The World Out There - 23. Twenty-Three

His first visitor at Nurton Cross was his mother.

It was a Saturday morning and he had been there for just under a month. He’d been sat in a corner of the Common Room, reading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. It was a book Mrs Williams had given him to read, saying it was another book on that year’s reading list. He was enjoying it, but it was a strange book. It was narrated by a boy with Autism who was trying to solve the killing of a neighbour’s dog, but his investigations seemed to lead him far away from that dead dog. There was one thing that he happily took from the book: as long as he could remember, people had hinted, implied and openly said that he was “on the spectrum”, that he, too, was Autistic. But reading this book showed him they were all wrong: he wasn’t Autistic, he wasn’t even close to it. He was nothing like the narrator of that book. People could get things really wrong.

He’d been interrupted in his reading by Gary, one of the nurses there. Gary had walked up to where he was sat and quietly said, “Liam, you’ve got a visitor.”

“A visitor?” It had been the last thing he’d been expecting. He’d just expected to spend the day reading, that’s what he’d done the two previous Saturdays.

“Yes, your mum is here to see you,” Gary replied.

“Oh. Right,” Liam said, as he closed his book.

He’d followed Gary to the Visitors’ Room, again having to pass through several locked doors, Gary again opening and closing all those doors with the bunch of keys attached to his belt.

The Visitors’ Room was situated at the front of the building, off the main corridor, and he’d been surprised at how large it was as he first walked into it. It was a square shaped room, lit by a bank of windows that filled the far wall, giving a view of the building’s car park. It seemed far larger than any other room at Nurton Cross, that he had been inside, though its ceiling seemed uncomfortably low.

The room’s walls were painted a pale green while the floor was covered in the same dark grey lino that covered all the other floors there. It curved up over the wall’s skirting boards. It was furnished with numerous small, square tables, all with brightly coloured and mis-matched Formica tops, with two plastic chairs on either side of them. The tables were arranged in rows across the room, with a lot of space around them. The room looked like his old school hall at examination time, except there were only a few people there, sat at different tables.

Sat at one of the tables, on the far side of the room, he could see his mother. He followed Gary towards that table. His mother was dressed in her old, black woollen three-quarter length coat with its wide collar. She sat with her coat open, and he could see that she was wearing her old cream jumper and a pair of dark blue skinny jeans, but all her jeans were skinny ones. Her brown hair hung lankly at either side of her face: her short hair had not been styled at all - it simply hung down as two short curtains on either side of her face.

Gary stopped at his mother’s table and quickly said, “Mrs Duffield, here’s Liam.”

“I told you, it’s Miss Duffield,” his mother snapped back at Gary. “God, you people never listen.”

“If you need anything, Sarah and Anthea are staffing the Visitors’ Room today,” Gary told him, nodding his head towards the two nurses sat at a table at the entrance to the room.

“Okay,” Liam quietly said, sitting down on the other chair at his mother’s table, as Gary walked away.

“God, everyone here is so rude,” his mother announced.

Liam just shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t want to argue with her.

He took a quick moment to glance closely at her. She was leaning back against her chair, one leg crossed over the other, but what surprised him was how little make-up she was wearing. She had red lipstick enhancing her wide lips, but her face wore no other make-up. She never wore this little amount of make-up outside of their home, her home it was now. Even when she went to work, her face was fully painted with make-up.

“This place is in the middle of fucking nowhere. It has taken me over an hour and a half to get here. That’s time I’ll never get back. I had to get a bus, a tube, an overground train and then another bus to get here, and that bus didn’t bring me all the way. It dropped me at the end of the road, and I had a ten-minute walk to finally get here. And no one is going to pay me my fares back. Why the hell did they put this place all the way out in Kent? There’s enough madhouse hospitals in London,” his mother said, her face pulling tighter and tighter with her own annoyance.

“I didn’t know I’m in Kent here,” Liam quietly said. That had never been a question he’d bothered asking anyone. It hadn’t seemed important. Well, now he knew.

