The phone answered on the twenty fifth ring.
“Hey!” I said.
“Oh. Hey. How you doin? Haven’t heard from ye in ages.”
Her voice was funny. “Why are you talking with a Belfast accent?”
“Och! It’s a long story. Do ye like it?”
“Like it?”
“The accent? Tommy took me to Belfast for the weekend. I’m only just back.”
“You picked up an accent in a weekend? That’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Who’s Tommy?”
There was a pause, a laugh like glass chimes tinkling. “A fella I met inside. He’s really nice.” I felt like I’d been slapped. “You know I’m actually FROM Belfast, and no-one ever told me!”
Oh, God! “Er, no, you’re from here. Your whole family’s from here. Are you alright?”
“Not a bother. How’re ye?” The accent was grating on me. She wasn’t kidding here. It was pure Falls Road Belfast, not some cheap imitation.
“I’m grand. I’m good, even. Listen.” I struggled for the right thing to say. Sentences were born and died in my mind, but nothing came out.
“I did something,” she said. I could hear it in her voice. Something terrible.
“What?” I asked. It came out as a whisper.
“I shaved off all my hair. Oh, Dave! I look like I’m from a concentration camp.”
“You … shaved your hair? Why, for Christ’s sake? You didn’t really, did you?
“I did.” When she said it, it sounded like Ah ded.
“But why? You have lovely hair.”
“I …” I could hear the struggle. This was worse than anything she’d ever done before, and combined with the accent, it scared the **** out of me. “I hear things. Voices. They tell me to do things. They wear me out and then I give in.”
“Voices told you to shave your head?” I could hear it in my OWN voice: incredulity, accusation. “Really?” I added, softer, a desperate attempt to offset a moment of harshness with another of compassion.
“It’s starting to grow back. But … Oh, Dave, I look like a skeleton. I really do.”
“Ah, it’s only hair. It’ll grow back. It’ll be fine,” I said, stalling. “Are you taking your meds?”
Silence, seconds ticking away into a short eternity.
“Are you still there?”
“Those doctors don’t know what they’re on about,” she said, voice suddenly leached of all softness. “I’m not goin back there. They want to commit me, they don’t like that I’m seeing Tommy. It’s none of their f*cking business, is it? I can see who I want, can’t I? Can’t I, Dave?”
“Er, well, yeah, I suppose you can. Guess they’re just, er, worried about you. Is Tommy a patient too?”
“Oh, aye,” she replied, laughing again. “He’s great though. He’s the only one that talks to me, that really understands. He’s a bit older …”
“Older?”
“He’s fifty six.”
I struggled to process this. “That’s … not so old.”
“Aye, that’s what I said, but they’re not having any of it. They just don’t want me to be happy, the b*stards!” The Belfast accent never faltered, not for a second. One whole side of my brain was frantically wondering what to do. What to do? Call her parents? Call emergency services? She was having a full mental breakdown right there, on the other end of the phone.
“Can I come over?” I asked. “I haven’t seen you in ages.” Half of me didn’t want to. Didn’t want to have to SEE this as well as listen to it.
“No,” she replied. “Not now. Tommy’s coming round soon. Next week, maybe.”
“Next week,” I said. Was that really relief I was feeling? “OK. I’ll give you a call. Will you be OK?”
“Och, aye!”
“Sure?”
“I’ll be fine! Thanks for callin. Talk to ye next week.”
The line went dead and I sat there for a long time before it occurred to me to put the handset back in the cradle.