The Proper Procedure and Other Stories

by Theodore Dalrymple

  He put this idea into practice. The first time, Zek opened the door and peered out at Fred.

  ‘Last night, you played your music very loud and I couldn’t sleep,’ said Fred.

  ‘I gotta right if I feel like it,’ said Zek, and shut the door.

  Fred went the next day and said the same thing.

  ‘Look, I told you, I gotta right, so fuck off.’ Zek slammed the door.

  But Fred didn’t give up: he went a third time.

  ‘I’m telling you one last time,’ said Zek angrily.

  Fred had nothing to lose. He was desperate and took no notice of Zek’s air of menace. He went a fourth time, but Zek did not answer. He was lying low; Fred returned upstairs to his own flat.

  Later that afternoon, while it was still light, Fred heard a knock at his front door.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called.

  ‘Police. Open up.’

  Fred opened his door. Before him stood two policemen dressed as if for guerrilla war. They worse bullet- and stab-proof vests that inflated their size like balloons, and from their belts dangled truncheons, a couple of canisters and a pair of handcuffs. Their radios crackled and each had a microphone attached to the earpiece in one of their ears.

  ‘Are you Fred Roberts?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘We’ve had a complaint of racial harassment against you,’ said the other policeman.

  Fred looked bemused and said nothing.

  ‘Your neighbour downstairs says you’ve been harassing him.’

  ‘It’s the other way round,’ said Fred. ‘He plays his music very loud all the time.’

  ‘We can’t hear nothing,’ said one of the policemen, cocking his ear.

  ‘At night, he plays it at night,’ said Fred. ‘He sleeps during the day.’

  ‘He’s just called us, so he’s not asleep.’

  ‘That’s ’cause I just went round and complained.’

  ‘So you are harassing him?’

  ‘I’m asking him to turn his music down.’

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘For the last four days. The council won’t do nothing, they say there’s no noise coming from his flat.’

  ‘We’re arresting you on suspicion of racially-aggravated harassment,’ said one of the policemen.

  Fred, the mildest of men, saw red and lost his temper.

  ‘Fuck off, the pair of you!’ he shouted, and slammed his door.

  The policemen did not go away. They banged on Fred’s door and shouted ‘Open up, open up!’ But Fred did not open his door.

  The policemen had no choice but to force an entry. Luckily, the door was one of the flimsy ones. Having kicked it a few times, they had to put their shoulders to it only once for it to give way. They burst in and found Fred, not a very formidable proposition, standing in his living room.

  ‘We’re arresting you as well on a charge of resisting arrest,’ one of the policemen said.

  They handcuffed Fred and led, or pulled, him out of John Ruskin House. He spent the night in the cells at the police station and they put him before the magistrate in the morning. The police objected to bail on two grounds: the first that he would return to harassing his neighbour, considering how he had already done it several times; and second because his conduct had demonstrated that he might not answer to bail when the time came to do so. His lawyer, the duty solicitor, a man with flat feet and beery breath, said nothing. The magistrate agreed with the police and remanded Fred into Greenfields Prison.

  Fred was processed there in the usual way. He was given some ill-fitting clothes, asked some perfunctory medical questions, and given a little bag containing some tobacco and biscuits. This was removed from him by a prisoner much larger than he, who took it as a matter of course.

  Fred was directed to a cell next to that of a man with long dreadlocks who hardly grunted at him as Fred arrived. He had in his possession a large silvery contraption for playing music, and all evening he played a few discs over and over again, very loudly.

  ‘I got a case of spittin’ in a motherfucker’s face…’

  When they opened Fred’s cell in the morning, they found him hanging from a rope which he had made of his bedclothes.

  The report of the official enquiry afterwards concluded:

  In summary, we could find no evidence of any act or omission that could have prevented Mr Roberts’ suicide.

  10 - A Life

  ‘It’s ruined my life, doctor,’ said the woman. ‘I’ve never

  been the same since.’

  The doctor, a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket and woollen tie, wrote down her words. Then he looked up at her.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said. ‘What ruined your life?’

  ‘Taking them pills,’ she said.

  She had been encouraged to come by a lawyer who had advertised for victims of medical accident and injury. She had gone to see him in his office and he had told her that she had a good case, that compensation was due, but that first she would have to be examined by a doctor who would ask her a lot of questions. There was nothing to worry about, though, it was a pure formality. Then he mentioned a larger sum of money than she had ever imagined possible, even existent.

  ‘Will there be a court case?’ she asked. The thought of being in the witness box made her blood run cold and her knees go weak, even though she was sitting.

  ‘Oh no,’ said the lawyer. ‘It never comes to that. They will settle. They always do.’

  So now she was sitting beside the doctor’s desk, with one of her elbows resting on it. She was in her middle thirties but determined to look younger. Cigarettes had kept her thin.

