Page 60 of No Safe Place

Friday | Evening

Callum

While Maxwell went to make himself a coffee, Callum looked around his office. In a weird way it reminded him of his dining room at home. Everything was worn out, a bit grubby. The shelves were dusty, Maxwell’s desk was covered in piles of crap and the bin was full of crisp packets.

There was a clock on the wall and even though looking at it was painful, Callum hadn’t asked Maxwell to take it down. After the last few days, it didn’t seem as terrifying as it would have before.

Talking to someone new was a bit of a revelation.

David knew it all, everything since Callum was fifteen. Maxwell was a stranger, but after his support today, and the way he stood up to Field, Callum felt safe speaking to him. Plus, the poor bloke was still here, despite starting at God knows what time this morning.

So far, his questions were straightforward and cut to the heart of the matter:

If you had to pick one, which is scarier: the number itself or the perceived consequence?

You said in the past you did a lot of research to prove that these existential coincidences don’t exist. Have you ever considered that the researching itself could be a compulsive behaviour?

You believe you could never move out of your nan’s house? Why not? And why do you still call it her house?

After a while Callum got so engrossed in Maxwell’s questions, he forgot to count them.

Maxwell came back from the ten-minute break looking knackered. He settled himself into his desk chair with a cup of coffee and took a sip. ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything?’

Callum shook his head.

‘Where were we?’ Maxwell picked up his pen and surveyed his notes. ‘Oh yes. I was about to ask you about the book. Darlings, Obsessed. You can count me a fan. I really enjoyed it.’

Callum tensed. ‘Thank you. You read that quickly.’

The doctor looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed. ‘Oh, I didn’t read it especially. I read it ages ago. A patient recommended it.’

He leaned back in his chair, mirroring Callum’s hands-on-knees posture.

Cal crossed his arms.

‘How did you find the writing process? Partly it was written while you were in hospital, yes?’

‘Yeah. I wrote the first half when I was sixteen. Paige and I—’ He faltered, but Maxwell waited patiently. ‘We wrote a lot. She wanted to be an actor, but it was a waste, if you ask me. She could have been the next—’

He stopped, embarrassed that he couldn’t think of a playwright. Brain fog, just one side effect he hadn’t missed.

Callum swallowed. ‘But yeah. I wrote the second half after I got home, from my second stay in hospital. Then I redrafted the kid stuff and found my agent.’

‘And did you always want to be a writer?’

‘Ever since I was little. And I guess the only not-shit bit of having OCD was that by the time I was fifteen and in David’s little support group, I actually had something worth writing about.

‘Plus, you know, it was a good publicity angle,’ Callum said, with a wry smile. ‘The whole sectioned teenager thing. Very romantic.’

His agent, Dominic, had taken a punt on him.

Spun Callum as the working-class and mental Sally Rooney.

After strong hardback sales and a good publicity campaign, Dominic sold the film rights to Darlings, Obsessed to an American outfit for so much money, Callum wouldn’t have to write another novel for six years yet.

Unless Lily moved out. Then it would be three.

‘It’s a remarkable work. I’ve got a copy here somewhere.’ Maxwell got up from his chair and rooted around the bookshelves, moving stacks out of the way and scanning the spines. Callum pulled at the sleeve of his T-shirt six times.

Finally, Maxwell found it. The familiar purple cover was dog-eared, and the spine had been cracked. Cal liked books to look well-thumbed.

Maxwell flicked through the pages. ‘Do you mind if I read my favourite passage out loud?’

‘Go for it.’

Callum leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was knackered.

Dr Maxwell read aloud in a low, soothing voice.

‘Daniel packed his few possessions into his rucksack. Battered tobacco tin. A handful of birthday cards. When the bag was full, he drew the strings tight and hoisted it onto his shoulder.’

Callum kept his eyes closed, enjoying the shifting levels of darkness behind his eyelids.

In his mind he could still see his skinny sixteen-year-old self, packing to leave his little room – except when he left it hadn’t been a tranquil solo experience.

Paige had been discharged the month before but was back for a visit, sitting on the bed learning the “ the play’s the thing ” soliloquy from Hamlet.

