by Jason Arnopp
“I’m not sure how to describe what my mindset was,” I tell him.
What you mean is, you’re not sure whether it’d be best all round if you were sectioned, right? Because that’s what might happen if you tell him you were suicidal. Or if you tell him you were trying to rescue your dead ex-boyfriend’s drowning soul.
Dr Jones creaks back in his seat and cups the back of his head with both hands, as if sunning himself on a Hawaiian beach. His smile is carefree. Disarmingly conspiratorial. “Well, give it a go and see how you do.”
“Okay,” I say, deciding to unveil as much truth as I dare. “At first, I… I thought I might be dreaming. I thought the whole thing was a dream.”
“Ah,” he says. “Okay. In my line of work, I’m always loath to put words in anyone’s mouth, but would you say you might have been…”
“Sleepwalking? Yes, I was, but it was so lucid. I was fully aware of everything.”
“So, what was your purpose for entering the pier?”
I try to fight the urge to tell him everything, but I’m not strong enough to keep it all inside. This stuff wants out. I’m also keen to hear the psychiatric take on what the hell I was doing last night.
“My ex-boyfriend has gone missing, and I think he’s dead, and I heard him calling me from the pier. So I followed his voice and…” A lump in my throat rules out any further speech. The sole coherent thought I seem able to form is that I don’t understand anything anymore. Scott’s ghost told me to get rid of the phone, which I did – only for Scott’s voice to lead me back to the damn thing. Or did I only imagine hearing him?
Dr Jones nods encouragingly, without judgement, as if he hears this kind of wacked-out scenario all the time. “So, from your perspective, why did you jump into the water?”
I’m half grief, half snot. “I thought he was down there. Drowning in the sea.”
The full, dizzying extent of everything hits home, as if I’m floating above myself. Scott’s disappearance. Scott’s ghost. The dead, phoning me for chats. Me, very nearly dying on Chanctonbury Hill. Me, voluntarily leaping off the end of a pier in the middle of the night. My life has become a forest fire, way out of control, and now I’m sobbing into both hands.
Dr Jones pushes a box of tissues across the table to me. “Okay, Kate. It sounds like you’re going through a great deal of stress, uncertainty and mental trauma.”
Something definitely took over my body last night: could this really have been a manifestation of stress? Chills me to the core, how easily I threw myself off those rails. Didn’t even question it, and for what? Almost killed myself, trying to save a guy who was already dead.
Are you really sure it was Scott you were so determined to save?
Christ, what if I wasn’t hunting for Scott? What if I was actually hell-bent on retrieving the phone?
Have I really fallen so far? Does my obsession seriously run so deep that I would risk my life to find out what happened to Scott?
You know the answer, don’t you.
Yes, you know only too well.
Dr Jones says, “Since you’re in the medical trade, Kate, chances are you’re well aware of the main purpose of our session this evening. So I’m sure you won’t mind me asking outright, and answering me as honestly as you can. Were you acting on thoughts of self-harm last night?”
I shake my head. Through the tears, I see him nod as if he believes me.
“Then as far as I’m concerned, unless they want to run any further tests, you can go home for now. As I’m sure you know, I could prescribe you something to help with the anxiety, but you’d probably get addicted. So what needs to happen now, more than anything, is for the police to deal with your missing boyfriend. You should reach out to them. It will help. You should also absolutely reach out to your GP.”
Once again, he adopts that Hawaiian beach pose on his chair. “Your friend Isabella is waiting outside to take you home. I sincerely hope you’re wrong about your missing ex, and I will cross my fingers for you. In the meantime, you’re gonna have to try and chill out, man.”
Did Dr Jones really say that? I might not be the most reliable witness at present, but I honestly believe it happened.
Man. Wow.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
8 October
“Kate, there’s one thing I need to know, more than owt else. Please, please tell me you weren’t trying to get the phone back.”