  ‘I took the pills what the doctor gave me,’ she said, ‘and I immediately began to feel funny.’

  ‘Your doctor, your general practitioner?’

  ‘Yes, Dr Patel. He’s retired and now you have to see anyone who’s available.’

  ‘I see. And why did you go to Dr Patel?’

  ‘I wasn’t feeling well.’

  If she had been observing closely, she would have seen a faint elevation of the doctor’s eyebrow.

  ‘Do you remember if Dr Patel diagnosed anything?’

  ‘A touch of blood pressure, I think he said it was.’

  The doctor wrote this down too. High blood pressure is a symptomless disease until disaster happens or it is treated, and so Dr Patel must have used an incidental finding to explain what he otherwise could not explain. Patients always preferred a bogus explanation to no explanation at all.

  ‘These pills, do you remember what they were?’

  ‘Little yellow ones.’

  ‘How many did your take?’

  ‘Dr Patel said to take two, one in the morning and one in the evening, and an extra one if I felt bad.’

  ‘And did you ever take an extra one?’

  ‘All the time,’ the woman said. ‘I felt bad all the time. They made me feel awful.’

  ‘Why did you take them, then?’

  ‘Dr Patel said I should.’

  ‘And in what way did they make you feel awful?’

  ‘In every way. I was dizzy, I was tired all the time, I couldn’t do nothing, I had panic attacks, I just wanted to lie down all the while. I cried all the time.’

  ‘How long have you been taking the pills?’

  The woman thought as deeply as she was able.

  ‘A long time,’ she said.

  ‘How long?’ asked the doctor. ‘Roughly, it doesn’t matter exactly.’

  ‘I think it must be fifteen years. Just after my first termination, it must have been.’

  ‘We’ll come to that in a minute,’ said the doctor. ‘But first let me be clear: I don’t want to make a mistake. You’ve been taking the pills for fifteen years?’

  ‘Yes, about.’

  ‘And they make you feel terrible?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you ever try stopping them?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes.’


  ‘No, yes. Which is it?’

  ‘Well, I did try once.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘I felt awful, worse.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In every way. I felt dizzy, tired all the time, I had panic attacks, I couldn’t do nothing. I had to lie down all the while and I cried.’

  ‘That was what you were like anyway.’

  ‘It was much worse.’

  ‘And when were you last quite well?’

  The woman searched her mind like someone looking for something that isn’t there.

  ‘Before I started taking them pills,’ she said.

  ‘But you started taking them because you weren’t feeling well.’

  ‘Yes, but not like this, doctor.’

  The doctor passed his hands over his eyes as if wiping something away.

  ‘I’m going to ask you a lot of questions about yourself,’ he said.

  ‘The lawyer said you was going to.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything else?’

  ‘He said them pills ruined my life and I would get compensation.’

  ‘Yes, well… where were you born?’

  The woman named an unpropitious place to start one’s life.

  ‘Are your parents still alive?’

  ‘My mother is.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘I never knew him. He left when I was little. He used to knock her about, my mother said. He had other women too. And he drank.’

  ‘So your mother brought you up alone?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Sometimes?’ The doctor sounded surprised.

  ‘I was sent to my nan’s sometimes, when Mum couldn’t cope, like.’

  ‘Cope? With what?’

  ‘Well, you see, sometimes she had… sometimes I had…’

  What was the word for it, exactly? A rose is sometimes not as sweet by any other name.

  ‘A stepfather?’ suggested the doctor. ‘Your mother had a boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes, only they never stayed for very long. She had to kick them out.’

  ‘Always the same one?’

  ‘No, there was different ones.’

  ‘What were they like?’

  ‘Most of them was horrible. Bill was all right, he went to work, like, and he didn’t drink, but Mum said he was boring so she kicked him out too.’

  ‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’

  To the doctor’s surprise, this question – so ordinary, so banal, so routine – produced something convulsive in the woman. When the wave had passed through her, she said:

  ‘One brother and two half-sisters.’

  There followed a silence.

  ‘Do you still see them?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘I don’t have nothing to do with them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He interfered with us, like.’

  ‘With all of you?’

  ‘Yes, only when I told Mum, the others denied it and my mum called me a lying slut. She said that if I ever said it again, she’s throw me out.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Fifteen. I left home when I was sixteen.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I went to live with Harry.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘A man what I knew.’

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘Harry? He was about forty.’

  ‘How did you know him?’

  ‘I met him down the park. He used to give me cigarettes.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘For a living.’

  ‘Harry? He didn’t do nothing. He was on the Sick, so he couldn’t work.’

  ‘What illness did he have?’

  ‘Harry? He took drugs. He smoked dope all the time.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘He was all right some of the time. But sometimes he smacked me about a bit. His eyes would go, and then he’d grab me by the throat.’

