Lucy stared at the white space on the screen. But no matter how long she stared, no words appeared to fill the space. However, a dull pain was beginning to fill the empty place behind her eyes where she wanted brilliant thoughts to appear.

Something about the subject matter of the essay she was struggling to write was really doing her head in. This was kind of apt, because the essay was actually supposed to be about people doing their heads in. That wasn’t the title, of course: it was The Effects of Ethyl Alcohol on the Synapses of the Human Brain. It had seemed like a fun choice of topic at first; but Lucy had realised too late that because something might be a good laugh to do, that doesn’t mean that it’s going to be fun to write about. She was more of a chemist than a biologist, and forbidding biochemical terms kept looming up at her out of thick, heavy textbooks that seemed too heavy and made her feel thick.

But this had to be done. She wasn’t going to embarrass herself by asking old Joyce Russell for a deadline extension. She imagined the grumpy old cow grudgingly agreeing, and quickly rejected the idea. She was sure she’d be marked down for being late, even if she did officially have permission. You had to play the game, just like everybody said; but what was more difficult was that you had to smile for people who never smiled back. Show the right attitude. Really sell yourself, as Mum always said.

Lucy sat back in her chair and sighed. Why was she trying to be good on a Saturday evening? She had mates who wouldn’t dream of behaving like this; girls whose company she enjoyed in small guilty doses, as if they were fattening sweet treats. Emma had asked her to go out clubbing tonight, and like a fool she’d said ‘no’. It was now after 10pm, and Emma and her gang would be busy doing the thing that she was failing to write about. They’d be mashed. Hammered. Well synapsed, you might say. It’d be the pissed-and-dissed time of the evening by now. They’d be pissed, and several blokes would have been dissed. They’d have downed several Breezers or Vodka Kicks, and the words ‘in your dreams’ would have been spat out between swigs, possibly aimed at some unlucky lads who’d barely noticed them.

Lucy had joined in on occasions, but somehow it never felt quite right. She had been warned too often by her parents about the dangers of drink, drugs, smoking, casual sex, and most of the other things that - as far as Emma and her posse were concerned - made it worth getting out of bed in the morning or worth getting into bed at any time, given the right company. She knew how wreathed in worry her parents often were about her, mainly because they rarely missed a chance to tell her so. She had no wish to add to their anxieties, and she certainly didn’t want to give them something new to lecture her about. Of course, she could go out without them knowing; but on her next visit home, there would be the usual questions. And somehow, she always felt that Mum could tell if she was lying.

Anyway, she could never find outfits that made her look the part when she tried to party. Skintight Lycra was not Lucy’s friend. Neither, she felt, was Mother Nature. She would have liked to have been skinny and blonde like Emma, but she was naturally inclined to be dark-haired and, as Mum put it, ‘well-made’. The hair was neatly cropped into a sensible short style that framed a frowning face that Lucy increasingly disliked when she looked into the mirror. When this exam season was over, she really would begin going to the gym, find a boyfriend and generally sort her life out. But right now it was her brain that had to be exercised.

Lucy decided that before it could be exercised, it needed feeding. This would involve feeding her stomach too, but that couldn’t be helped. She needed energy and stimulation. She rubbed her eyes, turned away from the computer, stomped across the room, opened a cupboard, and reached for her secret weapon; the marvellous source of energy and contentment that had fuelled many of her finest bursts of creativity. Surely this was what her synapses needed?

But this time, not even chocolate helped.

A few hours later, Lucy saw narrow, dark alleys, down which she was running as hard as she could to get away from... what? She raced around a corner, and saw a hole in the brickwork. She scrambled through the gap, moved a few feet from the hole and then slid down the wall, gasping. She closed her eyes for a moment, and felt relief. Then Lucy opened them to see a figure in a black gown standing over her. Then she really opened her eyes, and sat up suddenly. She reached out for the bedside lamp, hit the switch, and winced and trembled in the light.

The following morning, in another flat not far away, Cathy woke early after her third consecutive night of disturbed sleep. She felt tired, but still she made herself get up. Keeping moving helped, she found. Well, as much as anything did.

She put on her glasses and tried to bring another day into focus. Giving up the sleeping pills had been a good move, she reminded herself. At least she wasn’t so sluggish in the morning these days. If she could just keep everything in order... She went to the kitchen and put the kettle on, then returned to the bedroom and made the bed. It had been a while since anyone other than Cathy had seen the bed, but she found the sight of smooth and symmetrical sheets and pillows strangely comforting.

Cathy washed and dressed carefully. She brushed her long red hair and tied it back in a ponytail. She put on a dark blue sweatshirt and clean new jeans. Everything about her clothes and her grooming was neat, as if to compensate for the messy spattering of freckles on her skin. She breakfasted on grapefruit and strong black coffee. The caffeine helped her become alert and anxious, a condition that, for Cathy, held the comfort of familiarity.

