Part 6 (2/2)

So I should tell them I'm crazy? That it's not some temporary b.u.mp in the path like theirs? Mine's an illness, a permanent mental illness. One that can't be cured, only managed. That's the term, isn't it? Managed? Madness under gla.s.s?

Had someone broken the rules and told Riley he had schizophrenia? Not if she was sticking with him. If she knew, she'd be running before he lost it and started ranting like a madman.

Now, Maximus, don't think that way.

What way should I think? Ah, yes. Clearly. Think clearly. If only I knew what that was ...

What does Riley think? She believes she understands something, so what is it?

Does it matter? Really?

No, it does not, and herein lies the problem. The problem of clarity. That there is a corner of his mindNo, let's be honest, Maximus, you like to play the madness card, but it's not just a corner, there's a whole floor of your mind that is clear. It's the floor that understands you can't be worrying what she thinks at a time like this. Also the floor that whispers, quietly and rather politely, that a boy worrying what a girl thinks of him isn't really madness, or every boy is mad sometimes.

”Max?” Riley whispers, and he blinks hard.

”Are you okay?” she asks as they crouch in the dark room, lit only by the glow of his watch.

”Right as rain,” he says, smiling, and she doesn't like the smile. It annoys her in some way, perhaps because she spots the falseness. Maybe because she thinks he's mocking her. Right as rain. Just a temporary glitch in our evening. Haven't you ever been taken hostage before?

”We'll make it,” he says solemnly, and that doesn't help, because the switch is too fast, and now she's sure he's mocking her. Can't win, old boy. Can't win at all.

”At least you're taking the situation seriously now,” she says.

”The guns and the blood helped convince me.”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. You truly are an imbecile, aren't you, Max? She flinches, as if remembering the last time she saw blood and guns, the death of the couple she babysat for, and he hurries on, ”I'm sorry if I was being an a.r.s.e earlier. I just wasn't sure it was real.”

Her brow furrows.

Did you just say that, Max?

Of course he did, because he was slipping and sliding like a newborn calf on ice.

Because you're scared. Shocking, really. Given the guns and the blood and the death. Yes, it's real. Really, really real, and you aren't going to snap out, safe and sound in a padded room.

He pushes on. ”I mean that I thought perhaps it was part of your therapy. Force you to confront what happened when you were babysitting, by putting you in a similar situation, except this time you have to face the guns and the bad guys.”

She stares at him, and he feels sweat trickling down his cheek. Then she gives a slow nod. ”Immersion therapy. I've heard of it. I certainly hope they'd never do that without permission.”

”Exactly,” he says, a little too quickly. ”At first, when it started, it seemed surreal. Maybe that was shock. It took me a while to think straight and realize that they'd never trick a minor that way, and it's likely unethical to do it at all without permission.”

She nods, still slowly. It's not the best explanation, but she'll take it. Confusion and shock, yes, ma'am, that's all it was. Not that I meant I thought it wasn't real because I've had hallucinations before.

”So you're okay now?” she asks.

There's a split second where reality and his inner monologue merge, and he almost says yes, he's fine, or so they say, with the new meds, and he hasn't hallucinated in months. Which is not, of course, what she's asking at all, and he catches himself and smiles. ”Right as”

”Right as rain,” she says. ”Got it.” And she shakes her head, but she smiles too, that slightly exasperated smile, like he's a bit daft but not really, you know, crazy.

He hears something in the hall, and he looks that way, sharply, then at her, seeing if she noticed it too, because that's the barometer these days: If I see or hear something, is it just me?

Except that isn't what's happening here, and he's certain of it, because the scenario has gone on too long, become too involved and too logicalas logical as a hostage situation can be. The meds have been working, and he has to trust thattrust, trust, trustbecause while they have their side effectstremors, difficulty sleeping, dry mouththe alternative is worse. He can live like this, or so they say, though he hasn't yet decided what kind of life this is, always worrying, always wondering. But for now, the meds ... the meds ...

He swears under his breath.

”What's wrong?” Riley whispers.

”Do you know where they put our belongings? The things they confiscated?”

Her eyes widen and he thinks, b.u.g.g.e.r it, what did I say? I'm making sense, aren't I? Because that's another symptom. He has them memorized, all the unexperienced signs that could pop up and say h.e.l.lo at any given moment. Like disorganized speechmore colorfully known as word saladwhere what one believes one is saying has little in common with what one actually says. His doctor doubts Max will ever have that, because his thoughts aren't truly disorganized thoughts, not the way they could be, just, well, not exactly orderly. Organized but not orderly.

”The cell phones,” she says. ”Of course.” Then a blazing smile. ”You're brilliant.”

Why yes, yes I am, thank you for recognizing that, even if it wasn't what I meant at all. No, of course it was. Because: I. Am. Brilliant.

”Yes, the mobiles,” he says. ”If we can get to them, we can make contact. Did you bring one?”

She shakes her head. ”You?”

Me? No, I don't own a mobile. Not anymore. Who would I call? Ah, yes. My friends. Perhaps my best friend, Justin. No, wait ... Justin wants nothing to do with me. He's made that quite clear. And I'm not sure my other mates would take my calls. Not after ”the incident.”

No need for a mobile, then, not when I sit in the b.l.o.o.d.y house all day, reading and studying and pretending I'll go to uni soon. Of course I will. That's what Mum says. Just relax, Maximus. There's no rush. Take some time off. Make sure the meds are working this time.

You want to go out, Max? I'll take you anywhere you like. By yourself? Oh, Max, I don't think that's wise. Not yet. Yes, yes, it's been three months without an episode, but still ...

But still ...

”Max?”

He shakes his head. ”I didn't bring mine either. I'm sure someone did, though. We'll look for a rear door first. That will be plan B.”

”Plan B? Or plan C?” A smile, not really for him, just relief at having plans, but he'll take it anyway.

”We'll make it plan B.” He looks toward the door. ”Do you hear anything?”

”A couple of minutes ago. Nothing since.”

”Good. Off we go, then.”

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