I had only been to this doctor’s surgery once before when I joined it over four years ago. On that occasion I only met the nurse who told me to pee into a plastic bottle for their records and asked me some questions, dismissing me within minutes. As I sat in the waiting room this time, I rehearsed what I was going to say, getting on the good side of the doctor was crucial. He turned out to be a middle-aged man named Dr Booth. He was completely bald and his thick glasses hid alert and intelligent eyes. This might be harder than I thought. I told the doctor that I‘d been suffering from panic attacks for the last few months that left me light-headed and unable to breathe. I found it difficult to leave the house and felt very depressed. He examined me briefly, placing a cold stethoscope to my racing heart that hadn’t slowed down since last Friday. I was only half-lying. My symptoms were real and the discomfort they caused was not made-up, the part I did lie about was my desire to get better. I wasn’t interested in being cured. But as I spoke, I realised there was a tiny part of me that hoped he could do something, say something, that would change my mind. But I was just one of the many voices he heard that day. I think he would have liked to take the time to help, his eyes were earnest, but as he glanced at the clock above my head we both knew there wasn’t really enough time for that. He wrote something carefully on a piece of paper and handed it to me as I read it I felt my shoulders slump.

‘Michael, this is the name of a psychologist whom I’d like you to see, I think he could help. It is good to talk these things through with someone. Make an appointment with him.’ I felt him looking at me carefully as he spoke, watching for my reactions. I looked down at my dirty worn-out trainers.

‘In the mean time I will prescribe you an anti-depressant.’ He spoke as he wrote. ‘This is specifically for people who suffer from panic attacks. I think you will notice a real difference after just a few weeks.’ He ripped the prescription from the pad. As he was about to hand it to me he paused again, the piece of paper hovered just out of my reach.

‘There are some side effects you should be aware off, after the first few days of taking these pills, thoughts of suicide and severe panic can be heightened. You need to know this, these feeling will pass after about a week of taking the medication. Do you have someone who can monitor your progress? Keep an eye on how you’re getting along.’

‘Yeah, I live with my girlfriend’ I said. ‘She’s a psychology student, she knows all about this kind of thing.’

‘Lucky you,’ he smiled, stroking his striped tie. ’Just make sure you have read all the instructions that come with the pills, they outline all the possible side effects. Please make a follow-up appointment with the receptionist. I would like to see you in two weeks time. To see how you’re getting along. We can re-asses your condition then. If you have any problems do come back and see me before then.’ Once again he paused before handing me the prescription. ‘This medication is just to help you through a difficult time, it is not a cure. As long as you realise this.’ Finally, he held the prescription out to me.

‘Of course. Thank you.’ I wanted to shake his hand but it seemed odd so I walked out of his office with another hearty thank you, clasping the prescription so tightly that I crumpled the edges. The first part of my plan was complete.

That same afternoon I went to a private walk-in clinic and asked to see a doctor. I explained that I had recently moved to London and hadn’t found a GP yet. The receptionist didn’t seem to care as she wrote my details down and handed me some forms. She drummed her long pink nails on the desk while she waited for me to fill in my details. After a long wait I was directed into the office of a doctor whose name I didn’t catch. This doctor was a woman in her forties with short boyish hair and slender sharp features. She had small eyes which she narrowed as she listened to me talk, turning them into slits of blue. I explained that recent personal problems had resulted in me being unable to sleep, the rehearsed speech rolling off my tongue. She briefly examined me and asked questions, wanting me to elaborate on the personal problems I had mentioned.

‘I lost someone.’ The words sounded flat as I spoke them. ‘I’m not coping very well.’

I could see her examining the tired lines of my face and the trembling that had seemed to permeate every part of me, from my voice to my fingers and feet. I watched her hand poised over her pad and her head tilt as I spoke. I had seen this before, as soon as death is mentioned people view you from a different angle.

 ‘What can I do for you, Michael? What were you hoping for, from me?’ she asked gently.

‘I need something to help me sleep. The over-the-counter herbal stuff doesn’t work. I need something stronger.’ She nodded and wrote me a prescription. Once again the side effects were explained and I was told to return in two weeks time for a re-assessment.

‘We don’t want you to get too dependent on these tablets. You should eventually be able to return to your normal sleeping rhythm. Sleep is part of the healing process.’ I smiled weakly and emerged from the clinic clutching another prescription. In the following week I visited two more walk-in clinics giving false names and addresses and emerged with two more prescriptions. I collected my medication in different pharmacies across London. I was surprised at how easily the lies flowed out of me.

I had also been stocking up on things at home. I bought six cartons of cigarettes that would last me for months and tins of food. I emptied a cupboard in my kitchen and lined all the tin cans with the labels perfectly visible and in symmetry with each other. For some reason it gave me pleasure to open that cupboard and see all the rows of metal tins. If I ate a tin a day I could afford to not leave the house for at least a month. I lined up my bottles of alcohol on the kitchen counter and hid a bag full of chocolate bars and crackers in the cupboard under the sink. With all the supplies in place it felt like I was preparing for war and I wanted to make sure I was ready.

Even in my dreams she hid from me, I could not find her. Every time I thought I might catch a glimpse of her walking into a room or passing me on the street, there would be nobody there. Instead I dreamt of my mother, sick and dying over and over again. Her stick-like arms, covered with dark angry bruises from needle marks, folded over the white bed covers. She was angry with me in these dreams, her face scolding like I’d done something wrong. She wouldn’t speak, just shake her head and sometimes she would turn away from me and face the wall, showing her thin back, her shoulder blades sticking out through her peeling dry skin. One night I dreamt I was being buried alive in a glass coffin. My father appeared in this dream, still young just as he looked the last time I saw him, except he was wearing a black suit. He stood and watched as they lowered me into the ground his face blank, expressionless, as he observed me kicking and punching the glass case unable to break free. I screamed over and over but no sound would come. I could only watch as the light was blocked out by wet earth being thrown on top of the glass above me, hearing its splatter against the glass, waiting for my air to run out. I woke with a hoarse throat and my knuckles throbbing as if I’d been banging against the coffin’s lid.

I began walking around the places we used to go to, looking for her. I would walk to the park and stand by the pond, looking at the hungry ducks with nothing to give them. I stood outside her university, waiting for the end of the hour when all the students would exit the building after their lectures finished. I would watch, as crowds of students would walk out talking and laughing, lighting up cigarettes on the street. Hoping that she would be amongst them. I would stand and wait until eventually the crowds of students would disperse and I was the only person left on the street. After a few days I started hoping that at least someone who looked like her would appear out of the building, so that for a brief second I could think it was her. But there was no-one.

As I walked towards the bookshop I passed the grotty café in which we had our first date. I pressed my face to the glass in the same way I did that day months ago, watching her from outside. There was nobody in there except two men dressed in suits having a morning meeting over fried eggs and coffee and a group of schoolgirls huddled together in a single booth obviously bunking off school. I could see Gael at the counter, brewing up some coffee. His dark eyes fixed on the coffee machine, steam rising around him. I felt a curious feeling as I watched him, thinking he didn’t know what had happened. I was jealous because he didn’t know. In his mind Evie was still out there, beautiful and vibrant, in his mind she was still living. As if feeling my stare he suddenly looked up, causing me to move from the window and walk away, not wanting to shatter this world in which Evie was still an inhabitant.

I began to stalk the bookshop. I would sit for hours in the coffee shop opposite, cradling a cup of coffee, avoiding the doughnuts, just the thought of which made my throat close up. I had practically stopped eating altogether, it seemed that the less I ate the less I wanted to. I didn’t feel hunger anymore, only emptiness, as if I had grown hollow from the inside. I would take my seat in the cafe just before ten when the shop opened and I would wait and watch. I would see Evie’s elderly boss, Mr Mason whom I’d briefly met, open up the shop with his set of keys and he would switch on the shop lights and turn the closed sign to open. A few minutes after ten Lesley would walk into the shop and start her shift. She usually worked mornings and Evie would work in the afternoons. The first time I saw Lesley in the shop I felt my heart thump hard in my chest. I hadn’t seen her since the hospital, the memory of the red drops of blood on her blouse made the hairs on my arms prickle. I was scared of her, scared of having to speak to her, so any time she went out of the shop I would hide behind a newspaper, afraid of being discovered. Once she walked into the coffee shop and bought a sandwich. I had my back to her and could only hear her order a tuna and sweetcorn sandwich. I had my head in my hands, pretending I was concentrating on my paper, my heart beating so hard I could hear it in my ears. She didn’t even notice me as she walked back into the shop, her red hair bouncing with each step that she took. I realised that I was wasting my time. Waiting here for Evie had become a full-time job. I had still not visited her grave in the cemetery. The one place that may have helped me to understand was the one place I couldn’t face. I had convinced myself that she was not dead just gone from me, that if I searched hard enough then I would find her.

As I walked home it felt like I was walking through wet mud, with each step the realisation sinking in deeper, dragging me further down. I entered my flat, took off my jacket, and stood in the corridor for a few minutes, watching the red light on my answer phone blink. I picked up the whole phone set, and ripped out the chord attached to the wall, silencing it for good. Then I sat down cross-legged in the corner where the two walls meet, leaning into the solidity of them and closed my eyes.

The sound of the ticking is permanently in my head now, even when I’m in a different room I hear it, ticking, time trickling away. I wish for it to stop, I want the silence, so I can be like her.