Chapter One: The Missing Words
The announcement began while I was urinating.
There are moments in life when dignity and personal growth arrive together.
This was apparently one of them.
I was thirty-eight years old, halfway across the English Channel on a ferry from Dover to Calais, standing in a toilet cubicle while a muffled voice came through the speakers above my head.
"Ladies and gentlemen, due to..."
Someone flushed a toilet.
"...passengers are advised..."
A hand dryer started.
"...during the crossing. Thank you."
Then silence.
I stood completely still.
My first thought was simple.
What did she say?
My second thought was less helpful.
What if it was important?
My third thought had already bought a house, married my second thought and started a family.
What if it was important safety information and you've just missed it?
I finished what I was doing, washed my hands and walked back into the corridor.
Everyone looked remarkably unconcerned.
A family walked towards the café.
Two teenage boys were arguing about something on a phone.
An elderly man was studying a newspaper.
Nobody was screaming.
Nobody was putting on a life jacket.
Nobody appeared to be preparing to abandon ship.
This should have reassured me.
Instead, my brain produced a counterargument.
Maybe they heard it and you didn't.
Wonderful.
I walked towards the passenger lounge.
My Ford Swift Voyager was downstairs on the vehicle deck, inaccessible until we approached Calais.
I always felt slightly strange leaving it behind on ferries.
The Voyager was my home.
Not in some sentimental travel-blog sense where I photographed a mug beside a sunset and wrote about freedom.
It was genuinely my home.
My bed was in it.
My clothes were in it.
My terrible cooking happened in it.
It was where I returned after difficult days.
It was also, unfortunately, full of objects my OCD could invent problems about.
Gas.
Electricity.
Water.
Windows.
Cupboards.
Food.
Tyres.
Handbrakes.
Roof vents.
Human civilisation had created the motorhome and my OCD had responded by creating approximately nine thousand additional responsibilities.
Before boarding at Dover, I'd done my normal sensible check.
Gas off.
Cupboards secure.
Windows closed.
Nothing loose.
Then I'd walked away.
I hadn't gone back.
I'd wanted to.
God, I'd wanted to.
But I'd left it.
Now my OCD had found something else.
The announcement.
I sat beside a window overlooking the Channel.
The sea was grey-green beneath a pale sky.
France existed somewhere ahead.
England was shrinking behind me.
And instead of appreciating any of that, I was trying to reconstruct six missing words from a public announcement.
Due to what?
Weather?
Operational reasons?
Safety concerns?
Sea conditions?
A dragon?
Probably not a dragon.
Still, technically unconfirmed.
A crew member walked past.
There.
Easy.
"Excuse me, what did that announcement say?"
Seven words.
Then I'd know.
Then I could relax.
Except I knew how this worked.
I'd ask.
The crew member would explain.
I'd feel better for perhaps thirty seconds.
Then something would happen.
Did he tell me the entire announcement?
Did I understand him correctly?
Was there another announcement before that one?
What exactly did "nothing to worry about" mean?
Could he be minimising the situation so passengers wouldn't panic?
I hated that I understood the machinery so well and still felt trapped inside it.
People sometimes imagine insight defeats OCD.
It doesn't.
Knowing you're standing in a hole doesn't automatically provide a ladder.
The crew member disappeared through a door.
I stayed seated.
My anxiety rose.
I looked at the sea.
Maybe there were rough conditions ahead.
Maybe passengers had been advised not to go outside.
Maybe I'd missed something about remaining seated.
I checked everyone around me again.
Normal behaviour.
Coffee.
Phones.
Children.
One woman eating crisps with the concentration of a bomb disposal expert.
I opened WhatsApp.
Ellie was online.
I typed:
I missed half an announcement on the ferry.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
Ellie: Tragic. I'll contact the King.
I smiled despite myself.
Marshall: People were talking and I couldn't hear the important bit.
Ellie: Define important.
I stared at the screen.
That was irritatingly effective.
Marshall: That's the problem. I don't know because I didn't hear it.
Ellie: Ah. So you need certainty about the contents of information you don't have.
Marshall: When you put it like that, I sound ridiculous.
Ellie: You were doing fine without my help.
I looked towards the door the crew member had used.
Marshall: I want to ask someone what was said.
Her reply came quickly.
Ellie: Do you actually need to?
I hated that question.
Not because it was unfair.
Because it wasn't.
I put my phone away.
The ferry rolled gently beneath me.