Lily was picking out which of his posters she wanted to keep.

‘And then he stood, alone at the threshold of the room. Doorways had always been hard things,’ Maxwell read on. ‘Counting how many times he’d walked through them. How often others had. But—’

‘For this room at least,’ Callum took over, from memory, ‘his count was done. He wouldn’t see the four magnolia walls again, and the only thing he’d leave behind were the Blu-Tack stains.’

Maxwell stayed silent.

Callum opened his eyes. ‘I’m not an egomaniac who memorised their own book, by the way. It took fucking ages to get right.’

Maxwell was still looking down at the page. ‘It’s lovely. A beautiful end to the first act.’

‘For most people, it was the high point.’ Callum held out a hand for the paperback and Maxwell passed it to him. He flicked the pages, enjoying the sound. ‘Most people prefer the half where the main character is completely off his nut. It’s more romantic.’

He froze, book in hand. He’d taken it without thinking, stared at the words as he flicked the pages – not the numbers in the corners.

They sat in silence for a moment. Callum was too hot – the book heavy in his hands. He passed it back to Maxwell, who hadn’t noticed him spinning out, like David would’ve.

As soon as the book was on the other side of the desk Callum felt better.

He was about to ask if they could call it a night, when Maxwell leaned forward.

‘How did you feel about David Moore’s paper? At the time, in 2010.’

Callum stretched his arms above his head, then stood up and moved to the window. He knew that, on the fourth floor of this particular ward, it wouldn’t open. The sky outside was a brilliant indigo, and he could feel the last of the day’s heat radiating from the glass.

‘Well, obviously, I told him he could write about me. And he did offer me the chance to read it before he published it, but said I didn’t want to. Pretended I didn’t care.’

He turned back to the room.

‘I thought it would just be the details of how many doctors cocked up giving us an OCD diagnosis, but … it was personal. Really fucking personal. And it was my own fault for not reading it first, but that made me angry.’

Maxwell’s eyes strayed back to Darlings, Obsessed and Callum laughed.

‘I know, I’m a hypocrite, right? I gave my anonymity up anyway, didn’t I? I published that—’ He pointed.

‘It’s not the same—’ Maxwell started, but Cal spoke over him.

‘But now, I’m glad he did it. And if you read that paper, underneath all the bland academic speak, David was so angry .

And in hindsight, I’m fucking fuming too: at all the doctors who fucked us over; at the families who dropped us because they thought we were making it up; at the therapists who didn’t know shit about OCD. ’

He swayed slightly on his feet, feeling like he could drop on the spot, fall to the carpet.

Maxwell sat still in his chair, his attention unwavering.

‘Paige summed it up to me once. After the paper was published, she said: “David is worried that if the paper doesn’t go down well, we’ll all think we don’t matter.” But it did go down well. It made a difference, because we did matter.’

His eyes were unfocused, staring at a point over Maxwell’s head. ‘Paige, she was the youngest, but she was the cleverest.’

Usually, he couldn’t talk about Paige without crying, or nearly crying. And David – David was dead now too.

‘She was a fucking good liar – did I tell you that already?’ He looked at Maxwell, who shook his head. ‘Well, she was. She would have been a famous actor by now.’

The medication was turning him zombie, and his voice sounded flat and tired.

‘And I’m remembering why I wrote the book.

Why I worked so hard to get it published.

Because I wanted to help someone, Dr Maxwell.

That’s what David did, and that’s what Paige would have done, if she’d lived past fucking nineteen.

I thought that if one person could read it and find it useful or see some part of their own experience in it, then—’ He threw his arms up and let out one bark of laughter.

‘Well then maybe it wouldn’t all have been for nothing. ’

Maxwell gestured to Callum to sit back down, and he did.

‘That’s very noble, Callum.’

‘No, it’s not. Or maybe it is, I don’t know. I go back and forth.’ His eyes were closing again, heavier this time. He could feel himself slipping back into sleep. ‘But that’s what we were all doing, Dr Maxwell. All along.’

‘What who was doing, Callum?’

‘David,’ he murmured, feeling sleep overtake him. ‘And us. The five anonymous patients. We were trying to help.’