Side by side on the living room chairs, both wearing our coats, Izzy and I are gazing out through the smashed balcony door to the horizon, where the clouds inflict one big wide bruise. Halfway through this heavily overcast afternoon, only the pier offers any real light. I used to love that place, but it now resembles a deathtrap and I’ve positioned the chair to keep it out of my sight.
Overnight, no new wood chips have appeared on the post-mat. Why? No idea. I may have simply been too quick to see supernatural reasons for everything. The door might be old and weak, and Scott’s DIY handiwork could have been poor. Sometimes the door crumbles, sometimes it doesn’t, and that’s that.
Izzy’s pupils are fringed with red veins. She carries this haunted look, one that screams, My best mate has turned out to be a nightmare and I’m struggling to cope.
I feel one hundred years old, as if imaginary weights have been tied to my limbs. The deep ache in my bones signals that I’m fast falling prey to flu. Every syllable I speak feels like a Herculean task.
“I wasn’t trying to do anything in particular. Like I said, it felt like sleepwalking.”
“But did you ever sleepwalk before?”
“Yeah, as a kid. I don’t know, trauma may have brought it back.”
If Izzy and I were sitting face to face, this lie would have required too much energy. Way too much control of all the muscles in my face and repression of those tell-tale ticks. Since we’re not, though, I’ve more lies where that came from.
“Honestly, Izz, I’m going to be fine now. The shrink reckons this has all been down to stress, and I agree. All I need is some rest, so please don’t feel like you have to—”
“There’s no way I’m leaving you here by yourself, especially after last night,” she says. “I’ve cancelled the next few days at work, so now we can chill the fuck out and sleep for a thousand years.”
No, no, no. With Izzy here, how am I supposed to get things done? How am I supposed to finish this? “Thank you.”
“I’ve booked a guy to come over tonight to change the locks on the door. I want us to rest easy, without worrying about Scott or Ray showing up.”
“Scott’s dead, Izzy.”
“Let’s not go over that again, yeah? We’re both fucked, honey: it’s been two nights without sleep and you almost died. If you still feel strongly about all this tomorrow, when we’re thinking straight, then the police will have to get involved.”
By we’re, she clearly means you’re. Could she be any more patronising?
I am thinking straight. All I want is to be left alone.
Izzy groans and heaves herself up on her crutches. “I’m going to get some supplies before we crash.”
I should tell her to sit back down. I should insist that we get food delivered here instead. And yet I do neither of these things, because I need this time to myself. A little time, that’s all, to do what needs to be done. And then we can sleep.
“You are amazing,” I tell her.
“I know I am.” As she makes her steady progress towards the door, every second feels like one whole minute. This yearning is unbearable. “You’re going to be so much better off without that phone now. You know that, right?”
“I do. I swear.” Contact lenses get stuck behind your eyes. It’s true, I swear. “Thank you, honey.”
Finally, the front door closes behind her. Oh, blessed, shameful relief.
When I hear both locks clunk, one by one, I have the fleeting sense of being an asylum inmate. Suppose I can hardly blame Izzy for taking no chances.
I don’t need to leav
e the flat, though.
All I need, it’s right here in my pocket.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Joining The Death Grip Cult
TrooSelf diary entry six of seven
Dated: 23 August
Filed by: SPalm123
Where to start? It’s been a while since I wrote here, even though loads has happened.
First of all, and I can’t even believe I’m writing this – I recently had my first ever ghostly experience! The whole thing scared the living piss out of me.
Speaking of piss, it happened when I was on my way to have one, in the middle of the night. Thank GOD Kate wasn’t staying here at the time.
I was walking along the dark corridor with my eyes half open, when this blue flashing thing flew towards me. It had a face, a girl’s face I think, with these hideous black holes instead of eyes. I completely freaked out and put my hands up to protect myself… but then it was gone.
I am still astonished this happened. And now I’m totally on edge, every single night, in case it happens again. Wasn’t sleeping great anyway, but this is really fucking me up. I’m dead tired every day and the fatigue is slowly getting worse, which is the last thing I need.