  ‘How long did you stay with him?’

  ‘With Harry? About a year, maybe two.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I caught pregnant for him. He wanted me to get rid of it, but I didn’t want to, so I left him.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Me? The council gave me a flat.’

  ‘You had the baby?’

  ‘Yes, she’s eighteen now and got two kids of her own.’

  ‘So you’re a grandmother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you see your grandchildren?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She’s with this crack dealer feller. He’s in and out of prison. He don’t like me.’

  ‘The children are his?’

  ‘One of them.’

  ‘Do you have other children?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘I got two. They’re still at home with me. They’re still at school.’

  The doctor paused.

  ‘Doing well?’ he asked.

  ‘Dwayne, he’s naughty. He won’t sit still, he runs about all the time. He won’t do what he’s told. He steals. Sometimes he wears me out.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Kayley? She’s a little madam.’

  ‘And their father?’

  The woman gave a little snort of derision: a stupid question.

  ‘They’re no use.’

  ‘They don’t come to see them?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Dwayne – he’s Dwayne’s Dad – since I caught pregnant for him. He’s off the scene completely. He was never no good.’

  ‘And Kayley’s father?’

  ‘Courtney? Courtney’s a… a…’

  She searched for a word but couldn’t find it.

  ‘A nuisance?’ suggested the doctor.

  ‘You can say that again,’ said the woman, as if shocked by the doctor’s feeble description of Courtney. Was he trying to make excuses for him? ‘I’ve had to have the police out to him,’ she said. ‘Not that it makes no difference. It doesn’t stop him.’

  ‘Stop him from what?’

  ‘From coming round and banging on the door.’

  ‘You let him in?’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’d put my windows through if I didn’t.’

  ‘I see,’ said the doctor. ‘What’s he like, Courtney?’

  ‘He’s very jealous. He calls me a slag, things like that. He won’t leave me alone.’

  ‘How long were you with him?’

  ‘We never lived together, nor nothing like that. He always had his own place. He said he needed his space. He would just come and go as he pleased.’

  ‘Was he always jealous?’

  ‘Not to begin with, not for the first few weeks. He treated me like a queen. He even bought me flowers.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘He hit me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had too much makeup on, he said. What did I need it for? He said it was because I was seeing someone else, or trying to.’

  ‘But you weren’t?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m not like that.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘He said if I told him who it was, he’d forget it and we could start again.’

  ‘But of course you couldn’t tell him because there wasn’t anyone.’

  ‘Yes. So he smacked me again. He broke my jaw.’

  ‘You had to go to hospital?’

  ‘Yes, but I told them it was the front door slammed in my face from the wind.’

  ‘They believed you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was afraid of him and what they would do to him if I told the truth.’

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘They went to his mother’s until I come out of the hospital.’

  ‘And you took Courtney back?’

  ‘He said he was sorry, like, so what could I do? He said he couldn’
t help it and it would never happen again. And he was Kayley’s dad.’

  ‘But she wasn’t born yet, was she?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘No, but I was pregnant for her.’

  ‘And you wanted her?’

  ‘No, I wanted them to take her away with an operation but Courtney wouldn’t hear of it. He said a baby would make things better between us.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘I did at first. I thought a baby would make him grow up because he was just a boy, really.’

  ‘But it didn’t?’

  ‘I only discovered later that he had baby-mothers all over the place. That’s why, when I caught pregnant for him again, I had it took away. He was furious and started hitting me again, because he said it was another man’s baby.’

  ‘And what happened after?’

  ‘I tried everything. I’ve had the police out on him, I even went to court for him. They said he couldn’t come anywhere near me, but he didn’t take no notice. I called the Social too.’

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘They put in a panic button connected straight to the police station what I can press if he breaks in, like.’

  ‘And have you ever pressed it?’

  ‘Yes, a few times.’

  ‘And what happens then?’

  ‘The police come and take him away, like.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then he comes back the next day, so I don’t press it no more.’

  ‘Because there’s no point.’

  ‘No, because he got one of his mates to speak to me in the street.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said if I pressed that button again, he’s break my fucking legs.’

  The doctor put his pen down for a moment. Then he picked it up again.

  ‘Let’s move on to something else,’ he said. ‘Have you ever worked?’

  ‘No,’ said the woman. ‘I wanted to be a nurse, but then I met Harry and then Dwayne.’

  ‘And you haven’t worked since? Not ever?’

  ‘No, I haven’t been able to.’

  ‘And you don’t work now?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m on the sick, aren’t I?’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Depression. I take them pills for it. They make me feel awaful.’

  ‘So you can’t work?’

  ‘No, I feel too bad. Them pills have ruined my life, I’ve never been the same since I started taking them.’

  The doctor put his pen down again and passed his hand once more over his face. When it had cleared it, so to speak, he said: