Free Never Ending by Martyn Bedford Page B

Lucy, of all people, lets out the first snort of laughter it sets off a chain reaction right round the circle, all the tension of the tale of her niece’s death released in one mighty blast of relief.
    Shiv is doubled up in her chair, gasping for breath. Almost wetting herself. They all are, by the looks of it – even Assistant Sumner. Everyone’s eyes are open, weeping tears of mirth, the patients exchanging glances with one another to make sure it’s OK for them to find something so appalling so funny.
    Then Lucy, barely able to speak for laughing, says, “Chocolate Hobnobs.” And sets them all off again.
    The real tears soon follow; the collective shame. Lucy, sobbing her heart out, clasped in Caron’s hug; Caron crying every bit as hard, whispering, “ I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry” . Shiv and the rest sit, heads bowed, not watching them.
    When the bell brings Talk to a close, Sumner says they’re free to take a break before returning to S-10 at 4 p.m. for the final session of the day: Write. In ones and twos, they leave the room till Shiv and the care assistant are the only ones remaining.
    “Need some head space?” Sumner asks. Smiling. She’s sorting out materials for Write, taking a storage tub from a shelf and distributing its contents around the table: a school-style exercise book and ballpoint pen placed in front of each seat.
    “Something like that.”
    “It’s tough, isn’t it, Talk?” When Shiv doesn’t reply, the young woman gestures at the chair where Lucy was sitting and says, “Shiv, it’s OK to laugh.”
    “Yeah, I know.” Her counsellor told her something similar. “Your brother wouldn’t want you to be miserable for the rest of your life.”
    “Loo break,” Sumner says, excusing herself. Maybe she’s just giving Shiv that head space . “Promise not to scrawl any rude words in the Write books.”
    “I don’t know any rude words,” Shiv says. Sumner laughs.
    Alone, Shiv picks up her exercise book. Blue, her name already printed on the front on a sticky label. The “b” and the “h” in Siobhan are the wrong way round. She sets the book back down.
    It’s too warm in here. Too stuffy.
    She goes to the window and jiggles it open to let in a wash of fresh air. Looking out of the window is a mistake. The lake. She should’ve anticipated that.
    A figure near the lake snags her attention. A boy. Declan?
    But she registers the yellow jumpsuit, the white dressing on his forehead. Mikey. He is standing by the fence, staring in the direction of the water, gripping the chain-link mesh as though trying to uproot the fence altogether.
    They are in their circle again. Write is like Talk, only written down, and not to be shared. Just with Sumner, when she collects their books at the end.
    As Sumner explains all this, Shiv’s attention drifts. The most disconcerting aspect of this room isn’t its oranges-and-lemons colour scheme but the faint echo of the young woman’s voice. Even though she’s stopped talking now and people have begun to write, the background murmur continues. It’s as though Sumner’s remarks have been taped then immediately played back at low volume.
    Shiv shuts her eyes. Listens. Listens really hard.
    “Shiv?”
    “Sorry?” She opens her eyes.
    “Are you all right?”
    Assistant Sumner is standing up. Then Shiv realizes she is as well. The plastic water jug is in her hand; some of the contents have slopped onto the floor by her feet.
    “Put the jug down, please.”
    No, she won’t. Shiv swings her arm back, then forwards, flinging the jug at the window as hard as she can and sending an arc of water across the room. The jug narrowly misses Sumner and crashes against the windowsill before ricocheting away into a corner. Water streaks down the glass, dripping off the sill and onto the carpet in a dozen miniature waterfalls.
    Silence. Everyone is staring at Shiv.
    Sumner smiles her regular smile. One shoulder of her uniform is soaked. She flinched as the