The Rebirth of Henry Whittle

MENTAL HEALTH

Sitting with Mercy at the kitchen table, eating supermarket brand cereal, I'm confused by the chaos. Bodies, pushes, insults and spilt milk are a collage of breakfast at Greenmead. I'd forgotten how hard being around people is. At home I'd had Trish and at school I have Priti. Here, it's a conveyor belt of damaged teens; the unwantables.

"Sparrow, what you up to?"

I glance at Mercy: she's reed-thin, her long hair, with its split ends, needs washing and she's beyond pale.

"Eating cornflakes."

"I mean later."

Her tone is sharp. An insult only a syllable away, but I detect a trace of mateyness.

"Swimming then counselling. You?"

"Hangin' with my mum," she mumbles, chewing on her hair.

"Great. How's that working out?"

Mercy stares at me long and hard; a mirror would crack.

"Her pimp jacked her and she's making snow angels."

"Mercy, I'm genuinely asking."

"You're a bitch, Sparra."

"Mers, don't be like that."

"Whatever," she says sulkily.

I wash up and grab my swim bag.

Driving to the baths, I think of Mercy. Was my tone bitchy? Was I critical?

I pull into the remaining bay of Highgrove's carpark, by the blue roof estate. Tension rises on queue. On the grassy mount, in front of the estate, is a lone figure. He has that stooped yet loose frame rappers have. Turning, I see a brush of bright blond hair.

"Crap! Graveyard Boy."

I virtually throw myself into the car's footwell; my breath coming hard and uneven. My fear from the graveyard is quick to clutch at my composure.

I take a gulp of air and sneak a look out the windscreen.

He loiters suspiciously, looking as skanky as he did in the cemetery.

I see a second body, riding a bike, cloaked in a hoodie, approaching. The rider's hunched over the handlebars. He brakes at Graveyard Boy's feet. They make an exchange. Graveyard Boy stuffs something in his pocket and walks off.

Rattled, I lock the car and power walk to the pool. My disturbed state of mind remains as I undress...as I lower myself into the water...as I swim. I hate tiptoeing around like a scared rabbit. If only he'd disappear off the face of the earth. I don't care how, just when...now!

As my lengths increase, my worries ease. I love the smell of chlorine; inhaling it triggers memories. Right now, Mum and me are laughing in the shallow end; she's Sebastian and I'm the Little Mermaid. My memories warm the water, it's like cinnamon runs through my blood. I blink. Why did I blink! I know how fragile memories are. All I see now is bobbing heads - no Mum.

I swim to the pool floor crossing my legs and holding my nose, knowing with every happy memory comes an unending sense of loss. That when I surface, reality will set in and my parents will be dead. Nothing I can do will bring them back. Ever.

I skip the steam room. I'm too emotional.

I drive towards a detached house in leafy Harrow: my counsellor's office and residence. The roads are free-ish, but I keep to the speed limit. Through the windscreen I see families everywhere. I should stop living in the past and move on; it's what my parents would want.