Since I saw the ghost, Kate has been down to stay. I decided to test the waters by asking her if she believed in spooks, even though I could have guessed her answer. Only a few days beforehand, my own opinion would have been the same. I was so dreading her going to the bathroom in the night and seeing the ghost herself. The last thing I need, right now, is something to scare her off besides ME, her lunatic boyfriend. Yes – boyfriend! Because since I last wrote, Kate Collins is – drum roll, please – my actual girlfriend. But who, exactly, am I trying to fool here? It is self-evident that our relationship will fall apart sooner rather than later.
I still literally cannot believe she agreed we should go “exclusive”. We live so far apart and I’m not good enough for her. For a start, she deserves a guy who (a) doesn’t lie to her and (b) can get it up without recourse to ED medication. And can I really take Viagra forever without telling her? In my financial dire straits, can I actually even afford to keep on buying the stuff? I’ve got Ray on my back like a limpet, looking to suck away everything of value that I own. That whole situation has escalated hugely over the summer, after he bailed me out from the loan sharks.
When I dare to imagine Kate finishing with me, it feels like I’m falling down a mine shaft. I don’t know how I’m going to face this when it happens. And so this month I’ve set up dates with other women… only to bottle out at the last minute. Didn’t have the balls to actually cancel them – I just haven’t shown up to meet anybody, which is pretty low. And yet I keep on talking to new women, and I keep on setting up dates, so that when the inevitable happens I’ll have formed some kind of bonds with other people. That might allow me to cope with our break-up to some extent.
The cracks are already showing. Three nights ago, we had our first argument after eating at Food For Friends. There was one freaky moment when she accused me of still being on Tinder, which made me think she’d sussed me out, but I think I covered it all right. How many more lies am I going to tell? A few weeks ago, I even pretended it was my thirty-seventh birthday! Guess I wanted to make the most of Kate’s attention while I still have her in my life, because there’s no way she’ll be around for my forty-first “celebrations” next May…
Besides her, the other rock in my life is the porn addiction forum I’ve joined. Feels amazing, yet sad, to realise that there are millions of guys like me, who never realised the negative effects porn would have on them. Men of all ages, from young teens to old men, all rendered unable to get turned on by real people. I’ve learnt about things like the death grip which guys exert on their dicks, making themselves too accustomed to that much hand-friction. Also, our brains crave more and more new things to turn us on, so that we can score the same dopamine hits as we used to. This all rings true to me. What a nightmare.
On this forum, everyone really encourages each other to do the right thing and give up. You can even put a counter on your forum signature, to show how many days you’ve gone without smut. And so I’m trying, I’m really trying, but I also keep failing and having to reset the bloody counter. Feels like playing a game of Snakes And Ladders, except without any ladders.
Even during the night, I’ll often feel the most unbearable urge to watch porn. My latest coping strategy is to get up, brave the Ghost Corridor and then stand out on the balcony, where I do breath exercises to try and shift my sexual energy. Doesn’t always work. Oh God, I did this routine in the nude the other night and Kate came out. Scared the living BALLS off me! I totally thought she was another ghost.
My financial nightmare, the inevitability of losing Kate and the unscalable mountain of porn abstinence – they’re all ganging up on me and it’s really all starting to feel too much.
Been wondering if I should do something counter-intuitive, something crazy. I should fly in the face of all my fears and really try to take the plunge with Kate. What if I ask her to move in with me? If she lived here, that would obviously be incredible in itself, but it would surely reduce my ability to crumble and watch porn. On an intensely pragmatic level, it might also half the rent… even though I’ve lied and told her I own the place. Argh! The more I tangle myself up in this web, the harder it is to see the way out. But Kate Collins may yet prove to be my sweet saviour.
Right, I’m gonna try and sleep. Today, I bought an old-fashioned chamber pot to put by the bed, so I no longer have to leave this room during the night and risk seeing another ghost. Must remember to hide this pot when Kate comes over next.
Thank fuck no one else will ever read this.
