out of its path, he shows
her the paper and asks if she can help him. Iris once tried to poison
her husband, but less than a year later a heart attack did the trick
more effectively.

She answers without meeting his eye. He thanks her and turns away, his
stomach clenching with embarrassment. Doubts crowd in on him like
thugs, telling him he must have a screw loose, warning him to get back
on that train while he still can. But he takes a deep breath, shakes
his head as if to dislodge the objectors, and sets off towards my
home.

The taxi rank catches his eye, half a dozen cars sitting ready, but he
dismisses the temptation as laziness. His wife will see it as yet more
money wasted, and anyway the walk uphill will do him good. Offset the
hazards of the cigarette. An apologetic nod at the lead taxi driver,
Arshad, who works part-time and has a much more lucrative career making
fraudulent insurance claims, and then he continues on foot.

He is about twenty minutes away. How is Bridget faring with the
intricacies of the one-way system? I didn't want her arriving first,
but it looks as though as I have no choice. I need a diversion.

Closing my eyes, I find her - surprisingly - parked outside a small
parade of shops on the edge of the town centre. She is only a few
minutes from me by car, but she too is having her doubts, and Ann Marie
has suggested they stop for a drink. Good idea, Ann Marie.

I move the telescope slowly across town - sudden movements give me
nausea. On the high street the traffic warden, Tracy Thornton, is
arguing with a lorry driver about a delivery that is taking too long.
The lorry driver towers over her, but Tracy has the confidence of her
uniform and a heart-breaking smile. She dreams of making love to her
husband's best friend, in a scenario that in no way excludes her
husband.

At Rayz Cutz, Ray is standing in the doorway sipping coffee from a
Simpsons mug. The next customer is in the chair, shifting impatiently,
but he can wait. Eight hours a day on your feet, you need your breaks.
Two years ago Ray was first on the scene of a fatal car crash but could
not bring himself to stop and call for help. He still has nightmares,
sometimes so bad that his girlfriend has to sleep in the spare
room.

At The Pantry, Bridget and Ann Marie have found a table by the window
and are examining the menu. Ann Marie has been infected by her friend's
anxiety, and intends to settle her nerves with a cup of tea and a
chocolate muffin, although really she should be dieting: she's missed
Weightwatchers for the last two weeks and will fret over every
delicious calorie. Bridget cannot bring herself to eat, and settles for
coffee.

They are served by the proprietor, Marion Jones, who came to me about
her husband when she suspected him of an affair. She thought I wouldn't
know about her own liaison, with the young woman who helps out
part-time for cash and has a little boy to bring up alone. They made
love once, in a stockroom late on a Saturday afternoon, an experience
so liberating for Marion that she wondered just what she and her
husband had been doing all these years. Afterwards Cate couldn't stop
crying, and Marion has worried ever since that she forced her. Neither
had had a lesbian experience before, but Cate went on to have a
relationship with a woman who plays hockey for England.

For a long time I couldn't understand why so many secrets were related
in some way or another to sex. I couldn't see why it held such
crippling, dangerous control over so many people, people who in other
respects were cautious, intelligent, kind-hearted. Of course no one had
ever touched me erotically, or kissed me with any sort of
passion.

Finally I hired a prostitute, really to satisfy my curiosity about
others rather than from any lust of my own. After some discussion about
what was feasible, we agreed on what she called "a hand-job with
extras". The extras included a striptease, and I was also allowed to
touch her body. The moment she pressed my fingers against her breasts,
I understood everything. It was the most extraordinary sensation, of
softness and weight, pliant but firm, and it spoke directly to my
genitals, bypassing my brain entirely.

What I also saw was that she had been raped, that she continually lived
in fear, that she had a daughter and dreaded her one day following her
into this profession. I was aware of her repulsion, of course, and her
hatred of men; when I stared into her eyes, before she turned away I
saw that one day she would be raped again, and almost killed. I didn't
know how, or when, so there was no point in telling her. I might have
convinced her to give up prostitution, only to find her attacker is her
boss at a supermarket, or a man who sees her on a bus, or even her
boyfriend.

And that is what I live with. Information like white noise bombarding
me, a meaningless cacophony that I battle to control. The effort to
focus, to sift and make sense of it, takes more from me than you could
ever understand. Shutting out the extraneous data is like spending your
whole life holding back a landslide. Suffice to say, the last person to
describe my facility as "a gift" fled tearfully from the room at the
sound of my laughter.

Not that running in tears is uncommon, it has to be said. I believe the
midwife was the first to react in this way, and no doubt my mother
would have followed her had she been able to. My father was away at the
time, speaking at a scientific conference in Vancouver where he
attempted, and partially succeeded, in seducing the assistant with whom
he later eloped. He did not see me until I was a week old, by which
time medical opinion had firmly stated I would be dead. Apparently he
blanched, turned round and left the hospital without saying a word. He
did not speak to my mother for nearly two weeks, and left her a month
later. That was the last we saw of him.

There have been many attempts to categorise what is wrong with me,
exhaustive studies by some extremely distinguished men and women. No
one has ever succeeded in providing an exact definition. Not quite
cerebral palsy, not spina bifida, not Duchenne's dystrophy, not
hydrocephalus; but elements of them all, and more besides. The facial
deformity is an utter mystery, lately attributed to some malicious gene
that lay dormant for perhaps a dozen generations. Without that, without
a skull that looks like it has been used as a football by two
particularly brutal teams, I might have stood the chance of a partial
integration into society.

But there you go. At least I've exceeded my original life expectancy by
twenty-eight years. I can breathe unaided for most of the day, I can
operate my wheelchair, my telescope and my computer using two fingers
of my left hand, and I can swallow liquidized food. As I think I
mentioned earlier, I can achieve an erection although I cannot do much
with it. I have good vision and hearing, and an IQ in the upper average
range. Stephen Hawking I am not, but I do know something of the
universe. I know that Time is not linear, that it twists and folds back
on itself, and sometimes, to those who possess the right sensitivity,
it can yield information about the future, and indeed the past.

Michael is nearer now, his thoughts becoming easier to read, little
snippets of his life floating towards me. His daughter suffers from
constipation and is overdue a bowel movement. He intends to have his
favourite Indian takeaway tonight, regardless of what I tell him. He
has just turned his head to admire a woman in a very short skirt.

And now Bridget is breaking in, fretting to her friend about whether
there will be ample parking. She absolutely refuses to reverse or
parallel park, and doesn't take kindly to Ann Marie's offer of help.
Her hands are slippery on the steering wheel and there is a little
parcel of hate slowly unwrapping in her guts. Already I do not care for
this woman, as you may have guessed.

My mother died when I was fourteen. By now my father had a new family
and wanted nothing to do with me. Arrangements were made to provide me
with a home, and constant care from a team of nurses. Nowadays I make
do with just two, each working part-time, and a housekeeper. I am alone
most of the time as far as my body is concerned. I am never alone with
my thoughts.

And now they are here. Blast it. Bridget's car skews across the
driveway, a huge sigh as she releases her seatbelt. Michael pauses to
wipe his face with his handkerchief, at the same time glancing at the
house and realising this is the place. Crunch time.

I hear the buzz of the intercom and press the appropriate button on my
keyboard. "Mithith Calderwood," I say, struggling with the sibilance.
The misshapen palate and missing teeth can make certain words a
challenge. It takes an extra effort on my part to be comprehensible to
strangers.

Bridget makes no mention of her companion, so I have to stress that she
must come up alone.

"But my friend's come all this way. She wants to--"

"That wasn't the arrangement, Mrs. Calderwood. Please ask her to wait
in the car."

There is a grumbling between the two women that stops abruptly when
Michael appears at their shoulders and asks if he has the correct
address. A snort of annoyance from Bridget, who still has her finger on
the intercom.

"And that is Michael Seare, no doubt? You and Mrs. Calderwood are
welcome to come in. Up the stairs, third door on the right. I'll see
you first, Michael."

More grumbling. Ann Marie shrugs and walks back to the car, glad to be
away from her friend. Right now she wishes she was sitting on the
seafront, listening to gulls and letting the sun warm her face. I
release the lock and Michael pushes the front door open, then steps
back to let Bridget enter.

"Hope I'm doing the right thing," she mutters, and Michael smiles
nervously and says nothing.

After the experience with the prostitute, I resolved never again to
succumb to such weakness. My curiosity had been satisfied but my desire
had not, and never could be. Any woman forced to engage with me would
always feel repulsed, and I would experience that repulsion just as
keenly, destroying any prospect of pleasure. With that understanding
came a narrowing of my attitudes.

These people I see, I have little or no concern for them. I don't feel
obliged to help them or care about them: in truth, they are mostly to
be despised. I see them because they clamour to be seen, because by
word of mouth they have learnt that I can offer them hope; ultimately,
because it amuses me. It passes the time.

Michael won't understand that, of course. They never do. He enters the
room furtively, his expression carefully prepared for something
grotesque. After a few seconds of appraisal he lets out a breath and
relaxes, as if to say: yes, this man won't turn my stomach. But at
least he meets my eye, which is rare enough.

"Thank you for seeing me," he begins. "I know my problem must seem
pretty odd..."

"Not really." Pointless, I might have said.

"It's just, ever since Dad died, so out of the blue and all that... He
thought he had all those years ahead of him, always making plans about
tomorrow, and next week. Holidays a year or two down the line. And none
of that time was there for him."

"Would he have been happier, do you think, if he'd known?"

Michael doesn't ponder on this. He laughs, and it is a laugh that
acknowledges his own madness. "No, he wouldn't. I've thought about that
a lot. I know that rationally it would be terrible to know, and yet I
can't stop thinking about it. I've seen doctors and shrinks and
hypnotists and every crackpot you can name, but I can't get it out of
my head. First thing I think when I wake up: Is it today I'll die? Last
thing I think before I get to sleep: Is it tomorrow?" Another laugh.
"And you don't want to know what I go through when I'm awake at three
in the morning."

There is a glitter of good humour in my eyes. Oh, I know only too
well.

Michael continues: "So really you're my last hope. I have to know what
my date is. I have to know."

There is a muffled thump from outside. Whilst trying to listen at the
door, Bridget has just bumped her hip against the handle. It hurts, but
not enough for my liking.

"I appreciate what you've said, but I must tell you that even if I
wanted to give you an answer, in this case I don't think I can."

Michael is incredulous. "You brought me here to tell me that?"

"I've 'brought' you nowhere. You pleaded with me to come. And if I had
told you on the phone I couldn't help, would that have satisfied
you?"

But he doesn't answer for a long time, and when he speaks all he does
say, quietly and to himself, is that I am a fraud.

I've been called worse, but today isn't the day.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "But you know yourself, it won't help. You'll
be just as tormented."

He looks at me in a new way, with cunning, with malice. "You do know,
don't you? You know and you won't fucking tell me. What is it you're
after, you fucking spastic? Money? You want to see the cash before
you'll spill the beans, eh?"

There is spittle in the corners of his mouth, sweat gleaming on his
forehead. His fists are clenched, and it is quite possible he will use
them. He means to make it clear that he won't leave without an
answer.
And it isn't as though I care one way or the other.

"The fourteenth of October."

He looks at me, searching my face for a lie, and doesn't see one. His
mouth is almost too dry to speak.

"What... what year?"

"I don't know the year."

"What year?"

"I don't know the year. That's why I said I couldn't help you."

He goes on staring, then slowly lifts his arms and covers his face. He
drops to his knees and stays like this for a long time. Outside Bridget
is shifting her weight from foot to foot. She needs to urinate, but
even more she needs to know what is happening in here.

By the time he stands up, I know that Michael won't become violent
towards me or anyone else. All he wants to do now is get the hell out
of here, away from the sick crippled bastard, and go back home to his
kids. Tonight he will get horribly drunk and have clumsy but
restorative sex with his wife, and in time he'll tell himself it was no
more than a scam, a ruse, a fairground con like tarot or palm reading.
In an odd way I have cured him of his obsession, or at least prompted
him to cure himself. Every year on October thirteenth he'll remember
and get a little nervous; every October fifteenth he'll wake up and
privately celebrate.

Until the last October fourteenth.

He throws open the door and almost bumps into Bridget, who cannot get
out of his way fast enough. She watches him clatter downstairs and
wonders if he is on drugs, although he looked all right on the way in.
With a calming hand on her bosom, she peers into the room as if into a
place where demons lurk.

I call to her: "Come in, Mrs. Calderwood." And suddenly I realise I am
very tired.

Bridget enters the room and does nothing to disguise her horror at the
sight of me. Her instinct is to run away, but she won't be made to look
a fool in front of Ann Marie. She steadies herself, and prepares the
mask that will accompany her story.

I have no time for that. I don't want to hear about the two darling
children she lost to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, aged eleven months
and two months, almost four years apart. I don't want her tearful
reminiscing or pleas to be reassured that her little darlings are happy
with the angels. Because the person who recommended me didn't explain
himself very well, and Bridget has come here believing I'm a medium: a
blue-rinsed, softly-spoken Doris or Betty aiming to send the punters
away happy.

She is here because she is useful to me. No other reason.

But that's not to say I can't have a little fun with her.

"You're very troubled, Bridget," I tell her. "I can sense that."

She looks impressed, and nods, and takes a few brave steps
closer.

"You have been in great pain over the loss of your children."

A sob sticks in her throat. She nods again.

"You have come here for the truth."

"Yes. My babies."

"The truth is that you suffer from a condition known as Munchausen's
Syndrome by Proxy. You smothered Ben because you couldn't stand his
constant crying and the fact that you had no life of your own. The
attention you received as a bereaved mother was the most thrilling
experience of your life. When Ryan was born you knew almost from the
start that you had to do it again. And you did."

She doesn't say anything. She's stunned, because I've just demonstrated
that I'm not a phony, which deep down is what she believed, and what
she wanted. And then she's calculating the odds: who else knows? Who
have I told? Are the police waiting downstairs?

And already, a little boldness creeping back. Can he prove it? Of
course not. They were cremated. Anyway, look at him. He's a freak, a
monster. No one's going to....

"I can save you some time," I tell her. "There's something I want from
you, in return for silence."

I want silence.

The diagnosis of cancer was confirmed only a month ago, but I've known
for much longer than that. I felt the first corrupted cell divide, and
ever since I've been aware of it growing within me, pushing aside the
good cells, ignoring my body's feeble defences, slowly consuming me
from the inside out. There is a course of treatment they could try, but
even the consultant happily agreed it would probably kill me more
unpleasantly than the cancer.

And so I set about planning my own important date. June the
twenty-third.

It doesn't take me long to explain what I need. At first she is
suspicious, then incredulous. She really is a very tiresome woman, and
I'm glad now that Ann Marie is waiting outside. She at least is
trustworthy enough to state that Michael left long before her friend
emerged from the house. It isn't beyond Bridget to claim that she
simply discovered my body.

"You're joking?" she says when I explain it again. She keeps glancing
at the chair in the corner. Now that she knows, she can see the cushion
doesn't belong there. I invented some spurious reason for the
housekeeper to bring it up before sending her home early.

I watch Bridget weighing the odds. She protests, but in her heart she
knows it would be easy. She hates me more than she ever hated her
children.

At last she picks up the cushion. When she turns to me I can still see
doubt in her eyes, but by then I already know whether she'll do it.