She washed up and put the breakfast things away. Then she turned on her computer and checked her e-mail. Another plea from a distressed ‘Nigerian’ telling of his urgent need for a handy bank account. Cathy felt irritated at the thought that, somewhere in the world, there must still be someone who fell for this stuff. Stupid, stupid, stupid...

Cathy took a look at the BBC News website. War, crime, disease... the usual products of humanity. Then she visited a celebrity gossip site – not that she cared about that stuff, of course, but she liked to understand the conversations she heard around the campus, and it was amazing how many supposedly intelligent people seemed to be interested in Paris Hilton. But reading the tacky tittle-tattle only deepened Cathy’s dissatisfaction. She felt envious – not of the rich, famous and vacuous people whose doings were chronicled in the column, but of the readers who were able to lose themselves in these stories. How great it must be to be stupid, she thought; to be free from the clamour of thought that kept her awake at night.

Cathy switched off the computer with a sigh, and resolved to try to run off her unhappiness. Sometimes, somehow, it seemed to work. She packed her sports bag, checked the windows to ensure that all were locked, made sure all the lights were switched off, and left her flat. She strode off towards the University sports centre. But before she reached the end of the block, her mobile phone rang. She answered, and following a brief conversation, Cathy turned around and went back to the flat, suddenly feeling better.

Well, there was a surprise! Doing as she’d been asked meant postponing her workout, but it was well worth it. The phone call had given the day an unexpected element of intrigue. As she opened the door to her flat, Cathy smiled to herself. She’d never thought that she’d hear that voice sounding so weak and plaintive. Of course she’d go and meet Lucy.

In fact, she could hardly wait.

‘So you feel like it’s off your subject. It’s biology, not chemistry. And you’re stuck’.

As usual, Cathy summarised the situation with admirable precision. It was this ability that made her the friend Lucy turned to when she needed clarity of vision. (Emma was always available if she fancied ending up with double vision.)

‘Yeah,’ said Lucy, with a long sigh. She took a sip from her cappuccino, an affordable treat here in the students’ union bar, then continued: ‘I got a few bits done, but nothing much.’

Cathy peered through the narrow rectangles of her glasses.
‘Well, you made a start, anyway,’ she offered.

‘Not really,’ snapped Lucy. ‘All I did was copy a few bits out of some books. God knows how I’m gonna turn ‘em into an essay.’

‘Well, you’ve got another week, haven’t you?’

‘Yeah, but...’

Cathy turned to follow Lucy’s gaze and see what had suddenly startled her into silence. She saw a tall, skinny Goth striding towards the exit, long black hair flapping over a long black coat.

‘Wouldn’t have thought he was your type’, said Cathy.

‘No... God, no!’ replied Lucy, momentarily relieved to be sure about something. ‘He just reminded me of something, that’s all.’

‘Anyway, you were telling me about your essay.’

‘Yeah... it’s a nightmare. I have got another week, but that’s not gonna be enough. I feel like I couldn’t get it done if I had a year.’

A few seconds passed slowly and silently, and then Cathy asked softly: ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know!’ replied Lucy, less softly. ‘I don’t bloody know what’s the matter with me’.

It was true, and that was what hurt. Lucy didn’t understand, and she was used to understanding things, working things out, getting things done. Back in school, her GCSEs had never been this much of a problem; and this, after all, was just the next steady upward step on life’s journey. Except that now it had become unsteady.

‘Sorry!’ said Cathy, sounding shocked.

‘No,’ sighed Lucy. It’s not you. I just don’t get why I can’t get my arse in gear on this one. I want to, but it just won’t come.’

Cathy nodded: ‘Mmm. So you want to get your work done, but somehow you can’t seem to do it.’

For the first time that day, Cathy saw Lucy smile.

‘Now don’t start that again,’ said Lucy.

‘What?’

‘Counselling-speak’.

Cathy blushed. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to.’ She looked up at Lucy, and now she saw her smiling and sneering simultaneously.

‘You’ve not being going in for that crap again, have you?’ Lucy asked.

Cathy hesitated, but then remembered what she’d learned about assertiveness. You have the right to be who you are, she reminded herself.

‘Well... yeah, since you ask. Yeah, I have.’

Lucy’s reply was a snort, followed by the words: ‘So what’s driving you mental now, then?’

Cathy glared at her.

‘Lou, how many times have I said? You don’t have to be mad to get counselling!’

‘No, all right, but... I dunno. You’ve got to be a bit sad at least, haven’t you?’

‘Well, you sounded a bit sad this morning.’

‘Yeah, but not like that. I’m just... I dunno... a bit stuck right now. I’ll be OK. I’m not going mental and I do not...’

Lucy waggled two pairs of fingers to indicate quotation marks, a gesture that Cathy found infuriating.
‘...”need help”.’

Silence happened again. Cathy couldn’t believe Lucy sometimes. There they were, supposed to be mates.... She felt like slapping that sneer off her face.

Then, suddenly, Cathy had a better idea.

‘Why do you like chemistry and not biology, anyway?, she asked. ‘Why science and not arts?

Lucy thought for a moment. ‘I dunno. Science was always just... more me.’

