Patient FJ Recovery Diary 1
Patient EH Recovery Diary 17
Patient HST Recovery Diary 13
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 2
Patient DP Recovery Diary 15
Patient WC Recovery Diary 16
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 3 (or 4)
Patient FJ Recovery diary 4 (or 5)
Patient EH Recovery Diary 18
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 5 (let’s just say it’s 5 anyway, and stop splitting hairs)
Patient STC Recovery Diary 15
Patient HST Recovery Diary 14
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 6
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 7
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 8
Patient WSB Recovery Diary 666
Patient DP Recovery Diary 16
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 9
Patient HST Recovery Diary 15
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 10
Patient EH Recovery Diary 19
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 11
Patient PW Recovery Diary 12
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 12
Patient HST Recovery Diary 19
Patient WC Recovery Diary 18
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 13
Patient C Recovery Diary 19
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 14
Patient FJ Recovery Diary 15
Patient DP Recovery Diary 17
Patient FJ Recovery Diary whatever
Patient DP Recovery Diary 18
Patient MS Recovery Diary 12
Patient FJ Blah Diary Blah
FJ Final Diary Entry
FJ Diary
Epilogue
Acknowledgement
Supporters
Dedication
Copyright
PAUL BASSETT DAVIES has been writing for thirty years and he still hasn’t finished. He writes for stage, television, radio and film, including the screenplay for the feature animation film The Magic Roundabout, and a film about counter-culture comic book heroes, The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers, which he has been developing with their creator, comics legend Gilbert Shelton.
His sitcom, Reception, was broadcast by BBC Radio 4, and wrote and produced for the Sony Award-winning radio show Do Go On. He has published several short stories, and his first novel, Utter Folly, topped the humorous fiction charts in 2012. Dead Writers in Rehab is his second novel.
Dear Reader,
The book you are holding came about in a rather different way to most others. It was funded directly by readers through a new website: Unbound. Unbound is the creation of three writers. We started the company because we believed there had to be a better deal for both writers and readers. On the Unbound website, authors share the ideas for the books they want to write directly with readers. If enough of you support the book by pledging for it in advance, we produce a beautifully bound special subscribers’ edition and distribute a regular edition and e-book wherever books are sold, in shops and online.
This new way of publishing is actually a very old idea (Samuel Johnson funded his dictionary this way). We’re just using the internet to build each writer a network of patrons. Here, at the back of this book, you’ll find the names of all the people who made it happen.
Publishing in this way means readers are no longer just passive consumers of the books they buy, and authors are free to write the books they really want. They get a much fairer return too – half the profits their books generate, rather than a tiny percentage of the cover price.
If you’re not yet a subscriber, we hope that you’ll want to join our publishing revolution and have your name listed in one of our books in the future. To get you started, here is a £5 discount on your first pledge. Just visit unbound.com, make your pledge and type rehab in the promo code box when you check out.
Thank you for your support,
Dan, Justin and John
Founders, Unbound
I know why the caged bird sings.
But that pigeon outside my room at four in the morning? What the fuck is his problem?
Wait.
Outside what room? And how do I know it’s four in the morning?
All I really know is that it’s very dark.
The darkness persisted.
Perhaps I’d gone blind, which had happened before. Sometimes I just assumed I’d gone blind, when there was another reason why I couldn’t see anything. On one occasion, several years ago, I opened my eyes to what seemed like darkness but was in fact a light so bright it was black. After a moment I realised I was lying on my back in a field looking up into the sun. Birds were singing and the meadow around me smelled sweet. I stood up carefully, checking for broken glass, and looked around. It was a lovely midsummer day somewhere in England. I was wearing a white tuxedo and a green bow tie. I appeared to be completely alone in the open, rolling countryside. Then I caught a faint bark of laughter and made out some little figures in the far distance, loading things into the back of a big truck. There must have been a road there.
I set off through wild grass that swished gently at my knees. I knew I was about to undergo a brutal transformation as my senses came to their senses. Sure enough, a thundering brandy-and-cocaine hangover, one of the meanest of the tribe, erupted inside me like an enraged alien foetus. Once the pain had settled down to an agonising throb data began to assemble itself.
