Page 85 of No Safe Place
Talking to someone new was a bit of a revelation.
David knew it all, everything since Callum was fifteen. Maxwell was a stranger, but after his support today, and the way he stood up to Field, Callum felt safe speaking to him. Plus, the poor bloke was still here, despite starting at God knows what time this morning.
So far, his questions were straightforward and cut to the heart of the matter:
If you had to pick one, which is scarier: the number itself or the perceived consequence?
You said in the past you did a lot of research to prove that these existential coincidences don’t exist. Have you ever considered that the researching itself could be a compulsive behaviour?
You believe you could never move out of your nan’s house? Why not? And why do you still call it her house?
After a while Callum got so engrossed in Maxwell’s questions, he forgot to count them.
Maxwell came back from the ten-minute break looking knackered. He settled himself into his desk chair with a cup of coffee and took a sip. ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything?’
Callum shook his head.
‘Where were we?’ Maxwell picked up his pen and surveyed his notes. ‘Oh yes. I was about to ask you about the book.Darlings, Obsessed.You can count me a fan. I really enjoyed it.’
Callum tensed. ‘Thank you. You read that quickly.’
The doctor looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed. ‘Oh, I didn’t read it especially. I read it ages ago. A patient recommended it.’
He leaned back in his chair, mirroring Callum’s hands-on-knees posture.
Cal crossed his arms.
‘How did you find the writing process? Partly it was written while you were in hospital, yes?’
‘Yeah. I wrote the first half when I was sixteen. Paige and I—’ He faltered, but Maxwell waited patiently. ‘We wrote a lot. She wanted to be an actor, but it was a waste, if you ask me. She could have been the next—’
He stopped, embarrassed that he couldn’t think of a playwright. Brain fog, just one side effect he hadn’t missed.
Callum swallowed. ‘But yeah. I wrote the second half after I got home, from my second stay in hospital. Then I redrafted the kid stuff and found my agent.’
‘And did you always want to be a writer?’
‘Ever since I was little. And I guess the only not-shit bit of having OCD was that by the time I was fifteen and in David’s little support group, I actually had something worth writing about.
‘Plus, you know, it was a good publicity angle,’ Callum said, with a wry smile. ‘The whole sectioned teenager thing. Very romantic.’
His agent, Dominic, had taken a punt on him. Spun Callum as the working-class and mental Sally Rooney. After strong hardback sales and a good publicity campaign, Dominic sold the film rights toDarlings, Obsessedto an American outfit for so much money, Callum wouldn’t have to write another novel for six years yet.
Unless Lily moved out. Then it would be three.
‘It’s a remarkable work. I’ve got a copy here somewhere.’ Maxwell got up from his chair and rooted around the bookshelves, moving stacks out of the way and scanning the spines. Callum pulled at the sleeve of his T-shirt six times.
Finally, Maxwell found it. The familiar purple cover was dog-eared, and the spine had been cracked. Cal liked books to look well-thumbed.
Maxwell flicked through the pages. ‘Do you mind if I read my favourite passage out loud?’
‘Go for it.’
Callum leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was knackered.
Dr Maxwell read aloud in a low, soothing voice.
‘Daniel packed his few possessions into his rucksack. Battered tobacco tin. A handful of birthday cards. When the bag was full, he drew the strings tight and hoisted it onto his shoulder.’