P.S. I should make a note here, that I’ve received a couple of weird crank calls lately. Keep hearing all this kinda… grey buzzing… and then someone says something I can barely even understand. The first one said, “You’re going to love it here.” Thanks, random stranger at 2 a.m!
P.P.S. Bits of the front door keep randomly falling off, and I continue to repair them. Sometimes it’s the small things that do your head in the most.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
8 October
I am dying to open the final diary entry, but my head overflows with stuff. Need to take a short breath and filter through what Scott wrote.
Bloody hell, so he saw a ghost too? Makes sense, I suppose, if this place has been haunted for a while. Astonishes me, how cool and composed he seemed in person, despite all this turmoil swirling around his head. Porn, debt, ghosts, a hideous case of self-loathing – this guy was a total mess. What I feel for Scott is no longer romantic, so why do I now feel closer to him? The answer feels uncomfortably obvious. He and I had so much more in common than either of us ever knew.
Scott Palmer, where the hell are you? If you really are dead, as I still believe you to be, then where’s your body? Could it really be buried on Ray’s grounds, or in those woods? Soon, that will be for the police to find out. I’m too weary to take any further direct action, but I still need to know what happened.
A phone rings. My old Nokia. How quaint. Probably Izzy, asking which soup I prefer.
“Hi, Kate,” says my supervisor Akeem. “How are you feeling?”
Oh great, here comes the inquisition. I have no time for this. Why did I even answer the phone?
“Not brilliant, to be honest. I’m so sorry I’ve missed work. If you can wait till tomorrow, I can try and explain what happened?”
“No, no, I wasn’t calling about that. Just let me know when you’re ready. We all want you well again, Kate.”
“I really want to make it clear that I wasn’t trying to ki—”
“Don’t worry, don’t worry. Seriously, that conversation can wait. But I was wondering: have you heard from Tyler today at all? He didn’t come into work either.”
Okay. The bloke may be lying low, in case I snitched on him. “No, I haven’t heard from him at all, sorry.”
“Oh. How odd. No worries, I’ll try his phone again.”
Ah.
“The thing with Tyler’s phone is,” I say, then take a moment to select the best words – ideally words that aren’t I threw it into the sea. Since I’m too dog-tired for eloquence, I end up sounding clumsy anyway. “It’s not working anymore, basically, so that’s probably why you’re, uh, having trouble getting hold of him.”
“Oh, right. I’ll see if we have a landline for him.”
With that, Akeem leaves me alone with my rat’s maze of thoughts. Could Tyler really have done a pre-emptive runner before he gets sacked? This hardly seems important, when I still have Scott’s final diary entry to get stuck into. And Izzy could be back at any moment.
Outside, the storm rises towards the boil. Wind and rain howl through the hole where the glass in the sliding door once was.
I steel myself for disappointment. Chances are, this last part of the diary won’t give me any of the answers I’ve been waiting for. Life doesn’t work that way.
Then again, this piece is titled The End. Shit…
With no idea of what to expect, I tap into the unknown.
The beginning of The End.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
The End
TrooSelf diary entry seven of seven
Dated: 1 October
Filed by: SPalm123
It’s now a mere two days until Kate moves in, and any normal guy would be feeling on top of the world. Not being even vaguely normal, of course, I can’t remember the last time my head was this scrambled.
I now NEED to write here. I need to spit out my thoughts before they expand too much and break open my skull. I need to try and swipe victory from the jaws of defeat!
Let’s deal with the good stuff first. The GREAT stuff. Kate not only said YES to moving in with me, but she seemed really happy about it! In response, I privately freaked out again and became super-clingy. I even pretended to have a meeting in London, just so I could travel on the train to Victoria with her… only to travel straight back to Brighton when she got on the tube. During the journey with Kate, I saw this old couple who seemed so comfortable with each other, they didn’t have to say a word. Made me feel all fuzzy. How I would love Kate and I to stay together for that long! And yet, being me, I knew she was bound to come to her senses about the Big Move and leave me tumbling down that emotional lift shaft.
