there was something more I could do, but it doesn’t seem possible. I live in a houseshare, and even if I moved to the sofa, it wouldn’t be practical.’ Hearing myself say it out loud makes me realise how affected I am by Clive. His story. Our shared scars. It is irrational and yet I’ve made a vow to help. There’s an odd sensation rushing over me. The sense of belonging to a secret club that I didn’t plan to be a part of.
‘When will you next visit him?’ George asks.
‘I can come tomorrow, after work.’ I would go later today, but it’s been a long day already and I want to make sure Lucy is okay.
‘I’ll be on the ward then. I’ll fill you in on any developments from the meeting.’
I smile knowing he’ll be there, the conversation making me think that perhaps I’m creating more than one connection.
After hanging up, I place the cleaning equipment back in the cupboard ready for the early-morning cleaner, and the same thought I’ve been trying to shake off strikes me again. This empty room isn’t in use. Is there any chance it can be of help, if only for a while?
16
Clive
Anyone would think that Clive’s ability to make a cup of tea was miraculous. He’d offered to bake the occupational therapist a cake in addition, but the jest hadn’t been well received by the young health care professional reviewing him.
Since then he’d been assessed several times over in multiple formats. Short of allowing the doctors to probe orifices he wasn’t prepared to have probed, he was passing with flying colours. They’d finally got the balance of medications right and he was no longer on the heart monitors they’d been keeping him on. They were also making certain the hallucination he’d had was just that and ensuring it wasn’t something that was going to become a regular thing. He’d not mentioned the additional moments he was recalling. He was holding them close to his chest.
Now they thought his confusion had subsided, and he was once again fully mobile, they kept bandying about a word that was far scarier than anything else he’d faced: home.
He didn’t want to go back there. To his surprise, for once, the police were on his side. They’d decided, despite there being no overall evidence of Clive’s recollections, they were going to do a full forensic screening of his house. There were details they weren’t telling Clive. He could tell. But while his home was a crime scene it gave him a temporary reprieve. It also gave him some hope that he was right. Something had to be amiss if they were prepared to search the place. He was sure of it.
Even when he was given the green light in the future, Clive still planned to refuse to return. He wanted a new home. He owned the property, which made it more complicated than if he’d been a council tenant. It was going to be a slower process. He was lucky. He’d inherited his house after his parents had passed away within five years of each other when he was still in his twenties. A lifetime ago: a period of his life he remembered very little of and which he always referred to as the grieving years if anyone asked.
What it meant was that Clive actually had enough money in the bank to purchase or rent a flat without relying on the sale of his house. Not that there was so much he’d be able to fritter it away by staying in a hotel beforehand. He’d have to find another solution.
The social team looking after him were looking into potential options. As Clive wasn’t one for modern technology, he’d taken to getting the daily newspaper from the trolley that came round and perusing the adverts as if they might somehow contain the answer. They may well do, even if renting wasn’t the perfect solution. Most of the options seemed preferable to being stuck in a care home.
There had been a few houses where there was a room available, but most of those were student lets. He had no idea what the response would be from the landlord when a seventy-nine-year-old called to make enquiries. He was sure if he explained his circumstances they’d be fairly understanding, but the thought of shared bathrooms and messy kitchens had so far prevented him from making any calls. He’d want an en suite at the very least. That was the thing with becoming