Evergreen

~  The Maples  ~

What the hell was that? A firework? It’s December for God’s sake. Bonfire Night was ages ago.

I sit at the dressing table with my hand frozen in mid-air holding the eyeliner pencil a few inches from my face and listen. Nothing. Just a series of random noises. This place just isn’t what it used to be.

I take a breath and blink to re-focus my mind. I need all the concentration I can muster, but my hand won’t budge. It won’t listen to the signal firing from my brain, telling my hand to move and bring the pencil to my eyelids.

Breathe. Keep calm.

I try, but my heart rate is steadily increasing and combined with the sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach, I know what’s coming. This can’t happen. Not tonight. I have to breathe and I have to focus. Closing my eyes, I repeat the mantra over and over again until it becomes a jumble of words that cease to make sense. As I open my eyes, my sight readjusts to the light and I lean forward to look in the mirror. I haven’t looked this good in a long time. My chestnut brown irises stare back at me, though they’re looking a little less defiant now. A little more unsure. And I can’t be unsure, not now. Not when it’s taken so much for me to even get here. I raise an eyebrow at my reflection. Now is not the time to chicken out.

Resting my elbow on the table to stabilise my arm, I bring my hand forward but the shakes are still there and after I’ve swept the liner across my eye, I look in the mirror and it’s all I can do to stop myself from crying. Who am I kidding? Fannying around with make-up like a bloody teenager. It’s ridiculous. It was silly, so silly to think I could do this. But yet . . . I wanted to. For the first time in over a year, I actually wanted to get dressed up. I wanted to leave the house. And then that bloody firework went off.

It’s stupid, I know. But they’re always out there, making noise, drinking and generally being a nuisance. I was young once. Technically, at thirty-two, I still am but I don’t remember doing half the things they do. The behaviour of some of them is quite shocking. They hang around my front garden, swearing and shouting and most nights I’ve taken to sitting in the living room with the lights off so as not to draw attention to myself. The things they come out with, its . . . well, not proper for children their age. And that one from next door, Scarlett, is it? Well. I certainly don’t remember saying the kinds of things she says. Her mum must not care. How could she not know what her own child gets up to? Then again, she hardly ever seems to be there. Lately, she’s been out a lot with a new fancy-man. A tall guy with a cocky walk and an accent. Scouse? Welsh? I couldn’t quite place it. Either way, her attention has been firmly placed on him instead of her daughter. And that’s the problem, nowadays, isn’t it? Parents letting their children run riot, forcing people like me to stay indoors, frightened of what will happen if I dare to step foot outside my own home.

It was all going so well. I thought that maybe tonight they’d go elsewhere. And I so wanted to go. I still do. I want to feel the fresh air on my face, I want to hear the sound of my heels clipping on the pavement like they used to when I behaved like a normal member of society. Someone who used to begrudge the hour long commute and be out night after night, visiting restaurants and bars and art galleries. Now look at me.

What is all that commotion? Can’t they just go away? Don’t they know how much this has set me back? I had somewhere to go, someone to meet, but now I won’t be able to. Not now I know they’re out there. They’ll laugh at me if I step outside with my bright red riding coat. I’d bought it especially for tonight, online of course. Three hundred quid’s worth of wool and silver buttons. Three hundred quid down the drain – it’ll never see the light of day now.

I edge over to the bedroom window in time for the flashing blue lights to pulse through my curtain. What the hell is going on? Inching the curtain aside, I peer out. Two police cars have parked up. I wonder what they’re doing here. With any luck they’ll be rounding them up. Such a strange bunch with their hooded jumpers and tight jeans and ridiculous hair-do’s. All except Scarlett, who is really quite beautiful, by anyone’s standards. Scarlett, whose innocent face hides the filth inside. Sound harsh? You pick up a lot when you’re trapped in eight-hundred square feet of space every day. In the summer, when I’d sit at my desk, working with the window cracked open, I’d hear them. Talking about spliffs and booze and blowjobs. I don’t understand why someone as beautiful as her would want to hang around with a group of kids who wouldn’t look out of place on The Jeremy Kyle Show.

