Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Ludo
Aidan blinks up at me. “Where are you going?”
“To walk Bella. It’s morning. Look.”
I spring to my feet and open the curtains. Dawn light spills into the room and Aidan shies away, shielding his face. Shit. I didn’t mean to wake him, but leaving the room without speaking to him seemed impossible. I regret shaking him now, though; he looks like he wants to punch me.
“Ludo, mate,” he says, voice growly with sleep. “It’s five o’clock in the morning. Bella isn’t even awake yet.”
I glance at Bella, who, admittedly, is still stretched out in the middle of the bed like a giant hairy starfish. “But it’s morning,” I repeat. “So I have to walk her.”
It makes perfect sense to me, but Aidan is frowning at me as though I’ve grown horns overnight. I rub my forehead to check and then click my fingers to rouse Bella. “Don’t worry. I won’t be long.”
Bella grumbles and groans. Stretches and rolls off the bed. She’s at my feet in moments, and I leave the room before Aidan can say anything else.
He’s on my mind as I leave the house, though.
I’m worried about him—he’s been weird ever since I came back from the woods last night.
Hovering over me, asking me a bazillion questions about what I’m doing and why I’m doing it.
For a man who claims to be introspective and selfish, he’s doing a pretty good impression of someone’s mother.
A good mother, I think. I never had one of those.
Maybe he learnt from his own. He’s never told me much about her.
The woods are cool and quiet. I take the same route I did last night, but at the fork that would take me to Aidan’s tree, I go left instead of right.
I’ve never been this way before. Aidan told me you could walk every day in the woods for a month and not take the same route twice.
I’m starting to believe him, and I like exploring.
The woods used to scare me, but not today.
Today as I tramp through heather and ferns, I feel like I could walk forever.
Aidan
Bernard sighs. “Are you listening to me?”
“Nope.” I don’t even look at him. Too busy checking WhatsApp every two seconds to see if Ludo has been online.
He hasn’t, for the record. Not since he told me he loves me, and as hard as I try to fight the doubt, I’m starting to wonder if he’s even aware he sent me those damn-fucking words.
Bernard drifts away. I put my phone down and open Google, tapping in a search for manic symptoms of bipolar.
Guilt seeps into every facet of my being, and I feel like I’m betraying Ludo in the worst way possible, but then I picture his wild eyes as he left the house this morning and recall the three hours I waited for him to come back before I had to leave for work.
Nah. Fuck this shit. Something isn’t right.
A bipolar charity FAQ page fills the screen.
I scan it from top to bottom, then go back to the start and read it all again with blood roaring in my ears.
Every single symptom listed fits Ludo’s behaviour over the last few days: over activity, talking too fast, big ideas that go nowhere.
Even the bright orange vest he left the house in this morning is a warning sign I didn’t understand until now.
I read on to the article written for sufferers, absorb the details and nuances of how Ludo might be feeling right now: euphoric, happy, energised.
It doesn’t sound so bad, but there’s a flip side.
A penalty for feeling on top of the world.
Wherever Ludo is, he’s alone and disconnected from reality.
“It’s a lonely place to be,” the author warns.
“Frightening too, when you realise no one is keeping pace with your racing thoughts.”
A lump forms in my throat. I try to swallow it, but it’s stuck, rigid, and I realise it’s not going anywhere until I find Ludo and get him some help.
My phone rings on my desk. I jump on it, but it’s not Ludo. It’s Michael. “I can’t talk,” I snap. “I’m busy.”
“Charming,” he retorts. “I’m on my way to work too, as it goes, so I’ll only keep you as long as it takes me to get from the train station to the hospital.”
“The hospital? What the fuck are you doing there?”
“I work there. Jesus. Are you so self-absorbed that you don’t know me at all?”
I am that self-absorbed. As Michael continues to berate me, I realise that I know nothing about his job apart from the fact that it takes him away from his family and makes him miserable. “What do you do at the hospital?”
Michael sighs. “I manage crisis teams. You know all this, Aidan. How do you think I was able to get on your ward at all hours of the day when you were in the hospital?”
I’ve never given it much thought, but I need Michael. I don’t know how or why, but with my instincts in overdrive, I’m abruptly certain that he’s the only person in the world who can help me.
Ignoring Bernard and Doreen, I shove my chair back and leave the office. Outside I breathe fresh air that does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. “What kind of crisis teams do you manage? Do you know anything about mental health care?”
Michael’s silence tells me I’d have surprised him more if I’d asked him to get me a boob job. After a protracted pause, his voice has lost its irritable edge. “Why do you want to know that? Are you okay? Do you need help with something?”