I’d been at a wedding reception in the grounds of a big manor house that was presumably not far away, tucked into the undulating landscape, probably just over a slight rise to my left. There had been marquees and a stage with lighting and a PA system, which was probably what was being loaded into the truck in the distance. It was my first publisher’s second wedding. He was a Canadian who’d hit the UK just in time to surf the 1980s alternative comedy boom, and help some of the performers understand they could make a lot of money from a cheap book and still be terrifically alternative. Now, having divested himself of his first wife (the word ‘outgrown’ was used, earnestly by him, mordantly by her), he was marrying the posh, well-connected woman he’d been living with for a while. She was a nice, sensible type, pretty in a wispy blonde English way, but not as sexy as his personal assistant, who wasn’t a sensible type. She was the one he did drugs with and fucked in hotels when they went to literary festivals together. But he was an ambitious player in a fundamentally conservative industry, and when it came to getting married he made the obvious choice. The sexy assistant spent half the party in tears and the other half with me, doing coke in various places, the last of which was an elaborate temporary structure housing the women’s toilets. Like everything else at this wedding reception, it was the best that money could buy and it was cleaner and more attractive than many of the flats I’d lived in. We ended up in one of the cubicles, where she decided it was time for us to fulfil the sexual promise that had always simmered between us, despite her being in love with her boss. We were just getting into it when she changed her mind and decided that one more good, loud session of hysterical crying would do the trick for her. A guy we both knew was passing the toilets and heard her. He came in and found us half-dressed, me trying to do up my clothes, hers in disarray as she sank to the ground, howling with what the guy, who’d always fancied her himself, chose to interpret as trauma caused by my unwelcome sexual advances. I didn’t remember much after that, except for some shouting. In the morning, as I trudged through the field, I wondered what would happen when I got back to London. Nothing much, as it turned out. For a while I got a few more pitying looks than usual, but at that stage I was pretty much immune to anything more nuanced than a punch in the face.
Why was I now thinking about that incident from 20 years ago? I have a tendency to relate everything that happens to me to some specific disaster in the past. My third book was called Everything Reminds Me of Something Bad. It had been inspired by an experience I was having at the time with meat. I still have it. I always line my grill pan with tinfoil. And certain types of meat, especially lamb chops, produce a cloudy yellow fat that pools on the tin foil in a way that reminds me of how freebase cocaine – and heroin, if it’s pure enough – will liquefy when you chase it down a strip of foil with a lighter under it. For two or three years after I’d given up drugs for the final time – the final time – the trigger was so powerful that I had to call my sponsor at NA, who was a sweet, long-suffering man. After a while he got used to it, and if I called him any time after six in the evening he’d pick up the phone and ask me how the lamb chops were doing.
Triggers. There’s always something, even if you’re not conscious of it. And now I thought I knew why the memory of that wedding reception had been playing out in my mind so vividly. Even though I was still in the dark, literally and metaphorically, I was convinced that whatever room or space or place I’d woken up in was somewhere in the countryside. That pigeon outside wasn’t a pigeon. It was a dove.
From the desk of Dr Hatchjaw.
Re: Patient FJ.
Admission Note 1(b).
The patient FJ has emerged from the primary stage of detoxification, during which he remained asleep for most of the time, with sporadic episodes of wakefulness when he exhibited signs of confusion, melancholia, hysteria, disorientation, incoherence, anxiety, fatigue, mania, depression and incontinence. He appeared unwilling to prolong these episodes, and relapsed into unconsciousness. This may suggest a tendency to regression and womb fixation. Even at this early stage it is clear that he uses avoidance as a denial tactic. He appears docile.
We may assume that he remains ignorant of his status and whereabouts. He has not yet opened the window in his room, or the curtains, and may be unaware that the room has a window, or curtains, or that he is in a room as, at the last observation, he was found to be lying underneath his bed. This may also explain his delusion that he has lost his sight, which he has expressed during intermittent periods of verbalisation. Observation has been constant, with no intervention. The standard precautions will be taken when he emerges from his room but I am inclined to allow the patient to undergo his own orientation and to become cognisant of his circumstances without undue interference. If he exhibits any signs of trauma or aggression at any stage of the process, I will zonk him.
From the desk of Dr Bassett.
Memo to Dr Hatchjaw.
Wallace, thank you for patient report FJ1b. May I make a brief point? Once again I detect a tendency to overdiagnose. The fact that the patient showed some reluctance to wake up and exhibited signs of confusion, anxiety, etc., when he did, hardly justifies the inference that he wants to regress to the womb, interesting though the observation is, and doesn’t necessarily imply avoidance as a tactic. The behaviours and symptoms you describe are all consistent with a very bad hangover.
Also (sorry to niggle) I feel that the use of the expression ‘zonk’ in a formal report is a little inappropriate. However, perhaps I’m just being old-fashioned.
Eudora
From the desk of Dr Hatchjaw.
Memo to Dr Bassett.
Dr Bassett, naturally I accept your rebuke concerning my report, and I note your assertion that I have a tendency to overdiagnose. I am a professional, and I strive to serve the interests of my patients and of this facility to the best of my ability. If that ability is deficient in your estimation, or if my efforts fall short of the standards which you profess to hold, I can only apologise and attempt to improve my performance. However, I cannot help feeling that your criticism is part of a strategy – conscious or otherwise – to remind me at every opportunity that, technically, you are the senior practitioner at this facility. Perhaps you are overcompensating for some insecurity you feel as a woman in a position of authority over a male colleague. Whatever the reason, I assure you I am well aware of your superior status and need no reminding.