Surprise, surprise, they’re going next door. Three policemen and one policewoman. With any luck, they’ll have been reported for letting off fireworks, it’s about time.

I drop the curtain and sigh. If I wasn’t so weak, I’d sit back at that dresser and carry on getting ready. I’d slip into the beautiful Biba dress I’d bought, tousle my hair and walk right out of this house, as if nothing had happened at all. Can I? Should I? I want to, so badly, but now I can hear the confused babble of my neighbours outside. They love a drama and as I peek again through the curtain, an ambulance has arrived and it’s like this once beautiful cul-de-sac has turned into an episode of Eastenders. Maybe Scarlett or one of her friends has hurt themselves setting off a rocket. I can’t see what’s happening but there’s a fair-sized crowd gathered down there now. Maybe a dozen or so and they’re all hanging around next to my front lawn so I couldn’t leave, even if I did find the courage to. Once again, my heart starts to pound and my stomach swirls. My palms begin to sweat and within seconds, my breath starts to catch in my throat.

Using my hand on the wall as a guide, I make my way downstairs with blurry vision and shaky legs into the living room, past the relentless throb of the vivid blue sirens and sit at my desk, in front of my Mac, my only link to the outside world and type:

AnnieB52: Is anyone there? I’m freaking out!

LockedInside.com is the only place I can talk openly about how I feel, without being seen as a head-case. Mental Annie. Agoraphobic Annie. The woman who lives at The Maples, with the trafalgar blue door and hasn’t been outside in over a year. The Freak. The Loser. The one who washes her hands every half hour, sometimes until they crack and bleed. The one who has everything delivered to the house – groceries, clothes, shoes. The one who leaves the wheelie bin right outside the door instead of at the bottom of the garden like everyone else.

RogaRab: I’m here. Wat’s up?

AnnieB52: Has CaptainBlue been online?

RogaRab: Nope. Y?

AnnieB52: Something’s happened. Outside. Police. Ambulance. PEOPLE. HELP!

I expect most of my neighbours will have realised I’m not like everyone else, though none of them have mentioned it specifically. No-one says anything when they come through my front door when it’s my turn to host the Neighbourhood Watch meetings, the only time I take part. I’m agoraphobic, not a sociopath. I like human interaction as much as the next person. I just haven’t told them that I’m not. . . you know . . . normal. They all remember me how I used to be. Fun, the life and soul of the party. And although I don’t go out anymore, I still live up to this persona.

When my neighbours, Susie, Dan, Ellie, and Niall come over – I crack open the wine and olives. We’re like any other circle of friends. The fact that I make them leave their shoes outside, under the covered gable, well, that’s just me being over-protective of my beautiful cream carpets. And the fact that I wash their glasses when they’re drained of wine, only to fill them back up again, well, that’s just me being the perfect hostess.

What they don’t see is how my hackles rise at the sight of their feet burrowing into my carpets. They don’t hear the small gags I make as I handle their glasses, coated in saliva and lipstick. They don’t know that not only do I wash the carpet after every visit but I also throw away the glasses, plates and bowls, and order new replicas online. To say it costs a lot is an understatement. Fortunately for me, I’m self employed and work from home. My skills as an online therapist are quite in demand. Ha. Funny, isn’t it? Me, a therapist. I’m fully qualified, you know. PhD and everything. My services are requested frequently enough for me to live a comfortable life and as I don’t go anywhere, my expenses are low.

RogaRab: Not seen him. Wat’s goin on? Why the police? Bury someone under ur patio? Lol

AnnieB52: Don’t be ridiculous! I’m serious. Please help!

RogaRab: Ok. Remember the steps. Breathe. Visualise. Get to your safe place.

