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There is a moggie who lives two doors down, a moth-eaten-looking creature, who torments Poppy by sitting on the fence grooming herself, knowing that she’s out of reach. This happens at least ten times a day, working the Labrador into a frenzy of barking that has caused the neighbours to complain. Just once, I want Poppy to learn how to climb and to snap her jaws around the cat’s neck. Not to kill her – I’m not a monster – but to scare one of her lives away.
Upstairs, as I’m getting dressed, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Hair messy. Dark rings around my eyes. I touch my forehead, trying to picture the tumour growing inside, the parasite feeding off me, filling my space, pressing on my brain. The size of an almond, Dr Bennett said. Why do they always compare things to fruit or nuts?
If I leave it alone, it could change me. If I cut it out, it could change me. Would that be such a bad thing? I don’t want to know when people are lying. I want to be normal – but not in a boring, beige, colour-between-the-lines sort of way. I want to be me without the freaky bits.
Maybe the MRI scan was wrong and the tumour was a shadow or a blob of nothing. I mean, I haven’t had headaches or numbness or dropsy or begun forgetting things. Yes, I had a meltdown on Cleethorpes Pier, but that might have been a one-off.
Dr Bennett told me to avoid googling, but that was never going to happen. I’ve been researching brain tumours, and how they can affect behaviour and emotions. The articles use words like ‘deficits’ and ‘side effects’ and ‘cognitive changes’. If the tumour keeps growing, I might not recognise facial expressions. It could reduce my reliability and foresight and emotional control, or blunt my emotions, or make me more childish or disinhibited.
Then again, if I get the tumour cut out, I could cause deficits and side effects. And if it all goes completely wrong, I could finish up with the IQ of a ramen noodle, drooling into my lap. Will Cyrus look after me? More importantly, will he smother me with a pillow if I make him promise to?
I join him downstairs. He’s been for a run and his T-shirt clings to his chest and I can see the outline of his tattoos beneath the white cotton.
‘Did you sleep well?’ he asks.
‘Meh.’ I put a pod in the coffee machine. It belches and coughs and spits out a brown creamy liquid. I like the smell of coffee more than the taste.
‘Can I get you something for breakfast?’ he asks.
‘I’m not hungry.’
I think about telling Cyrus what happened on my non-date with Liam, but it’s too embarrassing. Instead, I ask him about the man with the scar.
‘His name is Angus Radford. He comes from Scotland.’
‘How did he get the scar?’
‘Some sort of fire. Have you remembered any more?’
‘No.’
‘I could help you.’
‘By hypnotising me?’
‘It’s called a cognitive interview. You would always have control – and could stop at any time.’ He pulls his chair closer. ‘Time perception is difficult for people who suffer abuse, particularly when they’re young. The systems that regulate our sense of time get altered and sometimes past events can feel like the present or the details become blurred, making it hard to pinpoint a year or a month.’
‘Someone like me?’
‘Yes. But if we can access a single event or moment in time, we can work backwards or forwards. It’s like painting by numbers, starting at the edges, and filling in the rest.’
‘What moment?’ I ask. ‘I don’t remember where I met him.’
‘It will come to you.’
We sit at the table, saying nothing, until the silence seems to be taking root and sprouting leaves and bearing fruit.
‘And I want the surgery,’ I say, challenging him, spoiling for a fight.
‘OK,’ he says.
‘I’m not going to change my mind.’
‘I know.’
Why is he being so agreeable? Is this some form of reverse psychology? God, he can be an arsehole!
‘Scrambled eggs,’ I say.