With an effort of will, Cathy kept her face expressionless. ‘Why?’, she inquired.
Lucy stared into her empty coffee cup.

‘I dunno... it’s more definite, somehow. You can measure your results and prove ‘em. You know where you stand with chemistry.’

‘Why is it important to know where you stand?’ asked Cathy, carefully sounding innocent.

Some time passed, during which Lucy didn’t know where she stood.

‘Well... it just is, isn’t it?’, she said eventually. ‘Anyway, there’s plenty of jobs to do with chemicals. So I reckon I’ve got a good chance of finding something when I’ve finished here. That’s what it’s all about, innit?’

Cathy had to think quickly. Now, what had her counsellor done next? Oh yes...
‘Why is it important to find something?’

Lucy looked up, puzzled.

‘Well... so I can earn some money, of course! And I want to get somewhere in my life, you know? I’m not busting a gut doing this to end up on the dole.’

‘What would happen if you ended up on the dole?’

Lucy looked horrified. ‘I dunno. I’d be bored, I’d be broke, I’d be going...’

Several very long seconds hit Lucy and burned into her memory one by one. She tried to find some comfort in Cathy’s face, searching for some sign that what she was feeling wasn’t real. Instead, she saw a pair of green eyes trained straight on her, maintaining a contact that was currently extremely uncomfortable.

‘Where would you be going?’

‘I... I’d be going mental!’

Cathy’s face remained straight, her voice calm, her gaze steady. Lucy wanted to get up and run out of the bar. Something weird and wrong was happening here. Yet, somehow, this had to be completed.

‘And what would happen if you went mental?’

Horror. Silence. Then...

‘Well... I’d... I’d fall apart.’

It works, thought Cathy. It always works. But would Lucy finish it? Time to find out.

‘And what would happen if you fell apart?’

There was a whoosh from the hot drinks machine as the barman made someone a latté. In the corner, a mobile phone played a shrill little tune, and its owner took it outside to hear the caller. The fruit machine loudly spat out some coins.

Finally, Lucy spoke.

‘I wouldn’t be able to go on. I... I’d just... die.’

This time Cathy let the silence hover in the air, like a circling bird of prey, for a little longer than before. Then she gave Lucy a little smile.

‘Weird, that, isn’t it? My counsellor did that to me. It’s called “laddering”.’

Lucy still hadn’t recovered the power of speech, so Cathy continued: ‘It sort of finds out what you really need, deep down.’

‘So... what do I need?’ asked Lucy.

Cathy could think of several good answers to that, but settled for the plain truth.

‘You’re just an introvert, that’s all.You need to feel like you’re getting better all the time to feel good. You’ve got to feel like you’re getting somewhere, getting things done. That’s why you’re so screwed up at the moment. It’s just the way you are.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says me! Look, it’s nothing to worry about. Fancy another coffee?’

‘No... not now..’

They gathered up their coats and bags, and left the bar. As they parted, Cathy noticed her annoying so-called mate’s expression, and felt a brief twinge of guilt. But Lou would be all right, she reassured herself. People like her always were.

‘Unknown number’. Great timing. Still, she’d better take it.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hello. Is that Catherine?’

‘Yes. Who’s this?’

‘Margaret Alderson. Lucille’s... er, Lucy’s mother. We met at Lucy’s birthday party.’

‘Oh yeah... Yeah. Hello.’

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Catherine, but I just wondered if you knew where Lucy was? She was supposed to be coming for dinner tonight, but she hasn’t arrived. It’s not like her. Do you know where she is?

‘No, sorry, Mrs. Alderson. I haven’t seen her since... when was it... Sunday.’

‘Oh... I see.’

‘If I do see her, I’ll certainly tell her to call you.’

‘Yes, please do that. Thank you, Catherine. Sorry to trouble you.’

‘No problem. ‘Bye.’

What...? Cathy selected Lucy’s number from her mobile’s menu and called her.

Voicebox. S**t. She sent a text message: ‘CALL HME YR MUM V WRRD’.

But there was no reply.

The pile of blankets on Emma’s sofa emitted a groan.

‘Lou? You OK?’ asked Emma. Then she saw the colour of Lucy’s face, and got her answer. ‘I’ll make coffee’, she said quickly.

Five minutes later, Emma returned with two steaming mugs, and placed one in a small clear area of the cluttered table next to the sofa. The pile of blankets shifted a little.

Where... how... oh. Here. Again. What day... oh, sod it. Coffee. Good. Needed.

‘Thanks, Em’ came the small voice from somewhere in amongst the empty cans and the discarded clothes. Lucy hauled herself into a sitting position.

‘You want to lose some weight. Think I knackered my shoulder carrying you last night. God, what were you like!’

Emma’s words didn’t say what Lucy had been like, but her grin did. Emma sipped her coffee, yawned and checked her mobile.

‘Got a text. From Cath. She says: “Lou with you?”’

Lucy went paler still.

‘Tell her I’m dead,’ she said.

Ormondroyd

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