You’d think it would be my house. The place that protects and shields me from the outside world. It isn’t. It’s the park, with its beautiful green grass, open space and trees. I close my eyes and picture the daffodils in spring. I hear the birds singing and I feel the warm heat of the sun on my face. The park was always my refuge. Any outside space was. I used to go on hiking breaks, sometimes by myself, other times with a boyfriend, sit on top of a hill and look at the views around me. The fields, the sheep, the lakes. Finding somewhere quiet, somewhere peaceful, was such a treat. Which is what makes this so bloody hard.

I hate being confined to this house. Worse, I hate that I can’t seem to make myself leave. It all started so innocently. A stomach bug had me confined to the bathroom for almost three days. No food, barely any water. Just cramping, retching, crying and four days away from work, so as not to pass it onto any of my clients. I was being sensible, I thought. But one day rolled onto another and before I knew it, I hadn’t been out for two weeks. I was recovered by then. Sure, I still got the odd cramp and bout of nausea, but the sickness had subsided. All I read online were stories of hospitals being closed due to overwhelming numbers of people coming down with this bug and schools issuing warnings to parents on personal hygiene. Something that should have been common sense now had to be taught. I was terrified. I couldn’t get that sick again, I’d rather have died. The thought of getting that train into work, holding those cold metal bars that people had sneezed on, had touched after coughing into their hands, the door handles people would touch after using the toilet and not washing their hands. . . I couldn’t do it. And when the swine-flu epidemic broke, that was it. No way could I expose myself to that.

I had to close the small practice I’d built up over the years. I was no good to anyone, not when my mind would be preoccupied with images of the germs they’d spread when they’d enter my office. Weeks rolled into months, half a year, and finally twelve months. A year of staying indoors and losing contact with my friends. If it wasn’t for the internet, I’d have gone mad. Agoraphobia – a pathological fear of being in outside spaces, with a little side helping of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder to boot.

LockedInside.com makes me feel less like a freak. Its little online community with people like RogaRab and of course, CaptainBlue, has made me feel less alone. After three months on the site, I’d started to gain some courage. I began to seriously think about leaving the house. And it was all because of him. He’s not agoraphobic, but provides support. CaptainBlue, who’s become such a good friend to me, has provided online chats, words of support and late night phone calls.

I thought I’d die a spinster, surrounded by nothing but my vast collection of cleaning products and no one would know since nobody comes over without my express invitation. But CaptainBlue, or Paul, as his real name is, started to make me think otherwise.

I was supposed to be meeting him. He was meant to be coming here so I wouldn’t have to go out alone. There’s a beautiful park not far from here, it’s one of the reasons I bought this house, and we were supposed to go walking to look at the stars. It seems so silly now. Me, walking under the stars without a care in the world, as if I haven’t been trapped inside for over a year. Walking hand in hand with a man I’ve never even met. I say my thanks to RogaRab and sign out feeling marginally better. Holding onto the image of my safe place, I make my way back upstairs.

It’s so beautiful, my dress. Nearly two hundred pounds worth of beads and viscose. I run my fingers over it and sigh with such longing it hurts. It would be such a shame to never wear it. Such a waste of money. Stepping out of my dressing gown, I slide it over my head and smile at myself in the mirror. I hadn’t even tried it on until now, not wanting to tempt fate, but look what happened. That bloody ruckus outside has put the kibosh on my plans anyway.

The hem of this beautiful tunic dress brushes my knees and as I twist and turn in the mirror, I picture it. Me, walking with Paul through the park, my beautiful red coat wrapped around this divine dress. He’d walk with his arm around my shoulder and I’d look up at him, and he’d looked down at me and he’d be so proud. He’d congratulate me for taking the enormous step of leaving the house and facing my fear. He’d lock his eyes onto mine and stop walking. He’d cup his hands around my face, cold from the late December air and –

Oh for god’s sake, what now? I snap my eyes open, annoyed at being interrupted just as things were getting interesting. The knocking is incessant so I head downstairs, unease creeping into me with every flash of that blue siren. I look through the peephole. It’s the woman from across the way - I can’t remember her name now. She’s not one of the ones I let into my house. Her voice is shrill and she’s a gossip, always twitching at her curtains. At least I have an excuse when I do it. I don’t want to speak to her, I don’t want to speak to anyone but she’s seen me through the glass in the door and I must admit, I am curious.