“Yeah, but it’s not for me. I’m, uh, worried about someone.”
“Who?”
I ball my free hand into a fist, welcoming the sharp pain from my nails digging into my palm. Clinging to it. “My boyfriend. He has bipolar and I think he’s manic.”
“What makes you say that?”
I list every sign and symptom I’ve seen in Ludo. Michael listens and I can almost see his concentrated frown.
“Okay,” he says when I’m finally done. “How long have you known him? I mean, it sounds like a manic episode, but if you’re not familiar with his behaviour patterns, you might be reading something into nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” I growl. “Don’t patronise me, okay? I’m not a fucking expert, but I know when something’s wrong—”
“All right, all right. I’m sorry. I just had to ask. It’s not like you’ve ever mentioned having a boyfriend, so I didn’t know how long he’s been around.”
“Long enough.”
“Okay, well listen. If he’s been diagnosed with bipolar disorder for a while—”
“He’s had it for years.”
“Right. So he’ll have a crisis care plan. People you can call who are geared up to step in and help for precisely situations like this. Do you know if he has a CPN?”
“Actually, yeah. She’s called Rita. That’s all I know though. I don’t have her number or anything.”
“Could you find it? Part of his crisis plan is probably that her details are accessible for whoever’s looking after him. Do you know who that would be?”
“There isn’t anyone like that. He doesn’t have any family, and he was alone before me.”
“Okay.” Michael is quiet a moment. Tapping sounds come down the line, as though he’s looking something up on his phone. “Right. I’ve got some people I can speak to about this at work and maybe get them to call you back. What’s his name? And where is he now?”
“His name is Ludo, but I don’t know where he is. He went out with the dog this morning and he didn’t come back.”
“Where would he go with the dog?”
“The woods, I think.”
“What mood was he in?”
“I already told you, he’s manic as fuck.” Desperation is starting to make me dizzy. I find a bus stop and sit in it. “Do you think I should go look for him?”
“Honestly, yes. Mental health isn’t my department, and I don’t know much about bipolar disorder, but it’s probably best he has someone with him right now.”
Michael’s right. I know he is. And I’m furious with myself for letting Ludo leave this morning. If I’d gone with him, he’d be safe.
But as I think it, I know it’s not true. Ludo was beyond reason this morning. He didn’t want me with him, and he left the house before I was out of bed on purpose, even if he didn’t consciously know it. “I’ve got to find him, haven’t I?”
“Yes, Aidan. I think you do.”
Michael hangs up after promising to find someone who actually knows what they’re talking about to call me back.
He warns me it won’t be quick though. Mental health services are underfunded and whoever Ludo is to you, his medical records are confidential.
Even if someone calls you, I don’t know if they’ll be able to help you beyond some practical advice.
But practical advice is a world away from the shallow knowledge I’ve claimed from the internet. I’ll take whatever they can give me.
I abandon the bus stop, and Bernard, and dash home to give the cat enough food and water to last however long this takes. Then I hightail it across town to Ludo’s house and let myself in with the spare key I stole from the drawer this morning.
Bella is in her basket, a bowl of kibble and fresh water beside her. She’s sleeping with her legs in the air, a picture of content, and I tear through the house with my heart in my throat, praying I’ll find Ludo as happy as she is, even if it isn’t real.
But he’s not in the house. I check twice, but he’s not here, and his phone is still where it was when I called him last night.
Fuck. My mind races. I chase thoughts down in an attempt to catch every snippet Ludo has ever told me about his condition.
What he’s been through before and the circumstances leading up to it.
But all I can see are his scars on his ankles, on abdomen, on his arms, and the chilling words he repeated when he pointed to them. “I thought I could fly.”
Panic seizes me for real then, and I’m out the door before I can think. I dart across the road as fast as my aching leg will carry me, and the woods envelop me like a nightmare, vast and empty. Even if he’s here, it could take me days to find him.
I take the routes we’ve walked together first—the big tree, the lake, the monkey-puzzle grove. The occasional dog walker passes me by, but there’s no sign of Ludo. Fear lances my heart as I climb the hill to the railway bridge, but he’s not there either.
The secret pond we swam in is my last stop before I lose what little of my mind I have left.
I squash ferns and rare heather in my hurry to get to the hidden gate.
My clumsiness shatters the tranquil peace of the glade, but I barely notice the birds fleeing the trees or the squirrels scampering away.
I burst into the clearing, fully expecting to see Ludo standing by the crystal clear water, wearing the same clothes he wore that day, the same innocent expression of awe and wonder.
But Ludo’s not here. Only his shoes are, abandoned at the water’s edge. A sight I absorb as a silent scream fills my throat.