My anxiety didn't disappear.
That was always the annoying part.
You resisted a compulsion and expected trumpets.
Instead, you got anxiety.
Sometimes more anxiety.
I stood and walked towards the outer deck.
At the door, I hesitated.
Maybe the announcement had said not to go outside.
I almost laughed.
There it was.
My brain had taken missing information and filled the space with the most inconvenient possibility available.
I watched another passenger push through the door.
Then another.
I followed.
Cold wind hit me immediately.
The Channel stretched towards the horizon.
A woman stood near the rail with three cameras hanging around her neck.
Three.
Not one.
Three.
She looked about fifty and wore a bright yellow waterproof jacket.
She was photographing clouds.
Not the sea.
Not Dover.
Clouds.
She lowered one camera and noticed me looking.
"Beautiful, aren't they?"
"The clouds?"
"Yes."
I looked upwards.
They were clouds.
I felt I was missing something.
"They look slightly threatening."
Her face lit up.
"Exactly."
That wasn't the reaction I'd expected.
She pointed towards a dark formation in the distance.
"See that? Wonderful instability."
"Wonderful?"
"Oh yes."
She had an accent I couldn't immediately place.
"Are you a meteorologist?" I asked.
"No. Accountant."
Of course.
She raised another camera.
"I photograph weather."
"Three cameras?"
"One for wide landscapes, one telephoto, one backup."
I nodded.
"Preparation."
"Exactly."
That word caught me.
Preparation.
She introduced herself as Annelies, from Ghent.
I told her my name.
"Are you travelling far?" she asked.
"I don't really know yet."
"Good."
"Most people think that's poor planning."
"Most people are boring."
I liked her immediately.
She pointed towards the horizon.
"There could be rain before Calais."
"Could?"
"Maybe."
"You don't know?"
She laughed.
"Of course not."
That answer seemed to bother me more than it bothered her.
"You seem very interested in weather for someone comfortable saying you don't know."
"Weather teaches humility."
She lifted her camera.
"You can prepare for a storm. You cannot negotiate with one."
I looked at the dark clouds.
"So when do you know you've prepared enough?"
She thought about it.
"When I have done what is reasonable."
"And then?"
"Then the weather does whatever it wants."
I nearly laughed.
If only she'd known.
My entire mental health could probably be summarised as objecting to the second half of that sentence.
Annelies looked towards another cloud.
"That one looks murderous."
"Murderous?"
"Very dramatic. Probably harmless."
"You've just described half my thoughts."
She laughed, although she couldn't possibly know how accurate that was.
We stood quietly for a while.
The ferry moved steadily towards France.
I still didn't know what the announcement had said.
Part of me still wanted to know.
Badly.
But another part had noticed something.
Hundreds of people had heard different amounts of that announcement.
Some had probably ignored it entirely.
Some had been talking.
Some had headphones on.
Some had been in toilets beside industrial hand dryers apparently powered by jet engines.
They were still allowed to continue their journeys.
Maybe I was too.
I didn't feel certain.
I went back inside anyway.
An hour later, the announcement calling passengers back to their vehicles came through perfectly clearly.
I headed downstairs towards the Voyager.
There she was.
Seven metres of motorhome, questionable cupboard design and home.
I climbed inside.
Everything looked exactly as I'd left it.
I sat in the driver's seat.
France waited ahead.
My mind offered one final question.
But what did the earlier announcement say?
I started the engine.
"I don't know."
It wasn't an answer OCD liked.
For once, I let that be its problem.
Chapter Two: The Woman Who Collected Storms
Calais greeted me with rain.
Not dramatic rain.
Not biblical rain.
Just irritating French drizzle.
The sort that doesn't justify an umbrella but still manages to get inside your collar.
I drove the Voyager away from the port, concentrating harder than necessary.
Driving abroad always gave my OCD fresh material.
Wrong lane.
Wrong sign.
Wrong turn.
Did you get too close to that cyclist?
Was that pedestrian waiting to cross?
Did you clip something?
What was that noise?
Normal driving required attention.
OCD demanded a forensic investigation after every bump in the road.
I had learned, slowly, that the two were not the same.
At a roundabout, I heard a faint knock from somewhere behind me.
My stomach tightened.
Something fell over.
What?
A cupboard?
Bottle?
Had I hit something?
I checked the mirrors.
Nothing.
The urge came immediately.
Stop.
Go back.
Inspect the road.
I continued.
"Something moved inside the van," I said aloud.
My brain replied with an image of a damaged bicycle lying behind me.
I hated intrusive images because they arrived with emotional force completely disproportionate to their credibility.
They felt like warnings.
They weren't.
They were thoughts.
Unwanted ones.
I drove another mile before pulling into a safe parking area.
Not to retrace the route.
Just to check inside the Voyager for whatever had fallen.
A bottle of washing-up liquid lay on the floor.
I picked it up.
"Criminal identified."
I put it back.
Then my OCD tried another approach.
The bottle explains the noise, but it doesn't prove nothing else happened.
Clever.
Always moving the goalposts.
I continued towards a campsite outside Calais.
After setting up, I made coffee and sat beneath the awning watching the rain.
My phone buzzed.
Annelies had somehow found me on WhatsApp after we'd exchanged numbers before leaving the ferry.
She'd sent a photograph.
A cloud.
Naturally.
Annelies: Look at this monster.
I enlarged it.
It looked like a normal grey cloud.
Marshall: Terrifying. I've alerted NATO.
Annelies: Mock now. Respect cumulonimbus later.
She was staying nearby before continuing into Belgium the following morning.
We agreed to meet for coffee in town.
Calais surprised me.
I'd previously treated it as a transport location.
A place you arrived or departed.
But walking through it changed that.
People were shopping.
Cyclists moved through the streets.
Cafés were busy.
There were buildings I knew nothing about and lives continuing completely independently of my arrival.
Travel was good for reminding me that places weren't scenery.
I found Annelies sitting outside a café beneath an awning, one camera on the table.
"Only one?" I asked.
"The others are resting."
"Long day?"
"They've been photographing clouds since six."
"Exhausting profession."
She pushed a coffee towards me.
We talked about Belgium, France, weather and travelling.
Eventually I asked why storms fascinated her so much.
"Because they are dangerous."
That surprised me.
"I thought you'd say because they're beautiful."
"They are beautiful. But danger is part of it."
"Doesn't that frighten you?"
"Of course."
She looked at me as if I'd asked whether water was wet.
"I check forecasts. I learn conditions. I know when to leave. I don't stand in fields holding metal poles during lightning."
"Good policy."
"But risk cannot become zero."
There it was again.
The sentence I didn't want.
"What if the forecast is wrong?"
"It can be."
"What if conditions change suddenly?"
"They can."
"What if you miss something?"
"I might."
She drank her coffee.
I almost admired how casually she said it.
"I think my brain would like you to provide different answers."
"Your brain sounds demanding."
"You have no idea."
I told her about OCD.
Not everything.
Just enough.
The checking.
The responsibility.
The feeling that if I could gather one more piece of information, I could prevent something terrible.
She listened without trying to fix me.
"So you want the perfect forecast," she said.
"For everything."
"Impossible."
"I know."
"But knowing doesn't help?"
"Sometimes. Not enough."
She nodded.
That was all.
No inspirational speech.
No telling me to think positively.
I appreciated that.
A waiter brought two small biscuits with our coffees.
Annelies immediately checked the sky.
"Rain in twenty minutes."
I looked upwards.
"How sure are you?"
"Seventy percent."
I laughed.
"You can live with thirty percent?"
"I can live with rain."
That stayed with me.
Not certainty.
Capacity.
Maybe I'd spent too much time asking whether bad things could happen and not enough asking whether I could handle life when I didn't know.
We walked around Calais together.
Annelies photographed architecture occasionally, but mostly clouds.
At one point she stopped so suddenly I nearly walked into her.
"Look."
I followed her finger.
A huge dark cloud was rolling in from the Channel.
"That looks genuinely unpleasant."
"Magnificent."
"You need a hobby involving fewer potential lightning strikes."
She took approximately twenty photographs.
Then she put the camera away.
"We should go."
"Why?"
"Storm."
I stared at her.
"You're leaving?"
"Yes."
"But you're the storm woman."
"I'm interested, not stupid."
We hurried towards shelter as the rain arrived.
Within seconds, it hammered the pavement.
We squeezed beneath the entrance of a closed shop with several other people.
Annelies looked delighted.
"Beautiful."
"We're hiding from it."
"Preparation."
That made me laugh.
She wasn't trying to defeat the weather.
She wasn't pretending storms were safe.
She respected the risk, made sensible choices and then accepted whatever uncertainty remained.
My OCD had spent years confusing responsibility with total prevention.