‘Have you heard?’ she asks, that universal greeting of the Chief Gossip. Her eyes are as wide as my dinner plates.

‘Heard what?’ I reply, allowing only my head to be visible through the gap in the door. She nods at me as if to say, ‘let me in’. I don’t bloody think so. No way are you stepping foot in my house, with your trashy fake Uggs and wet look leggings.

‘Apparently there was a gunshot. Did you hear it? You must have, being only next door. I was out and came back from Asda to see all this. You must know what happened?’

A gunshot? I thought it was a firework. Gosh. I wonder if they’re all alright.

‘You know the police will probably want to speak to you. To find out what you know.’

Her eyes are boring into me and I don’t like it one bit. What does she want to hear? I paid no attention, I thought it was one of those kids letting off a popper. I look past her to the house next door. People are milling around like voyeurs. Do any of them really care, or do they just want a piece of gossip to chew on, like her. Whatever her name is.

‘I’m sure they will.’ I reply and close the door. I can see her through the frosted glass of my door and imagine the look of shock on her face. Okay, it was a bit rude, but this is all I need. Policemen, walking their shoes into my house, bringing in their germs from the disinfected floors of the police station where suspects have trodden, bled and vomited. I can’t ask them to leave their shoes outside.

I look at my floor and my duck egg blue walls. I can’t have them in here but if I ignore them, they’ll think I had something to do with it. They’ll think I know something and I don’t, I really don’t. If only CaptainBlue were around. RogaRab is okay, he goes through the steps with me, so does Lisa68 and Claxon. But only CaptainBlue can really calm me down. It would make sense that he wouldn’t be online, not if he were really coming, but I can’t just leave. I can’t just walk out like nothing’s happened. Like I didn’t hear a potentially fatal gunshot only feet away from my house. Like I didn’t just ignore it instead of rushing next door to see if they were okay. I can’t do that, of course not.

But then I can’t stay. I can’t have strangers traipsing into my house, bringing their questions and disease, their suspicions. I can’t have their probing eyes looking at me, making me nervous, asking why I didn’t offer to help. I could be a crucial witness to whatever’s happened in that house.

Oh, God, what do I do?

I begin to pace. Stay, or go? I know what the decision will be, it’ll be what it always has been, but still, I like to think I have a choice. I retrieve my beautiful red riding coat and shrug it around my shoulders as I continue to pace the living room, stopping by the window to check on progress outside. No change.

Stay, or go, go or stay. Since I’m pretending, it won’t hurt to have my shoes on. Of course they’ve not been worn outside. Don’t be ridiculous.

I make my way back to the window. Two of the policemen have stopped at the The Oak House. What was it that made them go there and not here? And where are the other two? Maybe they’re on their way here now, with their bacteria and notepads.

It’s not far to the end of my road. A few hundred yards, maybe. And what if CaptainBlue really is here? What if he’s waiting to take me to my safe place, the quiet calm of the park? A place filled with fresh air and smiles and hope. I put my hand on the handle of my front door and apply just the smallest amount of pressure. As it clicks open, I swallow. I’m not really going to go outside, I’m just pretending I have a choice until the officers come knocking. I’m not really going to put the soles of my brand new stilettos onto the cold concrete.

I look over and see Hilly and Rob walking out of their house. Despite the commotion, to some it’s just another day. It is for to me, too. The door has shut behind me and my legs are carrying me to the end my drive, but I barely even realise that I’ve left the safety of my house. The air is crisp on my face but still, I tell myself I won’t be out for long. I’ll get to the end of my street and come to my senses and the fact that that the air is filled with microbes and particles and look, there’s some dog poo. Is that him, hovering tentatively by the street corner?  Doesn’t matter, I’ll turn right around and run back to the safety of my house soon. My sanctuary, my haven. My prison. I’ll go back.

Maybe.