“Jesus Liam! You are so stupid, you don’t know nothing,” she snapped at him. It was one of her favourite criticisms of him. “And you have caused me so much grief. You have made my life a living-fucking-hell!” she continued.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. It was as if he was suddenly back home and was apologising for everything she fired at him in the hope she wouldn’t lose her temper with him, again.

“Don’t you start with your “sorry, sorry” at me. You listen to what you’ve put me through.”

“Yes,” he quietly replied.

“I’m now seen as the bitch of our estate. Everyone thinks they have the right to hate me now, when most of them don’t even know me. They call me ‘The Psycho’s Mother’. Even little kids spit at me in the street. Little kids! All the bitches on the estate look down on me, especially all those fucking darkies. They don’t even try to stop me hearing what they say. I hear them every day, ‘That bitch should be in prison for what she let her son do.’ Like I ever had any control over a thing you did. And those bloody Indians have banned me from the Nisa store in the square. I’ve got to go all the way to the High Street to get my fags now.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don’t you start with me. You haven’t heard the worst of it. The outside of my flat has been vandalised. Bloody kids spraying all kinds of shit on my walls. They couldn’t even spell Psycho Bitch. And they have been shoving dog shit through my letter box and all over the front door. Least I think it’s dog shit. The police can do DNA tests on it, but they refused to. When I rang them to tell them what those kids are doing to me, those bloody coppers just put me on hold. They wouldn’t have done that if I was one of those darkies with a stupid African name.”

He pushed his body back into his chair, pushing away all the tiny space between him and it. He wanted to push himself away from her words, especially her racism.

“And the bloody council won’t do anything about it. I have been down there enough times. I’ve told them everything that has been happening to me. Do they listen? Do they fucking care? They just keep saying that they don’t have any free flats to rehouse me in. I tell them that it’s my human right to be rehoused, but they just ignore me. They can rehouse all those Somalian refugees just because they’re black. Most of them can’t even speak English but they all know the meaning of Benefits, with their hands out. Most of them aren’t even honest refugees, they just come over here to leach off our benefits system.”

Please, please let her stop. He wished it, he wished it so hard, as if there was some being who could hear his silent thoughts.

“I bought you a bag full of clothes, which I had to carry here all by myself,” she told him, suddenly answering his wish, “Your Aunt Sadie said I should, though God knows what she knows about it. That doesn’t stop her though. She’s been telling me what I should be doing ever since you killed that poor boy.” Liam winced and glanced down at the table between them. “Your Aunt Sadie thinks her farts smell of perfume. She’s been on at me to change my job again. She’s nothing special - she only works in a GP surgery. I like working at the supermarket. I get staff discount and loads of free stuff and Marcus says I’ve got a good chance of being promoted to Shift Lead…”

His mother carried on chattering about her job, talking about people and events he knew nothing about. He sat there now and let her words wash over him. Sadie was his mother’s younger sister and both women openly despised each other. They must be talking again, but would it last?

“I need to be going now,” his mother said. He glanced back up at her. “It ain’t an easy trip home. They could have at least sent you somewhere nearer to me, but they never listen to the mother.” Her last statement was delivered as she stood up from the table. Liam quietly followed her.

His mother strode over to the desk were Sarah and Anthea were sat. She stopped in front of it, standing over it, and, not even looking back at Liam. She announced, pointing at him, “I brought a bag of clothes for this one.”

“Once it’s checked, I’ll take it around to his ward,” Anthea quietly replied.

“When’s the next bus to the station?” his mother demanded of Sarah and Anthea.

Sarah glanced at the watch on her wrist and replied, “It’s at twenty to.”

“Half an hour! This place is a joke!” his mother snapped and strode past their desk. She stopped at the room’s double door entrance, snatched hold of one of the door’s handles and pulled at it. But the door remained firmly closed.

“This is bloody locked!” his mother almost shouted. “This is like a bloody prison!”

“It is a prison,” Liam whispered under his breath.

“I’ll let you back into the reception area,” Sarah said as she stood up from the desk.

“Why are all these doors locked?” his mother demanded from Sarah.

“Because this is a Secure Unit,” Sarah said as she unlocked the door.

“And I’m just a visitor. I don’t need locking in” his mother replied.

“After you,” Sarah said as she held the door open for his mother, who strode through it without a word to Sarah, who then followed behind her. His mother didn’t look back at him and she certainly didn’t say goodbye to him.

“Have a seat and I’ll call the ward for you,” Anthea said to him.

Liam just nodded his reply and sat down at the nearest empty table.

His mother’s visit left him with an uncomfortable feeling pushing away at his stomach. It wasn’t as if her racism was anything new - he had heard it all before He had grown-up with her and she had certainly not held back with her negative opinions of anyone who wasn’t white, like herself. But hearing it now, he had wanted to physically pull away her comments, they were so untrue. Mrs Williams was black; the nurses Cindi and Warwick were black, like so many other nurses on the ward; even some of the other kids on the ward were black, and none of them were like the stereotypes that poured out of his mother’s mouth. But he couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t argue with his mother - she was his mother, and she really didn’t like him arguing with her. He’d learnt that early enough.

Had Sarah and Anthea heard his mother’s comments? Would they think he was just as racist? It was never easy, especially when his mother was involved.

He had been so glad to see Gary entering the Visitors’ Room to take him back to the ward. He could hide away on the ward and no one there knew his mother.

It was over an hour later that Anthea brought his bag of clothes to his ward. The clothes were stuffed into a dark green M&S carrier bag, the ones you had to pay for. When had his mother started shopping at M&S? She always said that that store was far too expensive.

He took the bag into his room and unpacked it. Inside he found a selection of his old underwear, most of his white t-shirts, though no coloured ones, and a pair of his jeans. Had his mother just grabbed the first clothes she could find? He began to fold up the clothes, before putting them away in his wardrobe.

<><><><>

His second visitor at Nurton Cross had been a complete surprise.

It was the following Saturday, after his mother’s visit. Again, he was sitting, reading a book in the Common Room. He was coming to the end of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. He now liked the narrator of the book: he had warmed to the kid, though so often the narrator didn’t see what was in front of him. He also liked reading because he could hide behind his book. Sitting there reading in the Common Room, people didn’t bother him if he had his head buried inside a book. He knew what Dr Sayeed had said but trying to make friends with the other kids on the ward was a far too scary an idea. He also didn’t know how to make friends. He couldn’t just walk up to another kid and ask them to be his friend. So he stayed hidden behind his book - it was safer that way.

His reading had been interrupted by Elizabeth, one of the ward’s nurses, coming up to him and saying, “Liam, you’ve got a visitor waiting for you.” The tone of her voice was light and upbeat, as if he should be happy about this.

“My mum’s come to see me again?” he said, closing his book.

“I don’t know, they didn’t say,” Elizabeth replied with a little shrug of her shoulders.

As he followed Elizabeth to the Visitors’ Room, he kept worrying about why his mother was back. From the way she had spoken, the previous Saturday, he was sure he wouldn’t see her again for weeks. Had something happened? Was there something wrong with her? Was there something wrong that was going to happen to him? He couldn’t control the panic, so he walked alongside Elizabeth with his head down, but he kept quiet about it.

As he stepped into the Visitors’ Room, he scanned the room for his mother. He saw Bridget and a small dark-haired man sitting at the nurses’ desk there, but no sign of his mother. Bridget stood up from the desk and told Elizabeth, “Liam’s visitor is over at table three.” Then she just sat down again.

When they reached the table, he was surprised to see Mark Hiller sat there waiting for him. As Liam saw him there, panic leapt back into his mind. There was something wrong. Something had happened. There were problems with his trial. They were going to take him away from here and send him to prison. He tried to hide his mounting nerves as he sat down at that table.

“If you need anything, ask Bridget and Tommy at the desk,” Elizabeth said before she walked away, leaving him there.

“Hello Mr Hiller,” Liam said. His stomach contracted into a tight knot What would the bad news be?

“Call me Mark, I’m not here as your solicitor,” Mark Hiller said.

“You’re not?” The knot in his stomach started to unravel.

“I thought I’d come and see you and see how you’re doing here,” Mark said, a re-assuring smile creeping across his face. The man wasn’t wearing his usual suit and tie. Instead, he was wearing faded old blue jeans and a black and white checked shirt over a white t-shirt. The man’s unruly hair seemed even more unruly: the curls folded back on each other and some sticking out at odd angles. Strangely though, this casual and almost untidy look, made Mark Hiller look less podgy and far more comfortable in himself.

“You’re right, this is a good place,” Liam replied.

“That’s good to hear. How are you settling in here?”

“There’s this teacher, Mrs Williams, and she is great.” Liam found the words tumbling out of him as he told Mark about how wonderful Mrs Williams was and all the essays she had got him to write. As he did so, he couldn’t hide how excited he was over those essays: he so enjoyed planning and writing them, and he had basked in the positive response he’d received from Mrs Williams after she’d read them. “And I really enjoy school here. And they let me read all kinds of books too.”

“That’s really good,” Mark said, smiling back at him. “I was worrying you might find it difficult here.”

“My doctor, Dr Sayeed, says I should make friends with the other kids on the ward,” he admitted.

“And Dr Sayeed is right.”

“But it isn’t that easy.”

“I know. I got sent to Boarding School when I was seven and I found it hell-on-earth trying to make friends there.”

“Why were you sent to Boarding School?”

“Because my parents were pretty crap at being parents,” Mark replied with an almost embarrassed little smile.

“Yes, I know that.”

“It happens a lot.”

They fell silent for a moment, a slightly awkward silence. He hadn’t really thought about Mark’s parents or even Mark having them. The man was middle-class, he had a middle-class job, a middle-class voice, and weren’t middle-class parents supposed to be the best ones? Here was Mark saying his parents were crap, were shit. Liam never wanted to admit his own mother was a shit parent. Wasn’t he supposed to be loyal to her? She was his mother? But he knew he didn’t make it onto her list of main priorities - he probably hadn’t made it onto her top ten priorities most of the time. But admitting she was a shit parent didn’t seem right, didn’t seem fair to his mother. But Mark was sort of admitting it about his own parents.

“It’s great seeing you but why did you come here today?” It wasn’t as if Mark had to visit him, but it was good that he did.

“I wanted to see how you were doing and I guessed that you won’t be getting many visitors.”

“My mum came to see last week.”

“How was it?”

“She wasn’t happy at me. I’ve ruined her life, she said.”

“That’s not true, your mother is ruining her own life without any help from anyone else.”

He smiled back at Mark That was sort of true.

“What was your mother like?” he asked Mark.

“My father made enough money so that she didn’t have to be a parent. I was raised by nannies and later au pairs, but they were mainly during school holidays. She served on a lot of committees and was involved in a lot of charities. She’d regularly organise fundraisers for one charity or another. She did a lot for a neglected children’s charity. Which is ironic: she didn’t have time for me, I don’t think she really liked me. I’ve got two older brothers and they were both very sporty, and she was always boasting about their wins and the sports they played.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” Mark replied. “I’m an adult and I now know why my parents behaved in the way they did, and it wasn’t my fault.”

“Yes,” Liam said. But so often it had been his fault. His mother always blamed him whenever he did something wrong or things went work, and they often did, and it was often his fault… Liam tried to push those thoughts to the back of his mind. Mark had come here to see him, and his full attention should be on Mark.

“You said the school here lets you read their books,” Mark said.

“Yes, they have loads of them. I’m nearly at the end of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.”

“I’ve read that novel,” Mark said, smiling. “I saw the play first though.”

“They made a play of it?” No way could they make a play out of it? It was told by just one person, who had Autism, and he journeyed all over London. They had turned that book into a theatre play? Not that his experience of theatre plays stretched anymore than the few he had seen on television.

“It was very experimental with this incredible stage where things just appeared right from the scenery, and it all lit up with all these different light displays. Olly, my… my friend took me to see it and I was completely swept away by it. I went and read the book afterwards. It was very different from the play, but I still enjoyed it. I don’t often read novels, work often gets in the way.”

“I love reading books. I read them as often as I can. My mum didn’t like me reading. She said that it would damage my eyes.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“It didn’t stop me reading. I had to get my book from the school library though.”

“I don’t know much about what books are popular or good now, but I’ve got two Godsons - one’s about your age - and they recommended this book. I hope you haven’t read it,” Mark said, as he pushed a brown paper bag across the table, towards him. It was just a generic brown paper bag, no markings or pattern on the outside, but it was obvious there was a book inside.

“Thank you,” he said, embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck. Mark had brought him a present. He’d done nothing to deserve it. He opened the bag and found a paperback book inside. It was the first Harry Potter book - Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.

“Wow, thank you!” he said, pleasure and surprise leaping into his voice.

“You haven’t read it?” Mark asked.

“No. There was always a waiting list for it in the library and my mum won’t buy it for me.”

“You can read it now at your own pace and next time I see you, I’ll bring you the next one.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I mean you don’t have to bring the next book. But it’ll be great to see you again.” A moment of panic forcing the words out. He didn’t want Mark to think he didn’t want to see him again, because he really did.

“Seeing the pleasure on your face was worth every penny of that book. I don’t remember you smiling before, during that awful time.”

“It was,” Liam admitted.

“Don’t worry. We need to think of the future. I’ll come and see you each month. I’m afraid I can’t get here more often.”

“It’ll be great to see you once a month. It was nice seeing you today,” he told Mark.

“TIME’S UP! END OF VISITING TIME!” Bridget’s voice boomed out across the room.

“I think that’s my cue to go,” Mark said.

“Yes,” he agreed.

They both stood up from the table. Mark held out his arms and quietly said, “How about a hug goodbye?”

Liam just stepped into his arms. For a moment Mark’s arms enfolded him and Liam wrapped his arms around Mark’s back, pressing his head into Mark’s shoulder. For a moment, his nostrils were filled with the scent of the fabric conditioner from Mark’s shirt and his mind was filled with a feeling of safety. Then the hug was over and they were stepping apart.

Mark left the room with a wave to him, while Liam had to wait for a nurse to collect him from the ward. As he waited, he’d stepped up to the nurses’ desk where Bridget and Tommy were still sat.

“Mark, my visitor gave me this,” he held out his new book towards them. He’d left the paper bag back on the table. “Could you check it for me?”

“We’ll check it later and send it to your ward,” Bridget said, holding out her hand.

“But it’s only a book,” he replied. “I wanted to start reading it now.”

“We’ll send it back to your ward when we’re finished with it,” Bridget said, still holding out her hand.

“Don’t be mean, we can check it now,” Tommy said, smiling back at Liam.

“He’ll have to wait,” Bridget said, giving Tommy a sharp glance.

“Give me your book,” Tommy said.

Liam handed Tommy his new book. Quickly, Tommy flicked through the book. Then he held it upside down, just by the front and back covers, causing the papers to splay out like a fan, and gently shook it. Finally, he closed the book and handed it back to Liam.

“That’s all clear,” Tommy said.

“Thanks,” Liam replied, taking his book back off Tommy and turning away from the desk.

As he walked over to a table to wait, he heard Bridget snap, “Don’t undermine me like that again.”

“Don’t be such a miserable cow,” Tommy replied.

It seemed to take Elizabeth ages to come and collect him. He’d just sat there and waited and occasionally he felt Bridget giving him a strange glance. That didn’t bother him much, but he was anxious to start reading his new book. It was almost as if the book was alive in his hands and crying out to him to start reading it, but he couldn’t do that there.

When Elizabeth eventually arrived, he’d felt a moment of relief, he could finally start reading his new book soon.

When they returned to the ward, he asked Elizabeth, “Can I go back to my room? I’ve got a new book and I want to read it.”

“I don’t see why not,” she’d replied.

When he was left alone in his room, he’d sat down on his bed and joyfully opened his new book.