If something could go wrong, I felt I had to think about it.
If thinking revealed another possibility, I had to investigate that too.
There was no natural ending.
There couldn't be.
Possibility was infinite.
Rainwater ran along the street.
I thought about the ferry announcement.
I still didn't know what I'd missed.
The world hadn't punished me for not finding out.
That didn't prove I could always ignore announcements.
It proved something smaller.
I had survived not knowing one thing.
Later, back inside the Voyager, I made dinner and checked the gas once afterwards.
Then I checked it again.
I stood looking at the knob.
Disappointment hit me immediately.
I'd wanted one check.
I'd done two.
My brain called the whole day a failure.
Classic.
Apparently recovery had strict accounting standards.
One unnecessary check and every difficult thing I'd done since breakfast was cancelled.
I opened WhatsApp.
Marshall: Checked the gas twice.
Ellie replied two minutes later.
Ellie: Okay.
I frowned.
Marshall: That's it?
Ellie: Were you expecting a tribunal?
Marshall: I was doing well today.
Ellie: And then you checked twice.
Marshall: Exactly.
Ellie: So?
I knew what she meant.
A compulsion wasn't proof that I'd learned nothing.
It was a compulsion.
I put my phone down.
Rain tapped against the roof.
The Voyager felt warm.
Safe, although not perfectly safe.
Nothing was.
I made tea.
Then I realised I hadn't checked whether the roof vent was properly closed.
My stomach tightened.
I looked upwards.
And laughed.
"You're relentless."
OCD didn't answer.
It didn't need to.
I checked the vent.
Once.
Then went to bed.
Chapter Three: One Fish
The next morning I went to buy one fish.
This sentence requires emphasis.
One.
Single.
A fish.
Dinner for one man.
What happened instead was a breakdown in Anglo-French relations involving a fishmonger, my pronunciation and enough seafood to establish a small restaurant.
The market was busy when I arrived.
I'd left the Voyager at the campsite and walked into Calais because I wanted to explore properly.
There were vegetables, cheeses, bread, flowers and conversations happening too quickly for my school-level French.
I loved markets abroad.
They made places feel alive.
I could wander for an hour without buying anything.
That morning, unfortunately, I decided to participate.
A fish stall displayed an impressive selection.
I recognised approximately four species.
The rest looked like creatures recovered from a submarine window.
The fishmonger greeted me.
"Bonjour."
"Bonjour."
So far, outstanding.
I pointed at a fish.
"Un, s'il vous plaît."
He said something.
I understood none of it.
I assumed he was telling me the price.
I nodded.
He picked up two fish.
I hesitated.
Maybe they were sold as a pair.
Fine.
Two fish wasn't catastrophic.
Then he picked up another.
I frowned.
He said something else.
I caught a number.
Or thought I did.
Maybe he was discussing euros.
I nodded again.
He added two more fish.
We were now at five.
"Non, non. Un."
I raised one finger.
He smiled enthusiastically.
Then added another fish.
Six.
I began to suspect communication had failed.
"Seulement un."
He responded with a paragraph.
I smiled.
This was my mistake.
British people smile when confused.
It is one of our least useful survival mechanisms.
He reached for another fish.
"Non!"
Several people looked over.
I lowered my voice.
"Un poisson."
The fishmonger pointed at the pile.
Then at me.
Then said something that sounded like a question.
I panicked and nodded.
He added three more.
Nine fish.
I had entered the market intending to cook dinner.
I was now apparently supplying a hotel.
A woman beside me started laughing.
The fishmonger looked delighted.
I tried English.
"One fish."
Nothing.
"One."
I held up one finger again.
He held up two.
I shook my head.
He held up three.
I shook my head harder.
He held up five.
We appeared to be conducting an auction in reverse.
Eventually the laughing woman intervened.
She spoke to him rapidly.
The fishmonger looked at me.
Then at the fish.
Then burst out laughing.
The woman turned to me.
"He thought you wanted portions for several days."
"Why did he keep adding them?"
"Because you kept agreeing."
"I thought he was telling me the price."
She laughed harder.
I looked at the mountain of seafood.
"Can I just have one?"
She translated.
The fishmonger responded.
"He has already prepared some of them."
Of course he had.
Ten minutes later, I walked away carrying a bag containing enough fish to feed a respectable number of people.
I stood beside a vegetable stall and looked inside.
"This has gone badly."
My immediate problem was practical.
I couldn't eat all of it.
My second problem was OCD.
Contamination thoughts arrived almost immediately.
How long can the fish safely remain unrefrigerated?
What if the bag leaks?
What if bacteria gets onto my hands?
What if I give some away and somebody becomes ill?
That last one landed hardest.
Suddenly the funny situation wasn't funny.
If I gave fish to someone and they became sick, would that be my fault?
I could take it all back to the Voyager.
Freeze some.
But how long had it been sitting on the stall?
Was my fridge cold enough?
Had the fishmonger stored it properly?
I stopped walking.
People moved around me.
My mind began constructing chains of responsibility.
Fish.
Bacteria.
Illness.
Hospital.
A stranger.
My fault.
I knew what was happening.
Knowing didn't make the anxiety polite enough to leave.
I considered throwing all the fish away.
Instant relief.
No risk to anyone.
Except that would be another compulsion dressed as responsibility.
I stood there holding a bag of fish like the world's least successful criminal.
My phone buzzed.
Ellie.
Ellie: How's France?
I stared at the message.
Marshall: I accidentally bought nine fish.
There was a long pause.
Ellie: I have several questions.
Marshall: Don't.
Ellie: You've been in France less than 24 hours.
Marshall: It was a linguistic misunderstanding.
Ellie: Were you trying to buy a submarine?
Marshall: One fish.
Ellie: And you got nine?
Marshall: Approximately.
Ellie: Approximately?
I counted.
Eight.
Apparently I'd lost track during the diplomatic crisis.
Marshall: Eight.
Ellie: Excellent. Things are improving.
I told her about wanting to give some away and worrying about making people ill.
Her tone changed.
Ellie: What would an ordinary sensible person do with fresh fish?
I knew the answer.
Keep it cold.
Use it promptly.
Don't leave it sitting in the sun for six hours.
Marshall: Store it properly.
Ellie: Then do that.
Marshall: But if I give someone some and they get sick...
Ellie: I'm not finishing that sentence for you.
I looked at the bag.
She wasn't telling me nobody would become ill.
She wasn't promising the fish was safe.
She was pointing me back towards reasonable behaviour.
I returned to the campsite.
The fish went straight into the Voyager's fridge.
Then began Operation Please Take My Fish.
My first target was an older French couple two pitches away.
I approached carrying two wrapped fish.
The man looked at me suspiciously.
"Bonjour."
"Bonjour."
"Poisson?"
Brilliant opening.
He looked at the fish.
Then at me.
I attempted to explain what had happened using terrible French, gestures and numbers.
His wife emerged.
Soon both were laughing.
The man accepted two fish.
"Merci."
"Please refrigerate them."
He stared at me.
I pointed towards their motorhome.
"Frigo."
He nodded.
"Oui."
I walked away.
Then turned back.
Had he understood?
Should I tell him again?
No.
I continued walking.
My next attempt was a Dutch family.
They spoke excellent English.
Unfortunately, this made the situation more embarrassing.
"So you are giving away fish?" the father asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because apparently I can't count in French."
His wife accepted two.
Their teenage daughter photographed the exchange.
I suspected I was about to become content on social media.
By mid-afternoon, I'd given away six fish.
Two remained.
One for dinner.
One for tomorrow.
I sat outside the Voyager with coffee.
Across the campsite, the French couple were preparing their fish.
My OCD whispered:
What if they get sick?
I wanted to watch them.
Monitor them.
Look for signs.
Instead, I went inside.
I closed the door.
Not because I needed to hide.
Because staring at strangers while they ate fish I'd given them would be an extremely effective way to become known locally for the wrong reasons.
That evening I cooked mine.
It tasted excellent.
I still worried.
I ate it anyway.
Chapter Four: The Unlicensed Fish Merchant
At 2:17 the following morning, I became convinced I'd poisoned half the campsite.
Nothing had happened.
This was the evidence.
Absolutely nothing.
Unfortunately, OCD has never required evidence to begin proceedings.
I lay in bed inside the Voyager staring at the ceiling.
What if someone was ill?
What if the French couple were vomiting?
What if the Dutch family had food poisoning?
What if their daughter was sick?
Children getting hurt always made the thoughts worse.
I reached for my phone.
Search symptoms of food poisoning.
No.
Search how quickly fish causes food poisoning.
No.
Check campsite for ambulance activity.
That was a new low.
I put the phone face down.
My heart was beating hard.
The Voyager felt different at night.
Smaller.
Rain tapped gently on the roof.
The fridge hummed.
Usually those sounds comforted me.
Tonight my brain had converted my home into an incident command centre.
I got up.
Went to the window.
Stopped before opening the blind.
If I looked towards the French couple's motorhome and saw darkness, what would that prove?
Nothing.
If I saw lights?
Maybe someone was ill.
If I saw no lights?
Maybe they were ill in bed.
There was no winning.
I went back to bed.
Then got up again.
I hated myself for that.
I checked through the blind.
Dark.
Nothing happening.
Relief lasted perhaps fifteen seconds.
What about the Dutch family?
I nearly checked.
Instead, I sat at the table.
"Enough."
My voice sounded small in the dark.
I wasn't commanding the OCD to disappear.
I'd tried that.
It has approximately the same success rate as ordering the Channel to become orange.
I was telling myself I didn't have to continue.
I could be anxious without conducting an investigation.
Eventually I slept.
At eight, I woke feeling as though I'd spent the night doing manual labour.
I made coffee.
Then saw the French man outside.
Alive.
Walking.
Carrying a towel.
Relief flooded through me.
Immediately I wanted more.
Was his wife okay?
Had they eaten the fish?
Had either experienced symptoms?
Maybe he was going to the shower because he'd been sick.
I watched my own mind turn good news into another interrogation.
I went outside.
He waved.
"Bonjour!"
"Bonjour."
I could ask.
Did you enjoy the fish?
Perfectly normal question.
Except it wouldn't be normal for me.
Not really.
I'd be asking, Are you safe? Did I harm you? Can I stop worrying?
So I didn't ask.
I walked towards the wash facilities.
Halfway there, someone called my name.
"Marshall!"
I turned.
The Dutch father was waving.
My anxiety dropped instantly.
His wife appeared too.
Then their daughter.
All upright.
All apparently alive.
I almost laughed at the absurd relief.
The father approached.
"Your fish was very good."
"Glad you enjoyed it."
"We cooked it with lemon."
"Nice."
That was enough.
I didn't ask whether anyone had felt ill.
Later that morning, I returned to Calais.
The market was still there.
So was the fishmonger.
He saw me approaching.
His face lit up.
Then he held both hands wide apart.
"Vingt poissons?"
Twenty fish.
"No."
He laughed.
"Un?"
"Yes. Un. One."
He raised a single finger.
I raised mine.
We had achieved international understanding.
The woman who'd helped me the previous day was also there.
She recognised me.
"No restaurant today?"
"Business collapsed."
She translated this for the fishmonger.
He laughed so hard he had to put down his knife.
Soon another stallholder wanted to know what had happened.
Then another.
Within minutes, several people seemed aware that the Englishman had accidentally bought eight fish.
I had become local entertainment.
Strangely, I didn't mind.
The fishmonger gave me a small piece of smoked fish to try.
I hesitated.
Contamination thought.
What if?
I ate it.
Very good.
I bought vegetables from another stall.
Cheese.
Bread.
I spoke terrible French.
People corrected me.
Nobody seemed offended.
At a bakery, I pronounced something so badly that the woman behind the counter responded in English immediately.
"Was it that obvious?" I asked.
"Very."
"Devastating."
She smiled.
I spent the afternoon walking.
Calais wasn't teaching me some grand lesson.
Places don't exist for my personal development.
People weren't supporting characters in Marshall Learns To Cope With OCD.
They were just living.
Maybe that was useful in itself.
The world was busy.
People misunderstood each other.
Weather changed.
Fish were accidentally purchased in bulk.
Announcements were missed.
Things happened without complete information.
Most people adjusted and continued.
My OCD wanted life to provide a receipt proving every action had ended safely.
Life didn't work that way.
Back at the campsite, Annelies stopped by before driving towards Belgium.
She was wearing the yellow jacket again.
"Storm later," she announced.
"Of course."
"Maybe."
"Naturally."
She looked towards the Voyager.
"You like this vehicle."
"It's home."
"Good home?"
"The best I've had."
She smiled.
"Then take it somewhere interesting."
"That's the plan."
"Do you know where?"
"Not yet."
"Excellent."
She checked the clouds.
I noticed something.
"You've checked the sky about twelve times."
"I'm watching weather."
"How do you know that's not too much?"
She considered this seriously.
"Because if I miss a cloud, I don't believe it becomes my fault."
That hit harder than she probably intended.
She seemed to notice my expression.
"Too philosophical?"
"Annoyingly accurate."
She smiled.
"Good."
After she left, I sat outside the Voyager.
I thought about responsibility.
Real responsibility had boundaries.
You refrigerated fish.
You checked forecasts.
You drove carefully.
You listened when important information was available.
But responsibility couldn't mean knowing everything.
It couldn't mean preventing every possible bad outcome.
If it did, nobody could leave their bed.
Actually, beds had risks too.
My OCD would have loved that observation.
I messaged Ellie.
Marshall: Everyone survived the fish.
Ellie: Congratulations on your successful catering business.
Marshall: I nearly checked on them during the night.
Ellie: Nearly?
Marshall: I checked one motorhome.
Ellie: Okay.
Marshall: I should have resisted completely.
Ellie: You also resisted checking the other one.
I stared at that.
My instinct was to discount it.
Not good enough.
Not perfect.
I'd still checked.
But she was right.
I'd done both.
Compulsion and resistance had existed in the same night.
Maybe recovery could contain contradictions.
Maybe I didn't have to classify every day as victory or failure.
I sat outside until the evening cooled.
Then I went inside my motorhome.
Before bed, I checked the fridge.
Once.
Then I walked away.
Ten seconds later, I wanted to check again.
I didn't.
Twenty seconds after that, the urge became stronger.
Still didn't.
Then I thought about whether I'd really looked properly the first time.
I laughed.
Of course.
The appeal had been filed.
I made tea instead.
Chapter Five: Enough Information
My final morning near Calais began with a mistake.
I checked the gas.
Then checked it again.
Then, while putting my shoes on, I couldn't remember the second check clearly enough.
So I checked a third time.
Three.
I stood inside the Voyager looking at the controls.
Anger rose quickly.
"Brilliant."
The previous few days suddenly felt fake.
I'd resisted the ferry announcement.
I'd dealt with the fish.
I'd resisted monitoring people.
I'd eaten food despite uncertainty.
And now I'd checked one thing three times.
My mind presented its verdict.
Back where you started.
I sat at the table.
The worst part of OCD wasn't always the fear.
Sometimes it was the judgement afterwards.
I could turn a difficult morning into evidence about my entire future.
If I checked three times today, maybe I'd check five tomorrow.
Maybe travelling would become impossible.
Maybe the Voyager would slowly turn from my home into a prison filled with things requiring inspection.
Maybe I'd never improve.
I knew that spiral too.
Fear about OCD became more OCD.
I opened WhatsApp.
Then stopped.
Was I about to ask Ellie to tell me I hadn't ruined my progress?
Yes.
I put the phone down.
Two minutes later I picked it up again.
Marshall: Bad morning.
Her response came a few minutes later.
Ellie: What happened?
Marshall: Checked the gas three times.
Ellie: Sounds exhausting.
That was all.
No reassurance.
No declaration that I was doing brilliantly.
No promise that tomorrow would be better.
I appreciated her for it, although part of me wanted to throw my phone into France.
Marshall: I feel like I'm going backwards.
Ellie: Feel like, or know?
I stared at the screen.
Sneaky.
Marshall: Feel like.
Ellie: Then have breakfast.
Marshall: That's your professional advice?
Ellie: Yes. My invoice is in the post.
I made toast.
The gas remained unchecked.
After breakfast I began preparing to leave.
This was always dangerous territory.
Departure checks were reasonable.
The problem was ending them.
Windows.
Hookup.
Cupboards.
Gas.
Lockers.
Tyres.
One sensible check.
Then go.
I moved around the Voyager.
Window secure.
Hookup disconnected.
Cupboards closed.
Gas checked.
Outside lockers locked.
Tyres looked normal.
Done.
My hand reached towards one locker again.
I stopped.
Had it clicked?
Yes.
Probably.
There was that word.
Probably.
My least favourite word in the English language.
Maybe.
Possibly.
Probably.
Uncertain.
All perfectly ordinary words unless you have OCD, in which case they can sound like threats.
I got into the driver's seat.
Started the engine.
Then turned it off.
I sat there.
My heart sank.
I wanted to check the locker.
I knew I was going to.
I got out.
Checked it.
Locked.
Relief.
Then shame.
"Fantastic."
I climbed back inside.
My mind immediately asked about the other locker.
I gripped the steering wheel.
No.
One extra check had happened.
That didn't require five more.
I started the engine.
The campsite owner waved as I drove towards the exit.
I waved back.
Then saw the French couple.
The man who'd accepted my fish raised both hands and shouted something.
I lowered the window.
"Bon voyage!"
"Merci!"
His wife waved from beside their motorhome.
I continued.
At the exit I saw the Dutch family loading bicycles.
Their daughter recognised the Voyager and mimed holding a fish.
I laughed.
Apparently that was my legacy in Calais.
The Fish Englishman.
There were worse things to be remembered for.
I drove into town one last time and parked near the seafront.
The weather was clear.
Annelies would probably have been disappointed.
I walked along the coast.
Across the Channel, England existed beyond the horizon.
A few days earlier I'd crossed that water carrying an unanswered question.
What did the announcement say?
I still didn't know.
I'd expected the uncertainty to remain sharp.
Instead, it had become boring.
That fascinated me.
OCD had presented the missing announcement as urgent information.
Now I could barely remember the exact wording I'd heard.
Maybe urgency wasn't always truth.
Sometimes urgency was just anxiety shouting.
I sat on a bench.
A ferry moved across the Channel.
Hundreds of people were on it.
Some would hear every announcement.
Some wouldn't.
Some would worry.
Some would sleep.
Some would spend forty minutes choosing perfume in duty free.
Life would continue with uneven amounts of information.
My phone buzzed.
Ellie.
Ellie: Where are you heading next?
I looked back towards the Voyager.
It was parked beyond the promenade, white body catching the morning light.
Home.
Not a fortress.
Not somewhere I had to hide from uncertainty.
Home.
There was a difference.
I typed:
Marshall: Haven't decided.
Three dots appeared.
Ellie: Are you okay with that?
I considered lying.
Then didn't.
Marshall: About 63 percent.
Ellie: Disturbingly precise.
Marshall: I'm recovering. Don't expect miracles.
Ellie: Where's the other 37 percent?
Marshall: Currently demanding a route plan, weather forecast, campsite reviews, road conditions and possibly satellite surveillance.
Ellie: Sounds busy.
I smiled.
Marshall: I'll let it tire itself out.
I put the phone away.
A gull landed nearby and stared at me.
I had no food.
It looked personally offended.
"Sorry."
The gull continued staring.
I wondered if French gulls understood English apologies.
Probably.
There was that word again.
Probably.
I smiled.
Maybe I could get used to it.
Not like it.
Not trust it.
Just allow it to exist.
I returned to the Voyager.
Inside, everything felt familiar.
The little kitchen.
The table.
My bed.
The driver's seat.
The cupboards that occasionally became defendants in imaginary criminal proceedings.
I made coffee before leaving.
As I reached for the mug, I noticed the fridge.
Had I closed it properly?
My stomach tightened.
I looked.
It appeared closed.
The urge to press it came immediately.
I stood there.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then I pressed it.
Closed.
I sighed.
A compulsion.
Not ideal.
I picked up my coffee.
My mind asked me to press it again.
This time I didn't.
That was the strange truth of where I was.
Not cured.
Not fearless.
Not suddenly free from intrusive thoughts.
I'd checked the gas three times that morning.
I'd checked the locker unnecessarily.
I'd pressed the fridge.
But I'd also left the second locker alone.
I'd stopped after one fridge check.
I'd never asked about the ferry announcement.
I'd given strangers fish without demanding medical updates.
Messy.
Inconsistent.
Human.
I could work with human.
I finished my coffee, secured everything and moved into the driver's seat.
The road ahead divided after several miles.
One direction would take me towards places I'd researched.
The other led somewhere I'd barely looked at.
I hadn't decided which one I wanted.
That bothered me.
It also excited me.
I started the Voyager.
Before pulling away, I felt the familiar urge to get out and inspect everything one final time.
Just once more.
The thought came with the usual promise.
Check and then you'll relax.
I knew better.
Maybe I would relax.
Maybe I wouldn't.
Either way, I had somewhere to go.
I pulled onto the road.
For several minutes my mind kept talking.
What about the locker?
What about the fridge?
What about the gas?
What about the route?
What about tomorrow?
I didn't answer.
The Voyager carried me beyond Calais.
Fields opened around the road.
The morning stretched ahead.
Eventually I reached the junction.
Left or right.
I slowed.
My satnav suggested one direction.
I looked at the other.
I smiled.
Then I chose.
Not because I knew it was the right road.
I didn't.
That was becoming less of a requirement.
©️ James Michael 2026