‘Zonk’ was intended as a joke. Obviously it was ill-advised. I realise that I am attempting to ingratiate myself with you, and compromising my professional judgment in doing so.
NB: I would prefer you to use my title and surname in any communications. Casual use of my first name in these matters strikes me as patronising.
Dr W. Hatchjaw BA, RCPsyc, DDSB
From the desk of Dr Bassett.
Memo to Dr Hatchjaw.
Oh dear. What’s got into you, Wallace? Sorry, Dr Hatchjaw, if you insist. Although it seems a bit silly to be using our full titles when we’re just sending each other informal memos. But I seem to have offended you, and I’m sorry. However, there was no call for that crack about the high standards that I ‘profess’ to hold. That’s not very nice.
I know the whole status issue is a bit awkward, but I do my best. As for the stuff about gender, let’s not even go there. The fact is, I was simply making an observation on what you wrote in your report. I’m sure you’ll do excellent work with Patient FJ, and I’m glad you’re keeping a close eye on him. From what I saw of him during his admission, he looks as if he could be quite a handful! But you’re always very good with that type of man, Wallace. My goodness, rather you than me!
Look, let’s not get into a misunderstanding over this. If you’d like to discuss FJ, and your treatment plan, I’m more than happy to talk about it. If not, let’s just have a chat anyway. Why not drop in for a cup of tea later?
Eudora
From the desk of Dr Hatchjaw.
Memo to Dr Bassett.
Dr Bassett, thank you for your kind offer to discuss my treatment plan for patient FJ, and your generous invitation to ‘drop in for a cup of tea’. As it happens, I feel no need to discuss my patient with you at this stage, and regrettably I find myself too busy to accept the offer of tea, which holds little appeal for me, to be frank with you.
Hatchjaw
From the desk of Dr Bassett.
Memo to Dr Hatchjaw.
Suit yourself.
What the fuck?
Wait, sorry, I’ll start again.
On second thoughts, should this actually be diary entry number two? Only if I go back and treat that first bit I wrote as entry number one, and according to Hatchjaw I can’t go back over anything I’ve written and change it.
Don’t they realise what that means to a writer? To be unable to rewrite? I always begin a day’s writing by going back over whatever I’m working on, from the beginning, and tinkering with it obsessively, then writing a bit of new stuff, which I then rewrite the next day along with everything else I’ve written so far. Obviously, there’s a process of diminishing returns as I write less and less new stuff each day, but somehow I’ve still managed to finish several books, so fuck Achilles and the Tortoise he rode in on.
Do people still know about Achilles and the Tortoise? By people I mean the younger readers to whom I am appealing less and less, according to my current agent (my sixth, which isn’t as bad as it sounds as one of them died while representing me, and another was jailed for assault). She says my writing is getting oldfashioned, and would claim that by tossing in things like that reference to Greek mythology I’m proving her point. Wait. Is the story of Achilles and the Tortoise from Greek mythology? I mean, I know Achilles was Greek, but maybe the story is actually a fable, from someone like Aesop, or someone later, that French one. What’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. God, it’s really annoying not having access to the internet. Not even a reference dictionary! What are they trying to do to us? And writing in longhand! It’s been years since I’ve written anything longer than a cheque by hand. It starts to hurt even if I have to write my address on the back. But cheques aren’t used any more. She’s right, I am old-fashioned. Look at the way I wrote ‘to whom I am appealing less and less …’ back there, and how I’m indenting the paragraphs, even though Hatchjaw says nobody is ever going to read it except me, and it’s just a facilitation tool in the recovery process. So at least I know where I am, even if the details are a bit puzzling, because there’s only one place where they talk about things like facilitation tools in the recovery process, and that’s in good old rehabilifuckingtation.
But this place doesn’t seem like any rehab I’ve been in before. I’ve only gone halfway along the corridor so far, partly because I was feeling a bit sick and I got dizzy. There’s a lump on my forehead, which may have been caused by trying to get out of bed when I was, in fact, underneath it. Which reminds me of something I used to say to women if I found myself staying the night and they asked me which side of the bed I preferred. ‘The top,’ I used to say. God, I was a funny drunk.
The other thing that made me turn back when I got halfway along the corridor was the noise coming from the room at the far end of it. There was something familiar about that sound and the voices making it that discouraged me from going any further.
I’d stopped at an intersection in the corridor, like a crossroads, with a passage stretching away on either side of me. I remained very still so that the nausea I was experiencing would think I had gone away, and leave me alone. It did, and as I slowly turned around to go back to my room I saw someone peering at me from an alcove about 20 yards along the passage to my left. As soon as he saw I’d spotted him he darted back into his hidey-hole. I thought about going to try and find him but he didn’t seem to want my company, and I didn’t have the energy for a confrontation with a potentially hostile stranger. He probably felt the same way about me.
It was when I got back to my room that I met Hatchjaw. He was lurking in the doorway and sprang out to introduce himself. I would describe him as a dark-haired man a little below average height, with a long face, bushy eyebrows, dandruff, and bad manners. After telling me his name he just gazed at me with a faint smile. I could see the dandruff on his shoulders even though he was wearing a white coat. I thought about the snowflakes that settled on a white bed sheet my mother once hung out to dry on a January day many years ago, even though snow had been forecast. ‘Nonsense,’ she said, ‘these weathermen don’t know what they’re talking about. If it snows today I’ll eat my hat.’ Later, when she was making a chicken pie, she constructed a little hat out of pastry and ate it at dinner, very seriously, and my sister and I laughed until I nearly wet myself. My father tried to laugh too but it wasn’t very convincing. He liked to be the one who made the jokes, and he didn’t quite know what to do when anyone else did it.
I didn’t say anything to Hatchjaw, because I couldn’t be bothered, so we just stood there looking at each other. That’s why I had time to notice so many details about him. I’m not normally very observant, or so I’ve been told. Mostly by a person who made it her mission in life to puncture my self-esteem, so perhaps I’m as observant as the next man. Hatchjaw finally spoke, in a surprisingly deep voice, and asked me if I had any questions. I shook my head. He nodded a few times then stepped aside. He didn’t exactly usher me back into my room, he just made it clear that I could go back in there if I wanted to, so I did. When I tried to close the door Hatchjaw was still standing there. He seemed anxious to say something, so I raised a polite eyebrow. That was when he told me about the Recovery Diary and being forbidden to rewrite anything. He didn’t actually say it was forbidden, but when I wake up in a strange place with an institutional atmosphere, and I meet a man in a white coat who stares at me with a sinister smile, and I notice the outline of a large syringe in his top pocket, and he says that I’m ‘discouraged’ from doing something, I’m inclined not to do it. Not only that, but Hatchjaw got decidedly testy when I asked a few innocent questions about his edicts.
‘So,’ I said, ‘if I’m not allowed to do any revisions, then what I’m writing is supposed to be some kind of stream of consciousness, is that it?’
‘If you like.’
‘I don’t exactly like it, no. I find that kind of thing a bit self-indulgent and silly, to be honest with you.’
‘I expect you’re right,’ Hatchjaw said, ‘from a literary perspective. But as I’ve said, this isn’t intended to be a literary work. It’s simply a way for you to examine and express your feelings, and to write an honest account of the behaviours that have brought you to your current situation. A kind of reckoning, let’s say.’
‘I see. But I’m still a bit confused. You’re asking me to express my current feelings, but also to write about the past. So, is it meant to be a journal or a memoir?’
Hatchjaw sighed. ‘It’s up to you. It can be either, or both, or neither. I’m simply asking you to write whatever comes into your mind about your feelings, and any relevant reflections on your past that doing so may evoke.’
‘Reflections or recollections?’
‘Whichever you think is the more appropriate term.’
‘But there’s a difference, isn’t there? Recollections are an attempt to recall past events that actually happened, while reflections could be more speculative.’
Hatchjaw’s expression didn’t change but I noticed a slight tremor in his cheek, which he seemed to be trying to control. Finally he spoke. ‘If you wish to speculate about your past, and you find that process fruitful, then please do so.’
‘Perhaps you’re asking me to write fiction, essentially.’
‘Please don’t put words into my mouth.’
‘No, of course not. Sorry. It’s just that there’s a bit of a paradox in what you’re suggesting. You see, many of the behaviours, as you call them, that have contributed to my current predicament – whatever that is – are beyond the reach of my memory by their very nature, in that they invariably resulted in me getting totally shitfaced, and waking up without being able to remember a single thing I’d done.’
Hatchjaw spent a couple of moments considering this, while breathing heavily through his nose. Then he swallowed, and spoke through a thin smile that may have cost him some effort to maintain. ‘I’m sure you’ll resolve the paradox, Mr James. You’re a very intelligent man. Shall we leave it at that?’
‘Are you saying I can make it all up if I want?’
‘Just write!’ he snapped. ‘That’s what I’m saying!’
I treated him to my most boyish grin. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I will.’
‘Thank you.’ Hatchjaw turned on his heel and strode away.
I was right about being in the country. I opened the curtains in my room and discovered it was a summer evening and I was looking out across a lawn that sloped gently down to some woods, with fields and hills visible beyond the woods, rolling gently up to the horizon in the far distance, all bathed in a clear, rosy sunset glow. All very nice. I hope I’m not paying for it, but I expect I am.
As I turned away from the window I thought I caught a glimpse of a figure at the edge of the woods. But when I turned back and scanned the treeline there was no sign of anyone. The low sunlight made it difficult to see anything, and after a minute I gave up reluctantly and turned away again.
I stopped in my tracks. I felt a sudden sense of danger. I have a pretty reliable instinct for the presence of any threat to my welfare, and it’s enabled me to emerge relatively unscathed from a number of situations which I probably didn’t deserve to survive at all. But right now I couldn’t tell whether the danger I sensed was imminent, or if I was having a flashback to an ordeal I’d been through in the recent past. After a while the sensation faded, leaving me feeling merely unsettled and apprehensive.
In the night the pain returned and kept me awake for an hour or a little more. It passed and then I slept well and woke when I was ready. There was a chill at first light but it burned away and the day was long. These days at the end of summer linger and it is the lingering of one who should leave when love is over. It is best to finish things quickly. I get these goddamned cramps in the night and my legs are an old man’s legs. You get the clarity back and it’s good to see straight and feel things real and true again but part of what is true is that your legs feel like hell and your hands ache.
A new man joins us. His body is whole but he bears scars of that other battle known to each man here. And to those women who have gone to pieces in the same way, and they are made men by their scars. And some here have also wounds that are visible, caused by the ways that men fall in that battle.
This man staggers a little in his walking but he rolls with it like a sailor on the deck and he is not new to his pain.
There is a woman here who is one of the good ones and she sees it all cold and clear and has no illusions about these things. She is a hell of a fine woman with a pleasant body and I hope I am getting to know her at least a little. Her duties may take her to attend to the new man and something rotten stirs in me at the thought, but the hell with it.
He sensed me watching him and then he was gone. The buck knows in his blood that the cross hairs are on him, and your finger on the trigger in that moment. I left him to find his own path. And screw him anyway if he’s another British prick who thinks he’s better than everyone else.
I don’t buy that devious horseshit about nobody else reading this, and you know it.
You people are depraved psychic vampires. Describe my feelings? Do you seriously still think that’s going to happen? I know what’s behind the feeble-minded psychobabble. The lost souls howling and drivelling as they back you up against a wall, crazed by the need to explain themselves, frothing at the mouth, eyes skittering spastically, convinced everything will be just fine if someone will only listen to them. A very gross tableau. Fuck it. The situation is deteriorating … menacing vibrations … a need to hunker down and regroup here. And no inclination to gouge out my own entrails so you can read the auguries … throw the dice …
I don’t know what kind of twisted game you’re playing, and I never bet against the house. But I’ve come up with a new angle, just to break the savage, unremitting tedium of all this weirdness, and I’ve devised a game of my own.
It’s pretty laid back … nothing ominous … no ante required, no dress code at the tables. I start the play by making a confession: I’ve been breaking the rules of this establishment. But you already know what I’m talking about. You want to make something of it? Hell, you’ve got my written confession right here. But if you try to use it as evidence against me … some kind of grim kangaroo court … it proves you’re reading this. I’ve flushed you out, and I win. And if you don’t bust me – well, maybe you’re not reading it. Or maybe you are, but you don’t have the balls to do anything about it. Either way it means I continue playing by my own rules – and I win again.
However, let’s keep things friendly and relaxed … maintain protocol … don’t give way to a shark ethic. We certainly don’t want this stand-off to get brutal. But however you look at it, I have all the leverage here.
Those are the kind of odds I like.
From the desk of Dr Hatchjaw.
Re: Patient FJ.
Residential Note 1.
The patient has emerged from his room, briefly, but did not venture as far as the end of the corridor. A Collective Encounter was in progress in Blue Annexe, and the patient seemed apprehensive as he approached it, and returned to his room. I must confess to some disappointment, as I was hoping that he would be tempted to investigate, and thus could be introduced directly into a group process which, I believe, would expedite his orientation. However, as I mentioned in my Admission Note 1(b) it is my policy to allow this patient to proceed at his own pace. Incidentally, I suggest that we use Blue Annexe more frequently during these long summer evenings. The quality of the light, shining through the azaleas outside the French windows, and bathing the room in a rich, mellow glow, creates a particularly tranquil atmosphere, and I have observed that this tends to enhance the mood of the group, and modify some of the habitual expressions of hostility.
Hatchjaw.
NB: Please see the memo that follows.
From the desk of Dr Hatchjaw.
Memo to Dr Bassett.
Eudora, please forgive the petulant tone that I adopted in our recent exchanges. My behaviour has been infantile, and I must take responsibility for my own emotional responses. As we constantly tell our patients, I can’t change you, I can only change how I feel about you. Of course, I wish you felt differently, but it’s futile to argue with the truth. Please accept my apologies. I assure you that you continue to enjoy my utmost respect and esteem both personally and professionally.
Dr Wallace Hatchjaw
From the desk of Dr Bassett.
Memo to Dr Hatchjaw.
Wallace, thank you so much for your sweet note. You don’t know how much it pains me when you become cold and distant, and how relieved I am when that icy demeanour begins to thaw. I always feel that I’m waiting for the storm to pass, and to see those big, brave eyebrows of yours lift like clouds to reveal the sunshine hiding in your eyes, which slowly warms me again as you allow it to beam forth. I like it so much better when you’re happy, Wallace, and I’m glad you acknowledge that I can’t be responsible for your happiness. As you know, the situation is complicated. I can’t always be the way you want me to be. So, let’s be friends, really good friends, and accept things the way they are for the present. But if you’d like to come for a sherry later, it might do us both good. No strings, no promises.
Eudora
From the desk of Dr Hatchjaw.
Memo to Dr Bassett.
Eudora, you are right, as usual. Yes, let’s be grateful for the friendship we have. I note that you say ‘for the present’, which suggests the possibility of change. But I expect nothing, I demand nothing. Except a sherry! Which I will gladly accept. Certainly an improvement on the offer of a cup of tea, as far as I’m concerned! I look forward to it very much and I’ll drop by after I’ve completed handover to the Night Obs unit.
Wallace
The bastards. My friends, those bastards. And at least one bitch of a wife could be involved, almost certainly my first, as I’m pretty sure the second one wouldn’t go along with something like this. Unless someone managed to convince her she’d be doing the right thing, and genuinely helping me in some unfathomable way. That’s always been the trouble with Paula: she’s far too trusting. But there again, she’s not naïve, and people who assume her sweet nature is a sign of gullibility are making a big mistake, especially if they try to use her to hurt me. But they might have convinced her to play along, the people responsible for putting me in here, whoever they are. My friends, colleagues, rivals, enemies – all of the above, or none – this is their doing. The bastards.
Okay, I accept that both those other times, when it was all over, I could see they’d been right. I hated it at the time of course, especially the first one, when the whole concept of an intervention made me physically sick as they cornered me in the kitchen, in my pyjamas, and explained it to me. I was probably going to be sick anyway, given my condition, but ever since then I can’t hear that word, intervention, without feeling the bile rising in my throat. I stood there with my back to the sink, gazing at them like some poor, dumb, bewildered badger about to be torn to pieces by a pack of slavering hounds who’ve somehow learned to speak a special smug, sanctimonious language all about denial and responsibility and co-dependency.
But they were right. It probably really did save my life. Especially the first time, when I woke up in what turned out to be The Priory. The second time was a bit different, as I knew what was happening and where I was being taken (which turned out to be a less expensive facility, because I wasn’t selling so well by then, and the TV series hadn’t been recommissioned, and the screenplay had been given to someone else, to be ‘improved’ in the way that a heretic is improved by being burned at the stake).
But that was rehab. This time the bastards have put me in a fucking nuthouse.
Why? I’m not nuts. I’m not even drunk any more. Clean and sober for five years. During which my behaviour has been exemplary, by my standards. It’s been a long time since I had a fight or broke something valuable, like a Ming vase or a marriage, or caused a major embarrassment in public or told someone what I really think of them. I’m still a cunt but that’s just me. In fact there’s a good case for not giving up any of your bad habits, because when you do you’ll discover you’re just the same only now you’ve got nothing to blame it on. However, I gave it all up, and whatever makes me intolerable now isn’t drink or drugs. And not mental disorder, either. I’m probably the sanest person I know. So what’s all this about? Who has put me in here and why?
After my encounter with Hatchjaw I went back to sleep.
When I surfaced again I had no idea how long I’d slept. My mind was a blank.
I decided not to panic. I’d tried that before and it had never worked.
Slowly I began to remember a couple of things. Unfortunately it didn’t help much, because the couple of things I remembered were that I knew very little about where I was except that I didn’t like it, and I knew nothing at all about what the hell was going on.
I became aware that it was daylight and I was starving. I hadn’t been fed, and I expect they thought it was the easiest way to lure me out of my room.
No one was loitering outside my door so I set off down the passage in the same direction as before. An easy choice, as my room is the last one in the corridor so they didn’t exactly need to lay a trail of cheese. I walked past doors on either side of me that were identical to my door, all painted blue, and all closed. I reached the point where I’d turned back last time. I paused to listen for telltale sounds of confessional drivel, which is what had stopped me in my tracks on my first expedition. I didn’t hear anything this time so I carried on.
The corridor led to a doorway. The door was open. I walked through into a large room, tastefully decorated, mainly in blue. Some big French windows were letting in a generous helping of daylight and fresh air. All very pleasant. But you could strap me into an orange jumpsuit and deprive me of all sensory stimuli, like some trembling peasant suspected by the CIA of harbouring unwholesome thoughts about democracy, and lead me into a room like this and whip the bag off my head, and I’d know exactly where I was. It takes more than a few coats of Dulux Blue Lagoon and some rubber tree plants to disguise an institution. There’s something in the DNA of a building like this, whether it’s a school, a prison or an old people’s home. Bad vibes.
I looked around. I couldn’t see any food but I could smell something cooking somewhere. There were three doorways out of the room, including the way I’d come in, and the French windows. A faint scent of something I recognised but couldn’t name drifted in from the garden and mingled with the aroma of distant cooking. The food smelled good and I wondered which was the quickest route to its source.
I became aware of someone breathing heavily behind me. I turned to see a burly, grizzled man slumped in an armchair near the door I’d just come through. He was glaring at a woman who was sitting as far away from him as she could get while still remaining inside the room. She was about 40, with big eyes, and she looked tired. She was studiously ignoring him. The grizzled man, who had a scrubby beard and looked as though he might have mislaid a trawler somewhere nearby, turned his gaze slowly away from the woman and looked up at me. I thought for a moment there was something familiar about him, but when he spoke I could hear he was American, and I don’t know any Americans who look like him – although I know a Scottish barman with similar facial hair and the same mottled, rosy complexion of someone who likes to get drunk quickly and uses spirits to do it. The American squinted up at me and shaded his eyes with his hand as if I were an enemy aircraft coming out of the sun. He growled at me:
‘How is it going with you?’
‘I’m rather hungry.’
‘That’s a good sign.’
The woman on the other side of the room gave a clearly audible snort. The American glared at her again. He seemed to lose interest in me. I heard a cough, and I noticed a person standing beside the French windows, apparently admiring the view. He turned towards me, took a few steps forward and performed a curt little bow.
‘Sir, permit me to direct you to the commissary,’ he said.
I stared at him. He was a short, balding man with peculiar little glasses and an immense, bushy beard. He was wearing a kind of frock coat made of corduroy, with a waistcoat to match, and a pair of chequered trousers.
He walked up to me and held out his hand.
‘May I introduce myself? I’m Wilkie Collins.’
I shook his hand. ‘Foster James. Pleased to meet you.’
‘The pleasure is mine, sir. You are newly arrived among us, I believe?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, grinning inanely, ‘fresh meat.’
He frowned and seemed about to ask me something but then his face cleared. ‘Fresh meat in search of fresh meat!’ he said, and laughed. He had rather a nice laugh, for a raving lunatic.
I laughed back at him politely, terrified that he might turn violent. He suddenly thrust out his arm and I sprang away from him, nearly falling over a low stool. He shot me an odd look. ‘Allow me to escort you,’ he said. He bent his elbow and waggled it at me. I understood what was expected of me so I took his arm like a shy debutante and allowed him to guide me to the door opposite the one I came in through. As we left the room I heard someone mutter something in which I caught only the word ‘asshole’.
As the nut job who thought he was Wilkie Collins led me along another corridor and towards the smell of food, he kept up a constant stream of pseudo-Victorian chatter about ‘assuaging the pangs of hunger’ with ‘revivifying comestibles’ and ‘fortifying refreshments’. I must say he did it all very well, and not just the language; his whole deportment, which was formal but chummy, seemed completely authentic, and much more convincing than most of the actors you see in films or TV adaptations of Victorian classics. He even smelled slightly musty.
After the bit about ‘fortifying refreshments’ he stopped abruptly. I stopped abruptly too, as my arm was still linked to his. He turned to me. ‘I must tell you,’ he said earnestly, ‘that you shouldn’t expect to find anything in the way of beverages that tend to intoxicate if taken unwisely, or, indeed, any unwholesome stimulant.’
I told him I knew far too much about this kind of place to expect to find any booze here. I was an old hand at this game, I said. For some reason he seemed very impressed by this remark. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if taking the measure of me. After a moment he nodded sagely, patted my hand, and we set off again.
We reached what was clearly a dining room of some kind. There was a serving counter with steel shutters behind it, which were closed. The smell of cooking came from behind the shutters. I sighed.
‘Another hour or so until we lunch, sir,’ the little madman said, ‘but fear not; help is at hand for the hungry vagabond.’ He pointed to a large vending machine in the corner. We wove our way towards it between the tables and chairs that filled the room. The tables were round and each one seated four. There were about a dozen of them.
The machine contained soft drinks, chocolate bars and pre-packed rolls and sandwiches. ‘Fresh every day, I can vouch for it, sir,’ my new friend said. ‘Quite remarkable.’ He beamed at me behind his little steel-rimmed oval spectacles. His eyes were grey with tiny flecks of amber in them. I rummaged in my trouser pockets and came up with some change, but he put out his hand to stop me. ‘I see you are unaware of the system in place here, sir. Permit me.’ He reached into his coat pocket and produced a small, round token of some kind. It was vivid purple. He came up with another, smaller one that was green. He handed both the tokens to me. ‘That should suffice for a sandwich and a cordial.’
‘Thank you very much. Very kind.’
‘I trust you will repay me when you’ve become acquainted with the system.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said.
He put his hand on my arm and gave me a worried look. ‘I’m sorry to press the point, but I would be obliged if you do so at your earliest convenience.’
I looked at him. He was serious. This was definitely a loan. I nodded and treated him to a reassuring smile, then I got a cheese and tomato roll and a can of Diet Coke out of the machine. I unwrapped the roll and took a bite. Not bad. My companion watched with satisfaction. He bounced up and down on his toes a couple of times. His boots creaked. ‘Would you care to take a stroll in the grounds?’ he said. ‘I’ll gladly show you around.’
He watched me expectantly as I chewed another large mouthful. I swallowed it with a big, painful gulp. ‘No, thanks,’ I said.
He looked crestfallen. After glancing around quickly, he lowered his voice. ‘As a matter of fact I believe a confidential discussion between us would be of mutual benefit. We can talk as I show you around; that will also serve to allay suspicion.’
I took a swig of Coke. He frowned at me, and I was suddenly aware I was being rude, even if he was a lunatic. The little man’s formal courtesy, assumed or not, made me feel like a lout. I inclined my head briefly and placed my hand on his arm. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but I’m rather tired now and I’d prefer to go back to my room. But I’ll take you up on the offer another time. Thank you.’
‘Very well. Can you find your own way back?’
I nodded, with my mouth full again.
So they’ve put me in the loony bin. I knew it wasn’t a normal rehab. Some of these joints have pretty strange ideas, but the whole point is to get some kind of grasp on reality. A man who’s firmly convinced he’s a dead Victorian writer, and has got the whiskers to prove it, is delusional and belongs in a mental institution. Which is obviously what this place is. Which means I must have done something that made whoever put me here believe I was insane. Which is very worrying because I still can’t remember a fucking thing.
It’s interesting, though, that Wilkie Collins was a notorious opiate hound. Addicted to laudanum in a big way, like a lot of the Victorians, including Victoria herself, according to some people. It’s certainly true that for most of the nineteenth century half the House of Commons and most of the Lords, including a lot of the bishops, were laudanum addicts, along with thousands of doctors, lawyers, teachers, governesses, and a vast, twittering army of spinsters who’d faint at the merest hint of depravity but found great relief from all manner of maidenly ailments in the little brown bottle of comforting medicine. To say nothing of the poor, if they could get it. So, if there had been such a thing as rehab in Wilkie’s day he would have been a good candidate for it. I wonder if the nutter who’s impersonating him here has gone to the extent of developing a real-life opiate habit. Not that I plan to ask him. What I plan to do is to get out of this place.
But what if I can’t? What if whatever I did was serious enough for me to be sectioned, and detained under the Mental Health Act?
Unless it’s more sinister than that. What if someone wants to get me out of the way, or punish me? An old enemy taking revenge. Christ, there are enough candidates. It could be a conspiracy, and they might have paid this place to certify me and when I try to leave I’ll find I’m a prisoner. Fuck, what am I saying? That’s basically the plot of a Wilkie Collins book. Get a grip. As soon as I feel a bit better I’m going to walk out of here.
Dear Diary, I feel so awfully jolly and bucked up that I may get through the whole day without bashing my head against the wall.
Will that do, kids? No, I know it won’t. But a blank page is worse than an empty glass. At least you can gaze at an empty glass and imagine what might fill it. Maybe that’s the idea: they set a task that gives you such a dandy headache you forget about any other pain that’s making you feel sorry for yourself. It’s just the kind of scurvy trick that doctors will play in their determination to help you, despite your unwavering ingratitude.
It is certainly horrible here, but I would be a fine louse to complain too much, for I am ever the optimist and I’m sure it’s doing me some good. Anyway, I had better quit crabbing about these present straits as I haven’t a damn thing to say that will make them any better. Instead, as instructed, I shall try to describe my feelings. (I may have to excuse myself to go be a little sick on account of it, because you never know what you will find when you get to lifting up rocks in this way.)
Well, let’s see. I’m sleeping more and crying less, and it’s been several days since I’ve woken up screaming with hysterical laughter because I can’t get a drink. Yesterday I thought about what it would be like never to have a drink again, and today I thought about the same thing without breaking into a cold sweat. I am even able to pen these few poor scraps after only a few hours’ hesitation, and not have the yips come stealing over me. Progress, of a kind. I’m beginning to notice the sunshine, and the birds outside, even though they’re too small to eat. That’s another thing: I have an appetite. I ate a traditional breakfast today, but without the martini.
And now there is a new man. Not bad looking; maybe a little old and overweight but he has a certain something, and I know where he keeps it. I’ll admit he may not be the perfect answer to the lisping prayers of an innocent maiden, but that description ceased to fit me many moons ago, and if the inevitable should by any chance happen there may be trouble and I will be in it. I know myself only too well. It’s a fascinating subject but it gets a little predictable after a while.
I feel a renewed energy and confidence today, perhaps invigorated by an encounter that took place earlier, and of which I will relate more in due course.